MR CAIRNS AND THE MARQUIS.
The religious movement amongst the fisher-folk was still going on.
Their meeting was now held often during the week, and at the same
hour on the Sunday as other people met at church. Nor was it any
wonder that, having participated in the fervour which pervaded
their gatherings in the cave, they should have come to feel the
so-called divine service in the churches of their respective parishes
a dull, cold, lifeless, and therefore unhelpful ordinance, and at
length regarding it as composed of beggarly elements, breathing of
bondage, to fill the Baillies’ Barn three times every Sunday--a
reverential and eager congregation.
Now, had they confined their prayers and exhortations to those
which, from an ecclesiastical point of view, constitute the unholy
days of the week, Mr Cairns would have neither condescended nor
presumed to take any notice of them; but when the bird’s-eye view
from his pulpit began to show patches of bare board where human
forms had wont to appear; and when these plague-spots had not only
lasted through successive Sundays, but had begun to spread more
rapidly, he began to think it time to put a stop to such fanatical
aberrations--the result of pride and spiritual presumption--
hostile towards God, and rebellious towards their lawful rulers
and instructors.
For what an absurdity it was that the spirit of truth should have
anything to communicate to illiterate and vulgar persons except
through the mouths of those to whom had been committed the dispensation
of the means of grace! Whatever wind might blow, except from their
bellows, was, to Mr Cairns at least, not even of doubtful origin.
Indeed the priests of every religion, taken in class, have been
the slowest to recognize the wind of the spirit, and the quickest
to tell whence the blowing came and whither it went--even should
it have blown first on their side of the hedge. And how could it
be otherwise? How should they recognize as a revival the motions of
life unfelt in their own hearts, where it was most required? What
could they know of doubts and fears, terrors and humiliations,
agonies of prayer, ecstasies of relief, and thanksgiving, who
regarded their high calling as a profession, with social claims
and ecclesiastical rights; and even as such had so little respect
for it that they talked of it themselves as _the cloth_? How could
such a man as Mr Cairns, looking down from the height of his
great soberness and the dignity of possessing the oracles and the
ordinances, do other than contemn the enthusiasms and excitements
of ignorant repentance? How could such as he recognize in the babble
of babes the slightest indication of the revealing of truths hid
from the wise and prudent; especially since their rejoicing also was
that of babes, hence carnal, and accompanied by all the weaknesses
and some of the vices which it had required the utmost energy of the
prince of apostles to purge from one at least of the early churches?
He might, however, have sought some foundation for a true judgment,
in a personal knowledge of their doctrine and collective behaviour;
but, instead of going to hear what the babblers had to say, and
thus satisfying himself whether the leaders of the movement spoke
the words of truth and soberness, or of discord and denial--
whether their teaching and their prayers were on the side of order
and law, or tending to sedition--he turned a ready ear to all
the reports afloat concerning them, and, misjudging them utterly,
made up his mind to use all _lawful_ means for putting an end to
their devotions and exhortations. One fact he either had not heard
or made no account of--that the public houses in the villages
whence these assemblies were chiefly gathered, had already come to
be all but deserted.
Alone, then, and unsupported by one of his brethren of the
Presbytery, even of those who suffered like himself, he repaired
to Lossie House, and laid before the marquis the whole matter from
his point of view:--that the tabernacles of the Lord were deserted
for dens and caves of the earth; that fellows so void of learning
as not to be able to put a sentence together, or talk decent English,
(a censure at which Lord Lossie smiled, for his ears were accustomed
to a different quality of English from that which now invaded them)
took upon themselves to expound the Scriptures; that they taught
antinomianism, (for which assertion, it must be confessed, there
was some _apparent_ ground) and were at the same time suspected of
Arminianism and Anabaptism: that, in a word, they were a terrible
disgrace to the godly and hitherto sober-minded parishes in which
the sect, if it might be dignified with even such a name, had sprung
up.
The marquis listened with much indifference, and some impatience:
what did he or any other gentleman care about such things? Besides,
he had a friendly feeling towards the fisher-folk, and a decided
disinclination to meddle with their liberty, either of action or
utterance.[6]
[6] Ill, from all artistic points of view, as such a note comes
in, I must, for reasons paramount to artistic considerations, remind
my readers, that not only is the date of my story half a century
or so back, but, dealing with principles, has hardly anything to
do with actual events, and nothing at all with persons. The _local_
skeleton of the story alone is taken from the real, and I had not
a model, not to say an original, for one of the characters in it
--except indeed Mrs Catanach’s dog.
“But what have I to do with it, Mr Cairns?” he said, when the stream
of the parson’s utterance had at length ceased to flow. “I am not
a theologian; and if I were, I do not see how that even would give
me a right to interfere.”
“In such times of insubordination as these, my lord,” said Mr
Cairns, “when every cadger thinks himself as good as an earl, it
is more than desirable that not a single foothold should be lost.
There _must_ be a general election soon, my lord. Besides, these men
abuse your lordship’s late hospitality, declaring it has had the
worst possible influence on the morals of the people.”
A shadow of truth rendered this assertion the worse misrepresentation:
no blame to the marquis had even been hinted at; the speakers had
only animadverted on the fishermen who had got drunk on the occasion.
“Still,” said the marquis, smiling, for the reported libel did not
wound him very deeply, “what ground of right have I to interfere?”
“The shore is your property, my lord--every rock and every buckie
(_spiral shell_) upon it; the caves are your own--every stone and
pebble of them: you can prohibit all such assemblies.”
“And what good would that do? They would only curse me, and go
somewhere else.”
“Where could they go, where the same law wouldn’t hold, my lord?
The coast is yours for miles and miles on both sides.”
“I don’t know that it should be.”
“Why not, my lord? It has belonged to your family from time
immemorial, and will belong to it, I trust, while the moon endureth.”
“They used to say,” said the marquis thoughtfully, as if he were
recalling something he had heard long ago, “that the earth was the
Lord’s.”
“This part of it is Lord Lossie’s,” said Mr Cairns, combining the
jocular with the complimentary in one irreverence; but, as if to
atone for the freedom he had taken--“The Deity has committed it
to the great ones of the earth to rule for him,” he added, with a
devout obeisance to the delegate.
Lord Lossie laughed inwardly.
“You can even turn them out of their houses, if you please, my
lord,” he superadded.
“God forbid!” said the marquis.
“A threat--the merest hint of such a measure is all that would
be necessary.”
“But are you certain of the truth of these accusations?”
“My lord!”
“Of course you believe them, or you would not repeat them, but it
does not follow that they are fact.”
“They are matter of common report, my lord. What I have stated is
in every one’s mouth.”
“But you have not yourself heard any of their sermons, or what do
they call them?”
“No, my lord,” said Mr Cairns, holding up his white hands in
repudiation of the idea; “it would scarcely accord with my position
to act the spy.”
“So, to keep yourself immaculate, you take all against them for
granted! I have no such scruples, however. I will go and see, or
rather hear, what they are about: after that I shall be in a position
to judge.”
“Your lordship’s presence will put them on their guard.”
“If the mere sight of me is a check,” returned the marquis, “extreme
measures will hardly be necessary.”
He spoke definitively, and made a slight movement, which his visitor
accepted as his dismissal. He laughed aloud when the door closed,
for the spirit of what the Germans call _Schadenfreude_ was never
far from his elbow, and he rejoiced in the parson’s discomfiture.
It was in virtue of his simplicity, precluding discomfiture, that
Malcolm could hold his own with him so well. For him he now sent.
“Well, MacPhail,” he said kindly, as the youth entered, “how is
that foot of yours getting on?”
“Brawly, my lord; there’s naething muckle the maitter wi’ hit, or
me aither, noo ’at we’re up. But I was jist nearhan’ deid o’ ower
muckle bed.”
“Hadn’t you better come down out of that cockloft?” said the
marquis, dropping his eyes.
“Na, my lord; I dinna care aboot pairtin’ wi’ my neebour yet.”
“What neighbour?”
“Ow, the auld warlock, or whatever it may be ’at hauds a reemish
(_romage_) there.”
“What! is _he_ troublesome next?
“Ow, na! I’m no thinkin’ ’t; but ’deed I dinna ken, my lord!” said
Malcolm.
“What do you mean, then?”
“Gien yer lordship wad aloo me to force yon door, I wad be better
able to tell ye.”
“Then the old man is _not_ quiet?”
“There’s something no quaiet.”
“Nonsense! It’s all your imagination--depend on it.”
“I dinna think it.”
“What _do_ you think, then? You’re not afraid of ghosts, surely?”
“No muckle. I hae naething mair upo’ my conscience nor I can bide
i’ the deidest o’ the nicht.”
“Then you think ghosts come of a bad conscience? A kind of moral
_delirium tremens_--eh?”
“I dinna ken, my lord; but that’s the only kin’ o’ ghaist I wad
be fleyed at--at least ’at I wad rin frae. I wad a heap raither
hae a ghaist i’ my hoose nor ane far’er benn. An ill man, or wuman,
like Mistress Catanach, for enstance, ’at’s a’ body, ’cep’
what o’ her ’s deevil,----”
“Nonsense!” said the marquis, angrily; but Malcolm went on:
“----maun be jist fu’ o’ ghaists! An’ for onything I ken, that’ll
be what maks ghaists o’ themsels efter they’re deid, settin’
them _waukin’_, as they ca’ ’t. It’s full waur nor bein’ possessed
wi’ deevils, an’ maun be a hantle mair ooncoamfortable.--But I
_wad_ hae yon door opent, my lord.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the marquis once more, and shrugged his
shoulders. “You must leave that room. If I hear anything more about
noises, or that sort of rubbish, I shall insist upon it.--I sent
for you now, however, to ask you about these clandestine meetings
of the fisher-folk.”
“Clandestine, my lord? There’s no _clam_ aboot them, but the clams
upo’ the rocks.”
The marquis was not etymologist enough to understand Malcolm’s poor
pun, and doubtless thought it worse than it was.
“I don’t want any fooling,” he said. “Of course you know these
people?”
“Ilka man, wuman, an’ bairn o’ them,” answered Malcolm.
“And what sort are they?”
“Siclike as ye micht expec’.”
“That’s not a very luminous answer.”
“Weel, they’re nae waur nor ither fowk, to begin wi’; an’ gien this
hauds, they’ll be better nor mony.”
“What sort are their leaders?”
“Guid, respectable fowk, my lord.”
“Then there’s not much harm in _them_?”
“There’s nane but what they wad fain be rid o’. I canna say as
muckle for a’ ’at hings on to them. There’s o’ them, nae doobt,
wha wad fain win to h’aven ohn left their sins ahin’ them; but they
get nae encouragement frae Maister MacLeod. Blue Peter, ’at gangs
oot wi’ ’s i’ yer lordship’s boat--he’s ane o’ their best men--
though he never gangs ayont prayin’, I’m tauld.”
“Which is far enough, surely,” said his lordship, who, belonging to
the Episcopal church, had a different idea concerning the relative
dignities of preaching and praying.
“Ay, for a body’s sel’, surely; but maybe no aye eneuch for ither
fowk,” answered Malcolm, always ready after his clumsy fashion.
“Have you been to any of these meetings?”
“I was at the first twa, my lord.”
“Why not more?”
“I didna care muckle aboot them, an’ I hae aye plenty to du. Besides,
I can get mair oot o’ Maister Graham wi’ twa words o’ a queston
nor the haill crew o’ them could tell me atween this an’ eternity.”
“Well, I am going to trust you,” said the marquis slowly, with an
air of question rather than of statement.
“Ye may du that, my lord.”
“You mean I may with safety?”
“I div mean that same, my lord.”
“You can hold your tongue then?”
“I can, an’ I wull my lord,” said Malcolm; but added in haste, “--
’cept it interfere wi’ ony foregane agreement or nat’ral obligation.”
It must be borne in mind that Malcolm was in the habit of discussing
all sorts of questions with Mr Graham: some of the formulæ wrought
out between them he had made himself thoroughly master of.
“By Jupiter!” exclaimed the marquis, with a pause of amusement.
“Well,” he went on, “I suppose I must take you on your own terms.
--They’ve been asking me to put a stop to these conventicles.”
“Wha has, my lord?”
“That’s my business.”
“Lat it be nae ither body’s, my lord.”
“That’s my intention. I told him I would go and judge for myself.”
“Jist like yer lordship!”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I was aye sure ye was for fair play, my lord.”
“It’s little enough I’ve ever had,” said the marquis.
“Sae lang ’s we gie plenty, my lord, it maitters less hoo muckle we
get. A’ body likes to get it.”
“That doctrine won’t carry you far, my lad.”
“Far eneuch, gien ’t cairry me throu’, my lord.”
“How absolute the knave is!” said his lordship good humouredly. “--
Well, but,” he resumed, “--about these fishermen: I’m only afraid
Mr Cairns was right.”
“What said he, my lord?”
“That, when they saw me there, they would fit their words to my
ears.”
“I ken them better nor ony black-coat atween Cromarty an’ Peterheid;
an’ I can tell yer lordship there winna be ae word o’ differ for
your bein’ there.”
“If only I could be there and not there both at once! There’s no
other sure mode of testing your assertion. What a pity the only
thorough way should be an impossible one!”
“To a’ practical purpose, it’s easy eneuch, my lord. Jist gang ohn
be seen the first nicht, an’ the neist gang in a co’ch an’ fower.
Syne compaur.”
“Quite satisfactory, no doubt, if I could bring myself to do it;
but, though I said I would, I don’t like to interfere so far even
as to go at all.”
“At ony public meetin’, my lord, ye hae as guid a richt to be present,
as the puirest body i’ the lan’. An’ forbye that, as lord o’ the
place, ye hae a richt to ken what’s gaein’ on: I dinna ken hoo far
the richt o’ interferin’ gangs; that’s anither thing a’thegither.”
“I see you’re a thorough-going rebel yourself.”
“Naething o’ the kind, my lord. I’m only sae far o’ yer lordship’s
min’ ’at I like fair play--gien a body could only be aye richt
sure what was fair play!”
“Yes, there’s the very point!--certainly, at least, when the
question comes to be of eaves-dropping--not to mention that I
could never condescend to play the spy.”
“What a body has a richt to hear, he may hear as he likes--either
shawin’ himsel’ or hidin’ himsel’. An’ it’s the _only_ plan ’at’s
fair to them, my lord. It’s no ’s gien yer lordship was lyin’ in
wait to du them a mischeef: ye want raither to du them a kin’ness,
an’ tak their pairt.”
“I don’t know that, Malcolm. It depends.”
“It’s plain yer lordship’s prejudeezed i’ their fawvour. Ony gait, I’m
sartin it’s fair play ye want; an’ I canna for the life o’ me
see a hair o’ wrang i’ yer lordship’s gaein’ _in a cogue_, as auld
Tammy Dyster ca’s ’t; for, at the warst, ye cud only interdick
them, an’ that ye cud du a’ the same, whether ye gaed or no. An’,
gien ye be sae wulled, I can tak you an’ my leddy whaur ye’ll hear
ilka word ’at’s uttered, an’ no a body get a glimp o’ ye, mair
nor gien ye was sittin’ at yer ain fireside as ye are the noo.”
“That does make a difference!” said the marquis, a great part of
whose unwillingness arose from the dread of discovery.--“It would
be very amusing.”
“I’ll no promise ye that,” returned Malcolm. “I dinna ken aboot
that.--There’s jist ae objection hooever: ye wad hae to gang a
guid hoor afore they begoud to gaither.--An’ there’s aye laadies
aboot the place sin’ they turned it intill a kirk!” he added
thoughtfully. “--But,” he resumed, “we cud manage them.”
“How?”
“I wad get my gran’father to strik’ up wi’ a spring upo’ the pipes,
o’ the ither side o’ the bored craig--or lat aff a shot of the
sweevil: they wad a’ rin to see, an’ i’ the meantime we cud lan’
ye frae the cutter. We wad hae ye in an’ oot o’ sicht in a moment
--Blue Peter an’ me--as quaiet as gien ye war ghaists, an’ the
hoor midnicht.”
The marquis was persuaded, but objected to the cutter. They would
walk there, he said. So it was arranged that Malcolm should take
him and Lady Florimel to the Baillies’ Barn the very next time the
fishermen had a meeting.