The next morning James was in the field with the rest long before the
sun was up. Day by day he grew stronger in mind and in body, until at
length he was not only quite equal to the harvest-work, but capable of
anything required of a farm servant.
His deliverance from the slavery of Sunday prayers and sermons, and his
consequent sense of freedom and its delight, greatly favoured his growth
in health and strength. Before the winter came, however, he had begun
to find his heart turning toward the pulpit with a waking desire after
utterance. For, almost as soon as his day’s work ceased to exhaust him,
he had begun to take up the study of the sayings and doings of the
Lord of men, full of eagerness to verify the relation in which he stood
toward him, and, through him, toward that eternal atmosphere in which he
lived and moved and had his being, God himself.
One day, with a sudden questioning hunger, he rose in haste from his
knees, and turned almost trembling to his Greek Testament, to find
whether the words of the Master, “If any man will do the will of the
Father,” meant “If any man _is willing_ to do the will of the Father;”
and finding that just what they did mean, he was thenceforward so far at
rest as to go on asking and hoping; nor was it then long before he began
to feel he had something worth telling, and must tell it to any that
would hear. And heartily he betook himself to pray for that spirit of
truth which the Lord had promised to them that asked it of their Father
in heaven.
He talked with his wife about what he had found; he talked with his
father about it; he went to the soutar, and talked with him about it.
Now the soutar had for many years made a certain use of his Sundays,
by which he now saw he might be of service to James: he went four miles
into the country to a farm on the other side of Stonecross, to hold
there a Sunday-school. It was the last farm for a long way in that
direction: beyond it lay an unproductive region, consisting mostly of
peat-mosses, and lone barren hills—where the waters above the firmament
were but imperfectly divided from the waters below the firmament.
For there roots of the hills coming rather close together, the waters
gathered and made marshy places, with here and there a patch of ground
on which crops could be raised. There were, however, many more houses,
such as they were, than could have been expected from the appearance
of the district. In one spot, indeed, not far from the farm I have
mentioned, there was a small, thin hamlet. A long way from church or
parish-school, and without any, nearer than several miles, to minister
to the spiritual wants of the people, it was a rather rough and ignorant
place, with a good many superstitions—none of them in their nature
specially mischievous, except indeed as they blurred the idea of divine
care and government—just the country for bogill-baes and brownie-baes,
boodies and water-kelpies to linger and disport themselves, long after
they had elsewhere disappeared!
When, therefore, the late minister came seeking his counsel, the soutar
proposed, without giving any special reason for it, that he should
accompany him the next Sunday afternoon, to his school at Bogiescratt;
and James consenting, the soutar undertook to call for him at Stonecross
on his way.
“Mr. MacLear,” said James, as they walked along the rough parish road
together, “I have but just arrived at a point I ought to have reached
before even entertaining a thought of opening my mouth upon anything
belonging to religion. Perhaps I knew some little things _about_
religion; certainly I knew nothing _of_ religion; least of all had I
made any discovery for myself _in_ religion; and before that, how can a
man understand or know anything whatever concerning it? Even now I may
be presuming, but now at last, if I may dare to say so, I do seem to
have begun to recognize something of the relation between a man and the
God who made him; and with the sense of that, as I ventured to hint
when I saw you last Friday, there has risen in my mind a desire to
communicate to my fellow-men something of what I have seen and learned.
One thing I dare to hope—that, at the first temptation to show-off, I
shall be made aware of my danger, and have the grace given me to pull
up. And one thing I have resolved upon—that, if ever I preach again, I
will never again write a sermon. I know I shall make many blunders, and
do the thing very badly; but failure itself will help to save me from
conceit—will keep me, I hope, from thinking of myself at all, enabling
me to leave myself in God’s hands, willing to fail if he please. Don’t
you think, Mr. MacLear, we may even now look to God for what we ought to
say, as confidently as if, like the early Christians, we stood accused
before the magistrates?”
“I div that, Maister Jeames!” answered the soutar. “Hide yersel in God,
sir, and oot o’ that secret place, secret and safe, speyk—and fear
naething. And never ye mint at speykin _doon_ to your congregation. Luik
them straucht i’ the een, and say what at the moment ye think and feel;
and dinna hesitate to gie them the best ye hae.”
“Thank you, thank you, sir! I think I understand,” replied James.—“If
ever I speak again, I should like to begin in your school!”
“Ye sall—this vera nicht, gien ye like,” rejoined the soutar. “I think
ye hae something e’en noo upo yer min’ ’at ye would like to say to
them—but we’ll see hoo ye feel aboot it efter I hae said a word to them
first!”
“When you have said what you want to say, Mr. MacLear, give me a look;
and if I _have_ anything to say, I will respond to your sign. Then you
can introduce me, saying what you will. Only dinna spare me; use me
after your judgment.”
The soutar held out his hand to his disciple, and they finished their
journey in silence.
When they reached the farmhouse, the small gathering was nearly
complete. It was mostly of farm labourers; but a few of the congregation
worked in a quarry, where serpentine lay under the peat. In this
serpentine occurred veins of soapstone, occasionally of such a thickness
as to be itself the object of the quarrier: it was used in the making of
porcelain; and small quantities were in request for other purposes.
When the soutar began, James was a little shocked at first to hear him
use his mother-tongue as in his ordinary conversation; but any sense of
its unsuitableness vanished presently, and James soon began to feel
that the vernacular gave his friend additional power of expression, and
therewith of persuasion.
“My frien’s, I was jist thinkin, as I cam ower the hill,” he began,
“hoo we war a’ made wi’ differin pooers—some o’ ’s able to dee ae thing
best, and some anither; and that led me to remark, that it was the same
wi’ the warl we live in—some pairts o’ ’t fit for growin aits, and some
bere, and some wheat, or pitatas; and hoo ilk varyin rig had to be
turnt til its ain best eese. We a’ ken what a lot o’ eeses the bonny
green-and-reid-mottlet marble can be put til; but it wadna do weel for
biggin hooses, specially gien there war mony streaks o’ saipstane intil
’t. Still it’s no ’at the saipstane itsel’s o’ nae eese, for ye ken
there’s a heap o’ eeses it can be put til. For ae thing, the tailor taks
a bit o’ ’t to mark whaur he’s to sen’ the shears alang the claith, when
he’s cuttin oot a pair o’ breeks; and again they mix’t up wi the clay
they tak for the finer kin’s o’ crockery. But upo’ the ither han’
there’s ae thing it’s eesed for by some, ’at canna be considert a richt
eese to mak o’ ’t: there’s ae wull tribe in America they tell me o’, ’at
ait a hantle o’ ’t—and that’s a thing I can_not_ un’erstan’; for it diz
them, they say, no guid at a’, ’cep, maybe, it be jist to fill-in the
toom places i’ their stammacks, puir reid craturs, and haud their ribs
ohn stucken thegither—and maybe that’s jist what they ait it for! Eh,
but they maun be sair hungert afore they tak til the vera dirt! But
they’re only savage fowk, I’m thinkin, ’at hae hardly begun to be men
ava!
“Noo ye see what I’m drivin’ at? It’s this—that things hae aye to be
put to their richt eeses! But there are guid eeses and better eeses,
and things canna _aye_ be putten to their _best_ eeses; only, whaur they
can, it’s a shame to put them to ony ither but their best! Noo,
what’s the best eese o’ a man?—what’s a man made for? The carritchis
(_catechism_) says, _To glorifee God_. And hoo is he to dee that? Jist
by deein the wull o’ God. For the ae perfec’ man said he was born intil
the warl for that ae special purpose, to dee the wull o’ him that sent
him. A man’s for a heap o’ eeses, but that ae eese covers them a’. Whan
he’s deein’ the wull o’ God, he’s deein jist a’thing.
“Still there are vahrious wy’s in which a man can be deein the wull o’
his Father in h’aven, and the great thing for ilk ane is to fin’ oot the
best w’y _he_ can set aboot deein that wull.
“Noo here’s a man sittin aside me that I maun help set to the best eese
he’s fit for—and that is, tellin ither fowk what he kens aboot the God
that made him and them, and stirrin o’ them up to dee what He would hae
them dee. The fac is, that the man was ance a minister o’ the Kirk o’
Scotlan’; but whan he was a yoong man, he fell intil a great faut:—a
yoong man’s faut—I’m no gaein to excuse ’t—dinna think it!—Only I
chairge ye, be ceevil til him i’ yer vera thouchts, rememberin hoo mony
things ye hae dene yersels ’at ye hae to be ashamit o’, though some
o’ them may never hae come to the licht; for, be sure o’ this, he has
repentit richt sair. Like the prodigal, he grew that ashamit o’ what he
had dene, that he gied up his kirk, and gaed hame to the day’s darg
upon his father’s ferm. And that’s what he’s at the noo, thof he be a
scholar, and that a ripe ane! And by his repentance he’s learnt a heap
that he didna ken afore, and that he couldna hae learnt ony ither
w’y than by turnin wi’ shame frae the path o’ the transgressor. I hae
broucht him wi’ me this day, sirs, to tell ye something—he hasna said
to me what—that the Lord in his mercy has tellt him. I’ll say nae mair:
Mr. Bletherwick, wull ye please tell’s what the Lord has putten it intil
yer min’ to say?”
The soutar sat down; and James got up, white and trembling. For a moment
or two he was unable to speak, but overcoming his emotion, and falling
at once into the old Scots tongue, he said—
“My frien’s, I hae little richt to stan’ up afore ye and say onything;
for, as some o’ ye ken, if no afore, at least noo, frae what my frien’
the soutar has jist been tellin ye, I was ance a minister o’ the kirk,
but upon a time I behavet mysel that ill, that, whan I cam to my senses,
I saw it my duty to withdraw, and mak room for anither to tak up my
disgracet bishopric, as was said o’ Judas the traitor. But noo I seem
to hae gotten some mair licht, and to ken some things I didna ken afore;
sae, turnin my back upo’ my past sin, and believin God has forgien me,
and is willin I sud set my han’ to his pleuch ance mair, I hae thoucht
to mak a new beginnin here in a quaiet heumble fashion, tellin ye
something o’ what I hae begoud, i’ the mercy o’ God, to un’erstan’ a
wee for mysel. Sae noo, gien ye’ll turn, them o’ ye that has broucht
yer buiks wi’ ye, to the saeventh chapter o’ John’s gospel, and the
saeventeenth verse, ye’ll read wi me what the Lord says there to the
fowk o Jerus’lem: _Gien ony man be wullin to dee His wull, he’ll ken
whether what I tell him comes frae God, or whether I say ’t only oot
o’ my ain heid_. Luik at it for yersels, for that’s what it says i’ the
Greek, the whilk is plainer than the English to them that un’erstan’
the auld Greek tongue: Gien onybody _be wullin_ to dee the wull o’ God,
he’ll ken whether my teachin comes frae God, or I say ’t o’ mysel.”
From that he went on to tell them that, if they kept trusting in God,
and doing what Jesus told them, any mistake they made would but help
them the better to understand what God and his son would have them do.
The Lord gave them no promise, he said, of knowing what this or that man
ought to do; but only of knowing what the man himself ought to do. And
he illustrated this by the rebuke the Lord gave Peter when, leaving
inquiry into the will of God that he might do it, he made inquiry into
the decree of God concerning his friend that he might know it; seeking
wherewithal, not to prophesy, but to foretell. Then he showed them the
difference between the meaning of the Greek word, and that of the modern
English word _prophesy_.
The little congregation seemed to hang upon his words, and as they were
going away, thanked him heartily for thus talking to them.
That same night as James and the soutar were going home together, they
were overtaken by an early snowstorm, and losing their way, were in the
danger, not a small one, of having to pass the night on the moor. But
happily, the farmer’s wife, in whose house was their customary assembly,
had, as they were taking their leave, made the soutar a present of some
onion bulbs, of a sort for which her garden was famous: exhausted in
conflict with the freezing blast, they had lain down, apparently to die
before the morning, when the soutar bethought himself of the onions;
and obeying their nearer necessity, they ate instead of keeping them to
plant; with the result that they were so refreshed, and so heartened for
battle with the wind and snow, that at last, in the small hours of the
morning, they reached home, weary and nigh frozen.
All through the winter, James accompanied the soutar to his
Sunday-school, sometimes on his father’s old gig-horse, but oftener
on foot. His father would occasionally go also; and then the men of
Stonecross began to go, with the cottar and his wife; so that the little
company of them gradually increased to about thirty men and women, and
about half as many children. In general, the soutar gave a short
opening address; but he always made “the minister” speak; and thus James
Blatherwick, while encountering many hidden experiences, went through
his apprenticeship to extempore preaching; and, hardly knowing how, grew
capable at length of following out a train of thought in his own mind
even while he spoke, and that all the surer from the fact that, as it
rose, it found immediate utterance; and at the same time it was rendered
the more living and potent by the sight of the eager faces of his humble
friends fixed upon him, as they drank in, sometimes even anticipated,
the things he was saying. He seemed to himself at times almost to see
their thoughts taking reality and form to accompany him whither he
led them; while the stream of his thought, as it disappeared from his
consciousness and memory, seemed to settle in the minds of those who
heard him, like seed cast on open soil—some of it, at least, to grow
up in resolves, and bring forth fruit. And all the road as the friends
returned, now in moonlight, now in darkness and rain, sometimes in wind
and snow, they had such things to think of and talk about, that the
way never seemed long. Thus dwindled by degrees Blatherwick’s
self-reflection and self-seeking, and, growing divinely conscious,
he grew at the same time divinely self-oblivious. Once, upon such a
home-coming, as his wife was helping him off with his wet boots, he
looked up in her face and said—
“To think, Isy, that here am I, a dull, selfish creature, so long
desiring only for myself knowledge and influence, now at last grown able
to feel in my heart all the way home, that I took every step, one after
the other, only by the strength of God in me, caring for me as my own
making father!—Ken ye what I’m trying to say, Isy, my dear?”
“I canna be a’thegither certain I un’erstan’,” answered his wife; “but
I’ll keep thinkin aboot it, and maybe I’ll come til’t!”
“I can desire no more,” answered James, “for until the Lord lat ye see
a thing, hoo can you or I or onybody see the thing that _he_ maun see
first! And what is there for us to desire, but to see things as God sees
them, and would hae us see them? I used to think the soutar a puir fule
body whan he was sayin the vera things I’m tryin to say noo! I saw nae
mair what he was efter than that puir collie there at my feet—maybe no
half sae muckle, for wha can tell what he mayna be thinkin, wi’ that far
awa luik o’ his!”
“Div ye think, Jeames, that ever we’ll be able to see inside thae
doggies, and ken what they’re thinkin?”
“I wouldna won’er what we mayna come til; for ye ken Paul says, ‘A’
things are yours, and ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s!’ Wha can
tell but the vera herts o’ the doggies may ae day lie bare and open to
_oor_ herts, as to the hert o’ Him wi’ whom they and we hae to do! Eh,
but the thouchts o’ a doggie maun be a won’erfu’ sicht! And syne to
think o’ the thouchts o’ Christ aboot that doggie! We’ll ken them, I
daurna weel doobt, some day! I’m surer aboot that nor aboot kennin the
thouchts o’ the doggie himsel!”
Another Sunday night, having come home through a terrible storm of
thunder and lightning, he said to Isy—
“I hae been feelin, a’ the w’y hame, as gien, afore lang, I micht hae
to gie a wider testimony. The apostles and the first Christians, ye see,
had to beir testimony to the fac’ that the man that was hangt and dee’d
upo the cross, the same was up again oot o’ the grave, and gangin aboot
the warl; noo I canna beir testimony to that, for I wasna at that time
awaur o’ onything; but I micht weel be called upon to beir testimony to
the fac’ that, whaur ance he lay deid and beeried, there he’s come alive
at last—that is, i’ the sepulchre o’ my hert! For I hae seen him noo,
and ken him noo—the houp o’ glory in my hert and my life! Whatever he
said ance, that I believe for ever.”
The talks James Blatherwick and the soutar had together, were now,
according to Mr. Robertson, even wonderful. But it was chiefly the
soutar that spoke, while James sat and listened in silence. On one
occasion, however, James had spoken out freely, and indeed eloquently;
and Mr. Robertson, whom the soutar accompanied to his inn that night,
had said to him ere they parted—
“Do you see any good and cogent reason, Mr. MacLear, why this man should
not resume his pastoral office?”
“One thing at least I am sure of,” answered the soutar, “—that he is
far fitter for it than ever he was in his life before.”
Mr. Robertson repeated this to James the next day, adding—
“And I am certain every one who knows you will vote the restoration of
your license!”
“I must speak to Isy about it,” answered James with simplicity.
“That is quite right, of course,” rejoined Mr. Robertson: “you know I
tell my wife everything that I am at liberty to tell.”
“Will not some public recognition of my reinstatement be necessary?”
suggested James.
“I will have a talk about it with some of the leaders of the synod, and
let you know what they say,” answered Mr. Robertson.
“Of course I am ready,” returned Blatherwick, “to make any public
confession judged necessary or desirable; but that would involve my
wife; and although I know perfectly that she will be ready for anything
required of her, it remains not the less my part to do my best to shield
her!”
“Of one thing I think you may be sure—that, with our present moderator,
your case will be handled with more than delicacy—with tenderness!”
“I must not doubt it; but for myself I would deprecate indulgence. I
must have a talk with my wife about it! She is sure to know what will be
best!”
“My advice is to leave it all in the hands of the moderator. We have no
right to choose, appoint, or apportion our own penalties!”
James went home and laid the whole matter before his wife.
Instead of looking frightened, or even anxious, Isy laid little Peter
softly in his crib, threw her arms round James’s neck, and cried—
“Thank God, my husband, that you have come to this! Don’t think to leave
me out, I beg of you. I am more than ready to accept my shame. I have
always said _I_ was to blame, and not you! It was me that should have
known better!”
“You trusted me, and I proved quite unworthy of your confidence!—But
had ever man a wife to be so proud of as I of you!”
Mr. Robertson brought the matter carefully before the synod; but neither
James nor Isy ever heard anything more of it—except the announcement
of the cordial renewal of James’s license. This was soon followed by the
offer of a church in the poorest and most populous parish north of the
Tweed.
“See the loving power at the heart of things, Isy!” said James to his
wife: “out of evil He has brought good, the best good, and nothing
but good!—a good ripened through my sin and selfishness and ambition,
bringing upon you as well as me disgrace and suffering! The evil in me
had to come out and show itself, before it could be cleared away! Some
people nothing but an earthquake will rouse from their dead sleep: I was
one of such. God in His mercy brought on the earthquake: it woke me and
saved me from death. Ignorant creatures go about asking why God permits
evil: _we_ know why! It may be He could with a word cause evil to
cease—but would that be to create good? The word might make us good
like oxen or harmless sheep, but would that be a goodness worthy of him
who was made in the image of God? If a man ceased to be _capable_ of
evil, he must cease to be a man! What would the goodness be that could
not help being good—that had no choice in the matter, but must be such
because it was so made? God chooses to be good, else he would not be
God: man must choose to be good, else he cannot be the son of God!
Herein we see the grand love of the Father of men—that he gives them
a share, and that share as necessary as his own, in the making of
themselves! Thus, and thus only, that is, by willing the good, can they
become ‘partakers of the divine nature!’ Satan said, ‘Ye shall be as
gods, knowing good and evil!’ God says, ‘Ye shall be as gods, knowing
good and evil, and choosing the good.’ For the sake of this, that we may
come to choose the good, all the discipline of the world exists. God is
teaching us to know good and evil in some real degree _as they are_, and
not as _they seem to the incomplete_; so shall we learn to choose the
good and refuse the evil. He would make his children see the two things,
good and evil, in some measure as they are, and then say whether they
will be good children or not. If they fail, and choose the evil, he will
take yet harder measures with them. If at last it should prove possible
for a created being to see good and evil as they are, and choose the
evil, then, and only then, there would, I presume, be nothing left for
God but to set his foot upon him and crush him, as we crush a noxious
insect. But God is deeper in us than our own life; yea, God’s life is
the very centre and creative cause of that life which we call _ours_;
therefore is the Life in us stronger than the Death, in as much as the
creating Good is stronger than the created Evil.”
THE END