'That thou doest do quickly,' and I knew it wass my sins that had
brought great judgments on the people, and turned the minister into
a man of stammering lips and another tongue.
"It wass a mercy that the roof did not fall and bury all the people
with me; but we will not be tempting the Almighty, for I hef gone
outside, and now there will be peace and blessing."
When we left the lighted room and stood on the doorstep, Donald
pointed to the darkness. "There iss no star, and you will be
remembering what John saw when the door opened and Judas went out.
'It wass night'--oh yes, it iss night for me, but it will be light
for them."
As weeks went past, and Donald was seen neither at Kirk nor market,
my heart went out to the lonely man in his soul conflict, and,
although there was no help in me, I went to ask how it fared with
him. After the footpath disentangled itself from the pine woods and
crossed the burn by two fir trees nailed together, it climbed a
steep ascent to Donald's house, but I had barely touched the foot,
when I saw him descending, his head in the air, and his face
shining. Before any words passed, I knew that the battle had been
fought and won.
"It wass last night, and I will be coming to tell you. Satan hass
gone like darkness when the sun ariseth, and I hef been delivered."
There are stories one cannot hear sitting, and so we paced the
meadow below, rich in primroses, with a sloping bank of gorse behind
us, and the pines before us, and the water breaking over the stones
at our feet.
"It is three weeks since I saw you, and all that time I hef been
wandering on the hill by day, and lying in the barn at night, for it
wass not good to be with people, and Satan wass always saying to me,
Judas went to 'his own place.' My dog will lay his head on my knee,
and be sorry for me, and the dumb animals will be looking at me out
of their great eyes, and be moaning.
"The lads are good singers, and there wass always a sound of Psalms
on the farm, oh yes, and it was pleasant to come from the market and
hear the Psalms at the foot of the hill. It wass like going up to
Jerusalem. But there would be no Psalms these days, for the lads
could not sing when their father's soul wass going down into the
pit.
"Oh no, and there wass no prayer last night, but I told the lads to
go to bed, and I lay down before the fire to wrestle once more
before I perished.
"Janet will offer this word and the other, and I will be trying them
all, but Satan wass tearing them away as quick as I could speak, and
he always said, 'his own place.'
"'There iss no hope for me,' I cried, 'but it iss a mercy that you
and the lads will be safe in the City, and maybe the Lord will let
me see you all through the gate.' And that wass lifting me, but then
I will hear 'his own place,' 'his own place,' and my heart began to
fail, and I wass nigh to despair.
"Then I heard a voice, oh yes, as plain as you are hearing me, 'The
blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanseth us from all sin.' It wass
like a gleam from the Mercy-seat, but I would be waiting to see
whether Satan had any answer, and my heart was standing still. But
there wass no word from him, not one word. Then I leaped to my feet
and cried, 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' and I will look round, and
there wass no one to be seen but Janet in her chair, with the tears
on her cheeks, and she wass saying, 'Thanks be to God, which giveth
us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.'
"The lads were not sleeping fery sound when their father was
fighting for his life, oh no, and I am not saying but maybe they
would be praying. It wass not fery long before they came down, and
Hamish will be looking at my face, and then he will get the books,
and this is the Psalm we sang?
"I love the Lord, because my voice
And prayers He did hear.
I, while I live, will call on Him,
Who bowed to me His ear.
* * * * *
God merciful and righteous is,
Yea, gracious is our Lord;
God saves the meek; I was brought low,
He did me help afford."
This was the victory of Donald Menzies, and on reaching home I
marked that the early roses were beginning to bloom over the door
through which Donald had gone out into the darkness.
HIS MOTHER'S SERMON
HIS MOTHER'S SERMON
He was an ingenuous lad, with the callow simplicity of a theological
college still untouched, and had arrived on the preceding Monday at
the Free Kirk manse with four cartloads of furniture and a maiden
aunt. For three days he roamed from room to room in the excitement
of householding, and made suggestions which were received with
hilarious contempt; then he shut himself up in his study to prepare
the great sermon, and his aunt went about on tiptoe. During meals on
Friday he explained casually that his own wish was to preach a
simple sermon, and that he would have done so had he been a private
individual, but as he had held the MacWhammel scholarship a
deliverance was expected by the country. He would be careful and say
nothing rash, but it was due to himself to state the present
position of theological thought, and he might have to quote once or
twice from Ewald.
His aunt was a saint, with that firm grasp of truth, and tender
mysticism, whose combination is the charm of Scottish piety, and her
face was troubled. While the minister was speaking in his boyish
complacency, her thoughts were in a room where they had both stood,
five years before, by the death-bed of his mother.
He was broken that day, and his sobs shook the bed, for he was his
mother's only son and fatherless, and his mother, brave and faithful
to the last, was bidding him farewell.
"Dinna greet like that, John, nor break yir hert, for it's the will
o' God, and that's aye best."
"Here's my watch and chain," placing them beside her son, who could
not touch them, nor would lift his head, "and when ye feel the chain
about yir neck it will mind ye o' yir mother's arms."
"Ye 'ill no forget me, John, I ken that weel, and I'll never forget
you. I've loved ye here and I'll love ye yonder. Th'ill no be an
'oor when I'll no pray for ye, and I'll ken better what to ask than
I did here, sae dinna be comfortless."
Then she felt for his head and stroked it once more, but he could
not look nor speak.
"Ye 'ill follow Christ, and gin He offers ye His cross, ye 'ill no
refuse it, for He aye carries the heavy end Himsel'. He's guided yir
mother a' thae years, and been as gude as a husband since yir
father's death, and He 'ill hold me fast tae the end. He 'ill keep
ye too, and, John, I'll be watchin' for ye. Ye 'ill no fail me," and
her poor cold hand that had tended him all his days tightened on his
head.
But he could not speak, and her voice was failing fast.
"I canna see ye noo, John, but I know yir there, and I've just one
other wish. If God calls ye to the ministry, ye 'ill no refuse, an'
the first day ye preach in yir ain kirk, speak a gude word for Jesus
Christ, an,' John, I'll hear ye that day, though ye 'ill no see me,
and I'll be satisfied."
A minute after she whispered, "Pray for me," and he cried, "My
mother, my mother."
It was a full prayer, and left nothing unasked of Mary's Son.
"John," said his aunt, "your mother is with the Lord," and he saw
death for the first time, but it was beautiful with the peace that
passeth all understanding.
Five years had passed, crowded with thought and work, and his aunt
wondered whether he remembered that last request, or indeed had
heard it in his sorrow.
"What are you thinking about, aunt? Are you afraid of my theology?"
"No, John, it's no that, laddie, for I ken ye 'ill say what ye
believe to be true withoot fear o' man," and she hesitated.
"Come, out with it, auntie: you're my only mother now, you know,"
and the minister put his arm round her, "as well as the kindest,
bonniest, goodest auntie ever man had."
Below his student self-conceit he was a good lad, and sound of
heart.
"Shame on you, John, to make a fule o' an auld dune body, but ye'll
no come round me with yir flattery. I ken ye ower weel," and as she
caught the likeness in his face, her eyes filled suddenly.
"What's the matter, auntie? Will ye no tell me?"
"Dinna be angry wi' me, John, but a'm concerned aboot Sabbath, for
a've been praying ever syne ye were called to Drumtochty that it
micht be a great day, and that I micht see ye comin' tae yir people,
laddie, wi' the beauty o' the Lord upon ye, according tae the auld
prophecy: 'How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that
bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace,'" and again she
stopped.
"Go on, auntie, go on," he whispered; "say all that's in yir mind."
"It's no for me tae advise ye, who am only a simple auld woman, who
ken's naethin' but her Bible and the Catechism, and it's no that a'm
feared for the new views, or aboot yir faith, for I aye mind that
there's mony things the Speerit hes still tae teach us, and I ken
weel the man that follows Christ will never lose his way in ony
thicket. But it's the fouk, John, a'm anxious aboot, the flock o'
sheep the Lord hes given ye tae feed for Him."
She could not see his face, but she felt him gently press her hand,
and took courage.
"Ye maun mind, laddie, that they're no clever and learned like what
ye are, but juist plain country fouk, ilka ane wi' his ain
temptation, an' a' sair trachled wi' mony cares o' this world. They
'ill need a clear word tae comfort their herts and show them the way
everlasting. Ye 'ill say what's richt, nae doot o' that, and a'body
'ill be pleased wi' ye, but, oh, laddie, be sure ye say a gude word
for Jesus Christ."
The minister's face whitened, and his arm relaxed. He rose hastily
and went to the door, but in going out he gave his aunt an
understanding look, such as passes between people who have stood
together in a sorrow. The son had not forgotten his mother's
request.
The manse garden lies toward the west, and as the minister paced its
little square of turf, sheltered by fir hedges, the sun was going
down behind the Grampians. Black massy clouds had begun to gather in
the evening, and threatened to obscure the sunset, which was the
finest sight a Drumtochty man was ever likely to see, and a means of
grace to every sensible heart in the glen. But the sun had beat back
the clouds on either side, and shot them through with glory and now
between piled billows of light he went along a shining pathway into
the Gates of the West. The minister stood still before that
spectacle, his face bathed in the golden glory, and then before his
eyes the gold deepened into an awful red, and the red passed into
shades of violet and green, beyond painter's hand or the imagination
of man. It seemed to him as if a victorious saint had entered
through the gates into the city, washed in the blood of the Lamb,
and the after glow of his mother's life fell solemnly on his soul.
The last trace of sunset had faded from the hills when the minister
came in, and his face was of one who had seen a vision. He asked his
aunt to have worship with the servant, for he must be alone in his
study.
It was a cheerful room in the daytime, with its southern window,
through which the minister saw the roses touching the very glass and
dwarf apple trees lining the garden walks; there was also a western
window that he might watch each day close. It was a pleasant room
now, when the curtains were drawn, and the light of the lamp fell on
the books he loved, and which bade him welcome. One by one he had
arranged the hard-bought treasures of student days in the little
book-case, and had planned for himself that sweetest of pleasures,
an evening of desultory reading. But his books went out of mind as
he looked at the sermon shining beneath the glare of the lamp, and
demanding judgment. He had finished its last page with honest pride
that afternoon, and had declaimed it, facing the southern window,
with a success that amazed himself. His hope was that he might be
kept humble, and not called to Edinburgh for at least two years; and
now he lifted the sheets with fear. The brilliant opening, with its
historical parallel, this review of modern thought reinforced by
telling quotations, that trenchant criticism of old-fashioned views,
would not deliver. For the audience had vanished, and left one
careworn, but ever beautiful face, whose gentle eyes were waiting
with a yearning look. Twice he crushed the sermon in his hands, and
turned to the fire his aunt's care had kindled, and twice he
repented and smoothed it out. What else could he say now to the
people? and then in the stillness of the room he heard a voice,
"Speak a gude word for Jesus Christ."
Next minute he was kneeling on the hearth, and pressing the
_magnum opus_, that was to shake Drumtochty, into the heart of
the red fire, and he saw, half-smiling and half-weeping, the
impressive words, "Semitic environment," shrivel up and disappear.
As the last black flake fluttered out of sight, the face looked at
him again, but this time the sweet brown eyes were full of peace.
It was no masterpiece, but only the crude production of a lad who
knew little of letters and nothing of the world. Very likely it
would have done neither harm nor good, but it was his best, and he
gave it for love's sake, and I suppose that there is nothing in a
human life so precious to God, neither clever words nor famous
deeds, as the sacrifices of love.
The moon flooded his bedroom with silver light, and he felt the
presence of his mother. His bed stood ghostly with its white
curtains, and he remembered how every night his mother knelt by its
side in prayer for him. He is a boy once more, and repeats the
Lord's Prayer, then he cries again, "My mother! my mother!" and an
indescribable contentment fills his heart.
His prayer next morning was very short, but afterwards he stood at
the window for a space, and when he turned, his aunt said:
"Ye will get yir sermon, and it will be worth hearing."
"How did ye know?"
But she only smiled, "I heard you pray."
When he shut himself into the study that Saturday morning, his aunt
went into her room above, and he knew she had gone to intercede for
him.
An hour afterwards he was pacing the garden in such anxious thought
that he crushed with his foot a rose lying on the path, and then she
saw his face suddenly lighten, and he hurried to the house, but
first he plucked a bunch of forget-me-nots. In the evening she found
them on his sermon.
Two hours later--for still she prayed and watched in faithfulness to
mother and son--she observed him come out and wander round the
garden in great joy. He lifted up the soiled rose and put it in his
coat; he released a butterfly caught in some mesh; he buried his
face in fragrant honeysuckle. Then she understood that his heart was
full of love, and was sure that it would be well on the morrow.
When the bell began to ring, the minister rose from his knees and
went to his aunt's room to be robed, for this was a covenant between
them.
His gown was spread out in its black silken glory, but he sat down
in despair.
"Auntie, whatever shall we do, for I've forgotten the bands?"
"But I've not forgot them, John, and here are six pair wrought with
my own hands, and now sit still and I'll tie them round my laddie's
neck."
When she had given the last touch, and he was ready to go, a sudden
seriousness fell upon them.
"Kiss me, auntie."
"For your mother, and her God be with you," and then he went through
the garden and underneath the honeysuckle and into the kirk, where
every Free Churchman in Drumtochty that could get out of bed, and
half the Established Kirk, were waiting in expectation.
I sat with his aunt in the minister's pew, and shall always be glad
that I was at that service. When winter lies heavy upon the glen I
go upon my travels, and in my time have seen many religious
functions. I have been in Mr. Spurgeon's Tabernacle, where the
people wept one minute and laughed the next; have heard Canon Liddon
in St. Paul's, and the sound of that high, clear voice is still with
me, "Awake, awake, put on thy strength, O Zion;" have seen High Mass
in St. Peter's, and stood in the dusk of the Duomo at Florence when
Padre Agostino thundered against the evils of the day. But I never
realised the unseen world as I did that day in the Free Kirk of
Drumtochty.
It is impossible to analyse a spiritual effect, because it is largely
an atmosphere, but certain circumstances assisted. One was instantly
prepossessed in favour of a young minister who gave out the second
paraphrase at his first service, for it declared his filial reverence
and won for him the blessing of a cloud of witnesses. No Scottish man
can ever sing,
"God of our fathers, be the God
Of their succeeding race."
with a dry heart. It satisfied me at once that the minister was of a
fine temper when, after a brave attempt to join, he hid his face and
was silent. We thought none the worse of him that he was nervous, and
two or three old people who had suspected self-sufficiency took him to
their hearts when the minister concluded the Lord's prayer hurriedly,
having omitted two petitions. But we knew it was not nervousness which
made him pause for ten seconds after praying for widows and orphans,
and in the silence which fell upon us the Divine Spirit had free access.
His youth commended him, since he was also modest, for every mother had
come with an inarticulate prayer that the "puir laddie wud dae weel on
his first day, and him only twenty-four." Texts I can never remember,
nor, for that matter, the words of sermons; but the subject was Jesus
Christ, and before he had spoken five minutes I was convinced, who am
outside dogmas and churches, that Christ was present. The preacher
faded from before one's eyes, and there rose the figure of the Nazarene,
best lover of every human soul, with a face of tender patience such as
Sarto gave the Master in the Church of the Annunziata, and stretching
out His hands to old folk and little children as He did, before His
death, in Galilee. His voice might be heard any moment, as I have
imagined it in my lonely hours by the winter fire or on the solitary
hills--soft, low, and sweet, penetrating like music to the secret of
the heart, "Come unto Me ... and I will give you rest."
During a pause in the sermon I glanced up the church, and saw the
same spell held the people. Donald Menzies had long ago been caught
into the third heaven, and was now hearing words which it is not
lawful to utter. Campbell in his watch-tower at the back had closed
his eyes, and was praying. The women were weeping quietly, and the
rugged faces of our men were subdued and softened, as when the
evening sun plays on the granite stone.
But what will stand out for ever before my mind was the sight of
Marget Howe. Her face was as white as death, and her wonderful grey
eyes were shining through a mist of tears, so that I caught the
light in the manse pew. She was thinking of George, and had taken
the minister to her heart.
The elders, one by one, gripped the minister's hand in the vestry,
and, though plain, homely men, they were the godliest in the glen;
but no man spoke save Burnbrae.
"I a' but lost ae fairm for the Free Kirk, and I wud hae lost ten
tae be in the Kirk this day."
Donald walked with me homewards, but would only say:
"There was a man sent from God whose name was John." At the cottage
he added, "The friend of the bridegroom rejoiced greatly because of
the bridegroom's voice,"
Beneath the honeysuckle at his garden gate a woman was waiting.
"My name is Marget Howe, and I'm the wife of William Howe of Whinnie
Knowe. My only son wes preparin' for the ministry, but God wanted
him nearly a year syne. When ye preached the Evangel o' Jesus the
day I heard his voice, and I loved you. Ye hev nae mither on earth,
I hear, and I hae nae son, and I wantit tae say that if ye ever wish
tae speak to ony woman as ye wud tae yir mither, come tae Whinnie
Knowe, an' I'll coont it ane of the Lord's consolations."
His aunt could only meet him in the study, and when he looked on her
his lip quivered, for his heart was wrung with one wistful regret.
"Oh, auntie, if she had only been spared to see this day, and her
prayers answered."
But his aunt flung her arms round his neck.
"Dinna be cast doon, laddie, nor be unbelievin'. Yir mither has
heard every word, and is satisfied, for ye did it in remembrance o'
her, and yon was yir mither's sermon."
THE TRANSFORMATION OF LACHLAN CAMPBELL
I
A GRAND INQUISITOR
The Free Kirk of Drumtochty had no gallery, but a section of seats
at the back was raised two feet, and any one in the first pew might
be said to sit in the "briest o' the laft." When Lachlan Campbell
arrived from the privileged parish of Auchindarroch, where the "Men"
ruled with iron hand and no one shaved on Sabbath, he examined the
lie of country with the eye of a strategist, and seized at once a
corner seat on the crest of the hill. From this vantage ground, with
his back to the wall and a clear space left between himself and his
daughter Flora, he had an easy command of the pulpit, and within six
months had been constituted a court of review neither minister nor
people could lightly disregard. It was not that Lachlan spoke hastily
or at length, for his policy was generally a silence pregnant with
judgment, and his deliverances were for the most part in parables,
none the less awful because hard of interpretation. Like every true
Celt, he had the power of reserve, and knew the value of mystery.
His voice must not be heard in irresponsible gossip at the Kirk door,
and he never condescended to the level of Mrs. MacFadyen, our recognised
sermon taster, who criticised everything in the technique of the pulpit,
from the number of heads in a sermon to the air with which a probationer
used his pocket-handkerchief. She lived in the eye of the public, and
gave her opinions with the light heart of a newspaper writer; but
Lachlan kept himself in the shadow and wore a manner of studied humility
as became the administrator of the Holy Office in Drumtochty.
Lachlan was a little man, with a spare, wiry body, iron grey hair
and whiskers carefully arranged, a keen, old-fashioned face
sharpened by much spiritual thinking, and eyes that looked at you
from beneath shaggy eyebrows as from some other world. His face had
an irresistible suggestion of a Skye terrier, the most serious of
animals, with the hair reduced, and Drumsheugh carried us all with
him when, in a moment of inspiration, he declared that "the body
looks as if he hed juist come oot o' the Ark." He was a shepherd to
trade, and very faithful in all his work, but his life business was
theology, from Supralapsarianism in Election to the marks of faith
in a believer's heart. His library consisted of some fifty volumes
of ancient divinity, and lay on an old oak kist close to his hand,
where he sat beside the fire of a winter night. When the sheep were
safe and his day's labour was over, he read by the light of the fire
and the "crusie" (oil-lamp) overhead, Witsius on the Covenants, or
Rutherford's "Christ Dying," or Bunyan's "Grace Abounding," or
Owen's "130th Psalm," while the collies slept at his feet, and Flora
put the finishing stroke to some bit of rustic finery. Worship was
always coloured by the evening's reading, but the old man never
forgot to pray that they both might have a place in the everlasting
covenant, and that the backslidings of Scotland might be healed.
As our inquisitor, Lachlan searched anxiously for sound doctrine and
deep experience, but he was not concerned about learning, and
fluency he regarded with disgust. When a young minister from
Muirtown stamped twice in his prayer at the Drumtochty Fast, and
preached with great eloquence from the words, "And there was no more
sea," repeating the text at the end of each paragraph, and
concluding the sermon with "Lord Ullin's Daughter," the atmosphere
round Lachlan became electric, and no one dared to speak to him
outside. He never expressed his mind on this melancholy exhibition,
but the following Sabbath he explained the principle on which they
elected ministers at Auchindarroch, which was his standard of
perfection.
"Six young men came, and they did not sing songs in the pulpit. Oh
no, they preached fery well, and I said to Angus Bain, 'They are all
goot lads, and there is nothing wrong with their doctrine.'
"Angus wass one of the 'Men,' and saw what wass hidden from me, and
he will be saying, 'Oh yes, they said their lesson fery pretty, but
I did not see them tremble, Lachlan Campbell. Another iss coming,
and seven is a goot number.'