Flora was doubtful; she thought she had heard his name.
I said, "I have heard his name too, Uncle; but I do not know much about
him, only Father seemed to think it a good joke that anybody should
fancy him a wise man."
"Angus appears to be the best informed of you," said my uncle. "Speak
out, my boy, and tell us what you know."
"Well, he is a queer sort of fellow, I fancy," said Angus. "He was one
of the Methodists; but they say those folks have had a split, and
Whitefield has broken with them. He travels about preaching, though, as
they do; and they say that the reason why he took to field-preaching was
because no church would hold the enormous congregations which gathered
to hear him. He has been several times to the American colonies, where
they say he draws larger crowds than John Wesley himself."
"A good deal of `They say'," observed Uncle Drummond, with a smile. "Do
`they say' that the bishops and clergy are friendly to this remarkable
preacher, or not?"
"Well, I should rather think not," answered Angus. "There is one bishop
who has stuck to him through thick and thin--the Bishop of Gloucester,
who gave him his orders to begin with; but the rest of them look askance
at him over their shoulders, I believe. It is irregular, you know, to
preach in fields--wholly improper to save anybody's soul out of church;
and these English folks take the horrors at anything irregular. The
women like him because he makes them cry so much."
"Angus!" cried Flora and I together.
"That's what I was told, I assure you, young ladies," returned Angus, "I
am only repeating what I have heard."
"Well, that you may shortly have an opportunity of judging," said my
Uncle Drummond; "for this gentleman has come to Selkirk, and has asked
leave of the presbytery to preach in certain kirks of this
neighbourhood. There was some demur at first to the admission of a
Prelatist; but after some converse with him this was withdrawn, and he
will preach next Sabbath morning at Selkirk, and in the afternoon at
Monks' Brae. You can go to Monks' Brae to hear him, if you will; I, of
course, shall not be able to accompany you, but I trust to find an
opportunity when he preaches in the fields, if there be one. I should
like to hear this great English preacher, I confess. What say you?"
"They'll go, you may be sure, Sir," said Angus, before we could answer.
"Trust a lassie to gad about if she has the chance. Mind you take all
the pocket-handkerchiefs you have with you. They say 'tis dreadful the
way this man gars you greet. 'Tis true, you English are more given that
way than we Scots; but folks say you cannot help yourself,--you must
cry, whether you will or no."
"I should like to go, I think, Uncle," said I. "Only--I suppose he is a
real clergyman?"
"There goes a genuine Englishwoman!" said Angus. "If Paul himself were
to preach, she would not go to hear him till she knew what bishop had
ordained him."
"Yes, Cary," answered my Uncle Drummond, smiling; "he is a real
clergyman. More `real' than you think me, I fear."
"Oh, you are different, Uncle," said I; "but I am sure Father would not
like me to hear any preacher who was not--at least--I don't know--he did
not seem to think this Mr Whitefield all right, somehow. Perhaps he
did not know he was a proper person."
"`A proper person!'" sighed Angus, casting up his eyes.
"My dear," said my Uncle Drummond, kindly, "you are a good lassie to
think of your father's wishes. Never mind Angus; he is only making fun,
and is a foolish young fellow yet. Of course, not having spoken with
your father, I cannot tell so well as yourself what his wishes are; and
'tis quite possible he may think, for I hear many do, that this
gentleman is a schismatic, and may disapprove of him on that account
only. If so, I can tell you for certain, 'tis a mistake. But as to
anything else, you must judge for yourself, and do what you think
right."
"You see no objection to our going, Father?" asked Flora, who had not
spoken hitherto.
"Not at all, my dear," said my Uncle. "Go by all means, if you like it.
You may never have another opportunity, and 'tis very natural you
should wish it."
"Thank you," answered Flora. "Then, if Angus will take me, I will go."
"Well, I don't know," said Angus. "I am afraid some of my handkerchiefs
are at the wash. I should not like to be quite drowned in my tears. I
might wash you away, too; and that would be a national calamity."
"Don't jest on serious subjects, my boy," said Uncle; and Angus grew
grave directly. "I am no enemy to honest, rational fun; 'tis human, and
natural more especially to the young. But never, never let us make a
jest of the things that pertain to God."
"I beg your pardon, Father," said Angus, in a low voice. "I'll take
you, Flora. What say you, Cary?"
"Yes, I should like to go," I said. And I wondered directly whether I
had said right or wrong. But I do so want to hear something that would
help me.
I found that Monks' Brae was on the Monksburn road, but nearly two miles
further on. 'Tis the high road from Selkirk to Galashiels, after you
leave Monksburn, and pretty well frequented; so that Angus was deemed
guard enough. But last night the whole road was so full of people going
to hear Mr Whitefield, that it was like walking in a crowd all the way.
The kirk was crammed to the very doors, and outside people stood
looking in and listening through the doors and the open windows. Mr
Lundie, the minister of Monks' Brae, led the worship (as they say here);
and when the sermon came, I looked with some curiosity at the great
preacher who did such unusual things, and whom some people seemed to
think it so wrong to like. Mr Whitefield is not anything particular to
look at: just a young man in a fair wig, with a round face and rosy
cheeks. He has a most musical voice, and he knows how to put it to the
best advantage. Every word is as distinct as can be, and his voice
rings out clear and strong, like a well-toned bell. But he had not
preached ten minutes before I forgot his voice and himself altogether,
and could think of nothing but what he was preaching about. And I never
heard such a sermon in my life. My Uncle Drummond's are the only ones I
have heard which even approach it, and he does not lift you up and carry
you away, as Mr Whitefield does.
All the other preachers I ever heard, except those two, are always
telling you to do something. Come to church, and say your prayers, and
take the Sacrament; but particularly, do your duty. Now it always seems
to me that there are two grand difficulties in the way of doing one's
duty. The first is, to find out what is one's duty. Of course there is
the Bible; but, if I may say it with reverence, the Bible has never
seemed to have much to do with me. It is all about people who lived
ever so long ago, and what they did; and what has that to do with me,
Cary Courtenay, and what I am doing? Then suppose I do know what my
duty is--and certainly I do in some respects--I am not sure that I can
express it properly, but I feel as if I wanted something to come and
make me do it. I am like a watch, with all the wheels and springs
there, ready to go, but I want somebody to come and wind me up. And I
do not know how that is to be done. But Mr Whitefield made me wish, oh
so much! that that unknown somebody would come and do it. I never
thought much about it before, until that talk with my Uncle Drummond,
and now it feels to be what I want more than anything else.
I cannot write the sermon down: not a page of it. I think you never can
write down on paper the things that stir your very soul. It is the
things which just tickle your brains that you can put down in elegant
language on paper. When a thing comes close to you, into your real
self, and grapples with you, and leaves a mark on you for ever
hereafter, whether for good or evil, you cannot write or talk about
that,--you can only feel it.