We will not name the village where the actors in the following incidents
resided; and it is sufficient for our purpose to say that it lay in the
county of Berwick, and within the jurisdiction of the Presbytery of
Dunse. Eternity has gathered forty winters into its bosom since the
principal events took place. Janet Jeffrey was left a widow before her
only child had completed his tenth year. While her husband lay upon his
deathbed, he called her to his bedside, and, taking her hand within his,
he groaned, gazed on her face, and said, "Now, Janet, I'm gaun a lang
and a dark journey; but ye winna forget, Janet--ye winna forget--for ye
ken it has aye been uppermost in my thoughts and first in my desires, to
mak Thamas a minister; promise me that ae thing, Janet, that, if it be
HIS will, ye will see it performed, an' I will die in peace." In sorrow
the pledge was given, and in joy performed. Her life became wrapt up in
her son's life; and it was her morning and her evening prayer that she
might live to see her "dear Thamas a shining light in the kirk." Often
she declared that he was an "auld farrant bairn, and could ask a
blessing like ony minister." Our wishes and affections, however, often
blind our judgment. Nobody but the mother thought the son fitted for the
kirk, nor the kirk fitted for him. There was always something original,
almost poetical about him; but still Thomas was "no orator as Brutus
was." His mother had few means beyond the labour of her hands for their
support. She had kept him at the parish school until he was fifteen, and
he had learned all that his master knew; and in three years more, by
rising early and sitting late at her daily toils, and the savings of his
field labour and occasional teaching, she was enabled to make
preparation for sending him to Edinburgh. Never did her wheel spin so
blithely since her husband was taken from her side, as when she put the
first lint upon the rock for his college sarks. Proudly did she show to
her neighbours her double spinel yarn--observing, "It's nae finer than
he deserves, poor fallow, for he'll pay me back some day." The web was
bleached and the shirts made by her own hands; and the day of his
departure arrived. It was a day of joy mingled with anguish. He attended
the classes regularly and faithfully; and truly as St. Giles's marked
the hour, the long, lean figure of Thomas Jeffrey, in a suit of shabby
black, and half a dozen volumes under his arm, was seen issuing from his
garret in the West Bow, darting down the frail stair with the velocity
of a shadow, measuring the Lawnmarket and High Street with gigantic
strides, gliding like a ghost up the South Bridge, and sailing through
the Gothic archway of the College, till the punctual student was lost in
its inner chambers. Years rolled by, and at length the great, the awful
day arrived--
"Big with the fate of Thomas and his mother."
He was to preach his trial sermon; and where? In his own parish--in his
native village! It was summer, but his mother rose by daybreak. Her son,
however, was at his studies before her; and when she entered his bedroom
with a swimming heart and swimming eyes, Thomas was stalking across the
floor, swinging his arms, stamping his feet, and shouting his sermon to
the trembling curtains of a four-post bed, which she had purchased in
honour of him alone. "Oh, my bairn! my matchless bairn!" cried she,
"what a day o' joy is this for your poor mother! But oh, hinny, hae ye
it weel aff? I hope there's nae fears o' ye stickin' or using notes!"
"Dinna fret, mother--dinna fret," replied the young divine; "stickin'
and notes are out o' the question. I hae every word o' it as clink as
the A B C." The appointed hour arrived. She was first at the kirk. Her
heart felt too big for her bosom. She could not sit--she walked again to
the air--she trembled back--she gazed restless on the pulpit. The parish
minister gave out the psalm--the book shook while she held it. The
minister prayed, again gave out a psalm, and left the pulpit. The book
fell from Mrs. Jeffrey's hand. A tall figure paced along the passage. He
reached the pulpit stairs--took two steps at once. It was a bad omen;
but arose from the length of his limbs--not levity. He opened the
door--his knees smote upon one another. He sat down--he was paler than
death. He rose--his bones were paralytic. The Bible was opened--his
mouth opened at the same time, and remained open, but said nothing. His
large eyes stared wildly around. At length his teeth chattered, and the
text was announced, though half the congregation disputed it. "My
brethren!" said he once, and the whiteness of his countenance increased;
but he said no more. "My bre--thren!" responded he a second time; his
teeth chattered louder; his cheeks became clammy and death-like. "My
brethren!" stammered he a third time emphatically, and his knees fell
together. A deep groan echoed from his mother's pew. His wildness
increased. "My mother!" exclaimed the preacher. They were the last words
he ever uttered in a pulpit. The shaking and the agony began in his
heart, and his body caught the contagion. He covered his face with his
hands, fell back, and wept. His mother screamed aloud, and fell back
also; and thus perished her toils, her husband's prayer, her fond
anticipations, and the pulpit oratory of her son. A few neighbours
crowded round her to console her and render her assistance. They led her
to the door. She gazed upon them with a look of vacancy--thrice
sorrowfully waved her hand, in token that they should leave her; for
their words fell upon her heart like dew upon a furnace. Silently she
arose and left them, and reaching her cottage, threw herself upon her
bed in bitterness. She shed no tears; neither did she groan, but her
bosom heaved with burning agony. Sickness smote Thomas to his very
heart; yea, even unto blindness he was sick. His tongue was like heated
iron in his mouth, and his throat like a parched land. He was led from
the pulpit. But he escaped not the persecution of the unfeeling titter,
and the expressions of shallow pity. He would have rejoiced to have
dwelt in darkness for ever, but there was no escape from the eyes of his
tormentors. The congregation stood in groups in the kirkyard, "just," as
they said, "to hae anither look at the orator;" and he must pass through
the midst of them. With his very soul steeped in shame, and his cheeks
covered with confusion, he stepped from the kirk door. A humming noise
issued through the crowd, and every one turned their faces towards him.
His misery was greater than he could bear. "Yon was oratory for ye!"
said one. "Poor deevil!" added another, "I'm sorry for him; but it was
as guid as a play." "Was it tragedy or comedy?" inquired a third,
laughing as he spoke. The remarks fell upon his ear--he grated his teeth
in madness, but he could endure no more; and, covering his face with his
hands, he bounded off like a wounded deer to his mother's cottage. In
despair he entered the house, scarce knowing what he did. He beheld her
where she had fallen upon the bed, dead to all but misery. "Oh mother,
mother!" he cried, "dinna ye be angry--dinna ye add to the afflictions
of your son! Will ye no, mother?--will ye no?" A low groan was the only
answer. He hurried to and fro across the room, wringing his hands.
"Mother," he again exclaimed, "will ye no speak ae word? Oh, woman! ye
wadna be angry if ye kenned what an awfu' thing it is to see a thousan'
een below ye, and aboon ye, and round about ye, a' staring upon ye like
condemning judges, an' looking into your very soul--ye hae nae idea o'
it, mother; I tell ye, ye hae nae idea o't, or ye wadna be angry. The
very pulpit floor gaed down wi' me, the kirk wa's gaed round about, and
I thought the very crown o' my head wad pitch on the top o' the
precentor. The very een o' the multitude soomed round me like
fishes!--an' oh, woman! are ye dumb? will ye torment me mair? can ye no
speak, mother?" But he spoke to one who never spoke again. Her reason
departed, and her speech failed, but grief remained. She had lived upon
one hope, and that hope was destroyed. Her round ruddy cheeks and portly
form wasted away, and within a few weeks the neighbours, who performed
the last office of humanity, declared that a thinner corpse was never
wrapt in a winding sheet than Mrs. Jeffrey. Time soothed, but did not
heal the sorrows, the shame, and the disappointment of the son. He sank
into a village teacher, and often, in the midst of his little school, he
would quote his first, his only text--imagine the children to be his
congregation--attempt to proceed--gaze wildly round for a moment, and
sit down and weep. Through these aberrations his school dwindled into
nothingness, and poverty increased his delirium. Once, in the midst of
the remaining few, he gave forth the fatal text. "My brethren!" he
exclaimed, and smiting his hand upon his forehead, cried, "Speak,
mother!--speak now!" and fell with his face upon the floor. The children
rushed screaming from the school, and when the villagers entered, the
troubled spirit had fled for ever.