YEAR 1777
THIS may well be called the year of the heavy heart, for we had sad
tidings of the lads that went away as soldiers to America. First, there
was a boding in the minds of all their friends that they were never to
see them more; and their sadness, like a mist spreading from the waters
and covering the fields, darkened the spirit of the neighbours.
Secondly, a sound was bruited about that the king’s forces would have a
hot and a sore struggle before the rebels were put down, if they were
ever put down. Then came the cruel truth of all that the poor lads’
friends had feared. But it is fit and proper that I should relate at
length, under their several heads, the sorrows and afflictions as they
came to pass.
One evening, as I was taking my walk alone, meditating my discourse for
the next Sabbath—it was shortly after Candlemas—it was a fine clear
frosty evening, just as the sun was setting. Taking my walk alone, and
thinking of the dreadfulness of Almighty power, and how that, if it was
not tempered and restrained by infinite goodness, and wisdom, and mercy,
the miserable sinner, man, and all things that live, would be in a woeful
state, I drew near the beild where old Widow Mirkland lived by herself,
who was grand-mother to Jock Hempy, the ramplor lad, that was the second
who took on for a soldier. I did mind of this at the time; but, passing
the house, I heard the croon, as it were, of a laden soul busy with the
Lord, and, not to disturb the holy workings of grace, I paused and
listened. It was old Mizy Mirkland herself, sitting at the gable of the
house, looking at the sun setting in all his glory behind the Arran
hills; but she was not praying—only moaning to herself—an oozing out, as
it might be called, of the spirit from her heart, then grievously
oppressed with sorrow, and heavy bodements of grey hairs and
poverty.—“Yonder it slips awa’,” she was saying, “and my poor bairn,
that’s o’er the seas in America, is maybe looking on its bright face,
thinking of his hame, and aiblins of me, that did my best to breed him up
in the fear of the Lord; but I couldna warsle wi’ what was ordained. Ay,
Jock! as ye look at the sun gaun down, as many a time, when ye were a wee
innocent laddie at my knee here, I hae bade ye look at him as a type of
your Maker, ye will hae a sore heart; for ye hae left me in my need, when
ye should hae been near at hand to help me, for the hard labour and
industry with which I brought you up. But it’s the Lord’s will. Blessed
be the name of the Lord, that makes us to thole the tribulations of this
world, and will reward us, through the mediation of Jesus, hereafter.”
She wept bitterly as she said this, for her heart was tried, but the
blessing of a religious contentment was shed upon her; and I stepped up
to her, and asked about her concerns, for, saving as a parishioner, and a
decent old woman, I knew little of her. Brief was her story; but it was
one of misfortune.—“But I will not complain,” she said, “of the measure
that has been meted unto me. I was left myself an orphan; when I grew
up, and was married to my gude-man, I had known but scant and want. Our
days of felicity were few; and he was ta’en awa’ from me shortly after my
Mary was born. A wailing baby, and a widow’s heart, was a’ he left me.
I nursed her with my salt tears, and bred her in straits; but the favour
of God was with us, and she grew up to womanhood as lovely as the rose,
and as blameless as the lily. In her time she was married to a farming
lad. There never was a brawer pair in the kirk, than on that day when
they gaed there first as man and wife. My heart was proud, and it
pleased the Lord to chastise my pride—to nip my happiness, even in the
bud. The very next day he got his arm crushed. It never got well again;
and he fell into a decay, and died in the winter, leaving my Mary far on
in the road to be a mother.
[Picture: A morning consultation]
“When her time drew near, we both happened to be working in the yard.
She was delving to plant potatoes, and I told her it would do her hurt;
but she was eager to provide something, as she said, for what might
happen. Oh! it was an ill-omened word. The same night her trouble came
on, and before the morning she was a cauld corpse, and another wee wee
fatherless baby was greeting at my bosom—it was him that’s noo awa’ in
America. He grew up to be a fine bairn, with a warm heart, but a light
head, and, wanting the rein of a father’s power upon him, was no sa douce
as I could have wished; but he was no man’s foe save his own. I thought,
and hoped, as he grew to years of discretion, he would have sobered, and
been a consolation to my old age; but he’s gone, and he’ll never come
back—disappointment is my portion in this world, and I have no hope;
while I can do, I will seek no help, but threescore and fifteen can do
little, and a small ail is a great evil to an aged woman, who has but the
distaff for her breadwinner.”
I did all that I could to bid her be of good cheer, but the comfort of a
hopeful spirit was dead within her; and she told me, that by many tokens
she was assured her bairn was already slain.—“Thrice,” said she, “I have
seen his wraith—the first time he was in the pride of his young manhood,
the next he was pale and wan, with a bloody and gashy wound in his side,
and the third time there was a smoke, and, when it cleared away, I saw
him in a grave, with neither winding-sheet nor coffin.”
The tale of this pious and resigned spirit dwelt in mine ear, and, when I
went home, Mrs. Balwhidder thought that I had met with an o’ercome, and
was very uneasy; so she got the tea soon ready to make me better; but
scarcely had we tasted the first cup when a loud lamentation was heard in
the kitchen. This was from that tawpy the wife of Thomas Wilson, with
her three weans. They had been seeking their meat among the farmer
houses, and, in coming home, forgathered on the road with the Glasgow
carrier, who told them that news had come, in the _London Gazette_, of a
battle, in which the regiment that Thomas had listed in was engaged, and
had suffered loss both in rank and file; none doubting that their head
was in the number of the slain, the whole family grat aloud, and came to
the manse, bewailing him as no more; and it afterwards turned out to be
the case, making it plain to me that there is a farseeing discernment in
the spirit, that reaches beyond the scope of our incarnate senses.
But the weight of the war did not end with these afflictions; for,
instead of the sorrow that the listing caused, and the anxiety after, and
the grief of the bloody tidings, operating as wholesome admonition to our
young men, the natural perversity of the human heart was more and more
manifested. A wonderful interest was raised among us all to hear of what
was going on in the world; insomuch, that I myself was no longer
contented with the relation of the news of the month in the _Scots
Magazine_, but joined with my father-in-law, Mr. Kibbock, to get a
newspaper twice a-week from Edinburgh. As for Lady Macadam, who being
naturally an impatient woman, she had one sent to her three times a-week
from London, so that we had something fresh five times every week; and
the old papers were lent out to the families who had friends in the wars.
This was done on my suggestion, hoping it would make all content with
their peaceable lot; but dominion for a time had been given to the power
of contrariness, and it had quite an opposite effect. It begot a
curiosity, egging on to enterprise; and, greatly to my sorrow, three of
the brawest lads in the parish, or in any parish, all in one day took on
with a party of the Scots Greys that were then lying in Ayr; and nothing
would satisfy the callans at Mr. Lorimore’s school, but, instead of their
innocent plays with girs, and shinties, and sicklike, they must go
ranking like soldiers, and fight sham-fights in bodies. In short, things
grew to a perfect hostility, for a swarm of weans came out from the
schools of Irville on a Saturday afternoon, and, forgathering with ours,
they had a battle with stones on the toll-road, such as was dreadful to
hear of; for many a one got a mark that day he will take to the grave
with him.
It was not, however, by accidents of the field only, that we were
afflicted; those of the flood, too, were sent likewise against us. In
the month of October, when the corn was yet in the holms, and on the cold
land by the river side, the water of Irville swelled to a great spait,
from bank to brae, sweeping all before it, and roaring, in its might,
like an agent of divine displeasure, sent forth to punish the inhabitants
of the earth. The loss of the victual was a thing reparable, and those
that suffered did not greatly complain; for, in other respects, their
harvest had been plenteous: but the river, in its fury, not content with
overflowing the lands, burst through the sandy hills with a raging force,
and a riving asunder of the solid ground, as when the fountains of the
great deep were broken up. All in the parish was a-foot, and on the
hills, some weeping and wringing their hands, not knowing what would
happen, when they beheld the landmarks of the waters deserted, and the
river breaking away through the country, like the war-horse set loose in
his pasture, and glorying in his might. By this change in the way and
channel of the river, all the mills in our parish were left more than
half a mile from dam or lade; and the farmers through the whole winter,
till the new mills were built, had to travel through a heavy road with
their victual, which was a great grievance, and added not a little to the
afflictions of this unhappy year, which to me were not without a
particularity, by the death of a full cousin of Mrs. Balwhidder, my first
wife; she was grievously burnt by looting over a candle. Her mutch,
which was of the high structure then in vogue, took fire, and being
fastened with corking-pins to a great toupee, it could not be got off
until she had sustained a deadly injury, of which, after lingering long,
she was kindly eased by her removal from trouble. This sore accident was
to me a matter of deep concern and cogitation; but as it happened in
Tarbolton, and no in our parish, I have only alluded to it to show, that
when my people were chastised by the hand of Providence, their pastor was
not spared, but had a drop from the same vial.