THE SCHOOLMASTER’S COTTAGE.
The following night, three of the Scaurnose fishermen--Blue Peter,
Bow-o’-meal, and Jeames Gentle--called at the schoolmaster’s
cottage in the Alton, and were soon deep in earnest conversation
with him around his peat-fire, in the room which served him for
study, dining-room, and bed-chamber. All the summer a honey-suckle
outside watched his back window for him; now it was guarded within
by a few flowerless plants. It was a deep little window in a thick
wall, with an air of mystery, as if thence the privileged might look
into some region of strange and precious things. The front window
was comparatively commonplace, with a white muslin curtain across
the lower half. In the middle of the sanded floor stood a table of
white deal, much stained with ink. The green-painted doors of the
_box-bed_ opposite the hearth stood open, revealing a spotless white
counterpane. On the wall beside the front window hung by red cords
three shelves of books; and near the back window stood a dark,
old-fashioned bureau, with pendant brass handles as bright as new,
supporting a bookcase with glass doors, crowded with well-worn
bindings. A few deal chairs completed the furniture.
“It’s a sair vex, sir, to think o’ what we a’ jeedged to be the
wark o’ the speerit takin’ sic a turn! I’m feart it’ll lie heavy at
oor door,” said Blue Peter, after a sketch of the state of affairs.
“I don’t think they can have sunk so low as the early Corinthian
Church yet,” said Mr Graham, “and St. Paul never seems to have
blamed himself for preaching the gospel to the Corinthians.”
“Weel, maybe!” rejoined Mair. “But, meantime, the practical p’int
is--Are we to tyauve (_struggle_) to set things richt again, or
are we to lea’ them to their ain devices?”
“What power have you to set things right?”
“Nane, sir. The Baillies’ Barn’s as free to them as to oorsels.”
“What influence have you, then?”
“Unco little,” said Bow-o’-meal, taking the word. “They’re afore
the win’. An’ it’s plain eneuch ’at to stan’ up an’ oppose them
wad be but to breed strife an’ debate.”
“An’ that micht put mony a waukent conscience soon’ asleep again
--maybe no to be waukent ony mair,” said Blue Peter.
“Then you don’t think you can either communicate or receive benefit by
continuing to take a part in those meetings?”
“I dinna think it,” answered all three.
“Then the natural question is--‘Why should you go?’”
“We’re feart for the guilt o’ what the minister ca’s shism,” said Blue
Peter.
“That might have occurred to you before you forsook the parish-church,”
said the schoolmaster, with a smile.
“But there was nae speeritooal noorishment to be gotten i’ that houff
(_haunt_),” said Jeames Gentle.
“How did you come to know the want of it?”
“Ow, that cam frae the speerit himsel’--what else?” replied Gentle.
“By what means?”
“By the readin’ o’ the word an’ by prayer,” answered Gentle.
“By his ain v’ice i’ the hert,” said Bow-o’-meal.
“Then a public assembly is not necessary for the communication of the
gifts of the spirit?”
They were silent.
“Isn’t it possible that the eagerness after such assemblies may
have something to do with a want of confidence in what the Lord
says of his kingdom--that it spreads like the hidden leaven--
grows like the buried seed? My own conviction is, that if a man
would but bend his energies to _live_, if he would but try to be a
true, that is, a godlike man, in all his dealings with his fellows,
a genuine neighbour and not a selfish unit, he would open such
channels for the flow of the spirit as no amount of even honest
and so-called successful preaching could.”
“Wha but ane was ever fit to lead sic a life ’s that?”
“All might be trying after it. In proportion as our candle burns
it will give light. No talking about light will supply the lack of
its presence either to the talker or the listeners.”
“There’s a heap made o’ the preachin’ o’ the word i’ the buik
itsel’,” said Peter with emphasis.
“Undoubtedly. But just look at our Lord: he never stopped living
amongst his people--hasn’t stopped yet; but he often refused to
preach, and personally has given it up altogether now.”
“Ay, but ye see he kent what he was duin’.”
“And so will every man in proportion as he partakes of his spirit.”
“But dinna ye believe there _is_ sic a thing as gettin’ a call to
the preachin’?”
“I do; but even then a man’s work is of worth only as it supplements
his life. A network of spiritual fibres connects the two, makes
one of them.”
“But surely, sir, them ’at’s o’ the same min’ oucht to meet an’
stir ane anither up? ‘They that feart the Lord spak aften thegither,’
ye ken.”
“What should prevent them? Why should not such as delight in each
other’s society, meet, and talk, and pray together,--address each
the others if they like? There is plenty of opportunity for that,
without forsaking the church or calling public meetings. To continue
your quotation--‘The Lord hearkened and heard:’ observe, the Lord
is not here said to hearken to sermons or prayers, but to the _talk_
of his people. This would have saved you from false relations with
men that oppose themselves, caring nothing for the truth--perhaps
eager to save their souls, nothing more at the very best.”
“Sir! sir! what wad ye hae? Daur ye say it’s no a body’s first duty
to save his ain sowl alive?” exclaimed Bow-o’-meal.
“I daur ’t--but there’s little daur intill ’t!” said Mr Graham,
breaking into Scotch.
Bow-o’-meal rose from his chair in indignation, Blue Peter made a grasp
at his bonnet, and Jeames Gentle gave a loud sigh of commiseration.
“I allow it to be a very essential piece of prudence,” added the
schoolmaster, resuming his quieter English--“but the first duty! --no.
The Catechism might have taught you better than that! To mind his chief
end must surely be man’s first duty; and the Catechism says--‘Man’s
chief end is to glorify God.’”
“And to enjoy him for ever,” supplemented Peter.
“That’s a safe consequence. There’s no fear of the second if he does
the first. Anyhow he cannot enjoy him for ever this moment, and he can
glorify him at once.”
“Ay, but hoo?” said Bow-o’-meal, ready to swoop upon the master’s reply.
“Just as Jesus Christ did--by doing his will--by obedience.”
“That’s no faith--it’s works! Ye’ll never save yer sowl that gait.”
“No man can ever save his soul. God only can do that. You can
glorify him by giving yourself up heart and soul and body and life
to his Son. Then you shall _be_ saved. _That_ you must leave to _him_,
and _do what he tells you_. There will be no fear of the saving then
--though it’s not an easy matter--even for _him_, as has been
sorely proved.”
“An’ hoo are we to gie oorsels up till him?--for ye see we’re
practical kin’ o’ fowk, huz fisher-fowk, Maister Graham,” said
Bow-o’-meal.
The tone implied that the schoolmaster was not practical.
“I say again--In doing _his_ will and not your own.”
“An’ what may his wull be?”
“Is he not telling you himself at this moment? Do you not know what
his will is? How should _I_ come between him and you! For anything I
know, it may be that you pay your next door neighbour a crown you
owe him, or make an apology to the one on the other side. _I_ do not
know: you do.”
“Dinna ye think aboot savin’ yer ain sowl noo, Maister Graham?”
said Bow-o’-meal, returning on their track.
“No, I don’t. I’ve forgotten all about that. I only desire and pray
to do the will of my God--which is all in all to me.”
“What say ye than aboot the sowls o’ ither fowk? Wadna ye save
them, no?”
“Gladly would I save them--but according to the will of God. If
I were, even unwittingly, to attempt it in any other way, I should
be casting stumbling-blocks in their path, and separating myself
from my God--doing that which is not of faith, and therefore is
sin. It is only where a man is at one with God that he can do the
right thing or take the right way. Whatever springs from any other
source than the spirit that dwelt in Jesus, is of sin, and works
to thwart the divine will. Who knows what harm may be done to a
man by hurrying a spiritual process in him?”
“I doobt, sir, gien yer doctrine was to get a hearin’, there wad
be unco little dune for the glory o’ God i’ this place!” remarked
Bow-o’-meal, with sententious reproof.
“But what was done would be of the right sort, and surpassingly
powerful.”
“Weel, to come back to the business in han’--what wad be yer
advice?” said Bow-o’-meal.
“That’s a thing none but a lawyer should give. I have shown you
what seem to me the principles involved: I can do no more.”
“Ye dinna ca’ that neebourly, whan a body comes speirin’ ’t?”
“Are you prepared then to take my advice?”
“Ye wadna hae a body du that aforehan’! We micht as weel a’ be
Papists, an’ believe as we’re tauld.”
“Precisely so. But you can exercise your judgment upon the principles
whereon my opinion is founded, with far more benefit than upon my
opinion itself--which I cannot well wish you to adopt, seeing
I think it far better for a man to go wrong upon his own honest
judgment, than to go right upon anybody else’s judgment, however
honest also.”
“Ye hae a heap o’ queer doctrines, sir.”
“And yet you ask advice of me?”
“We haena ta’en muckle, ony gait,” returned Bow-o’-meal rudely,
and walked from the cottage.
Jeames Gentle and Blue Peter bade the master a kindly good-night,
and followed Bow-o’-meal.
The next Sunday evening Blue Peter was again at the Alton, accompanied
by Gentle and another fisherman, not Bow-o’-meal, and had another
and longer conversation with the schoolmaster. The following Sunday
he went yet again; and from that time, every Sunday evening, as
soon as he had had his tea, Blue Peter took down his broad bonnet,
and set out to visit Mr Graham. As he went, one and another would
join him as he passed, the number increasing every time, until at
last ten or twelve went regularly.
But Mr Graham did not like such a forsaking of wives and children
on the Sunday.
“Why shouldn’t you bring Mrs Mair with you?” he said one evening,
addressing Joseph first. Then turning to the rest--“I should be
happy to see any of your wives who can come,” he added; “and some
of you have children who would be no trouble. If there is any good
in gathering this way, why shouldn’t we have those with us who are
our best help at all other times?”
“’Deed, sir,” said Joseph, “we’re sae used to oor wives ’at we’re
ower ready to forget hoo ill we cud du wantin’ them.”
Mrs Mair and two other wives came the next night. A few hung back
from modesty and dread of being catechized; but ere long about half
a dozen went when they could.
I need hardly say that Malcolm, as soon as he learned what was
going on, made one of the company. And truly, although he did not
know even yet all the evil that threatened him, he stood in heavy
need of the support and comfort to be derived from such truths as
Mr Graham unfolded. Duncan also, although he took little interest
in what passed, went sometimes, and was welcomed.
The talk of the master not unfrequently lapsed into monologue, and
sometimes grew eloquent. Seized occasionally by the might of the
thoughts which arose in him,--thoughts which would, to him, have
lost all their splendour as well as worth, had he imagined them
the offspring of his own faculty, meteors of his own atmosphere
instead of phenomena of the heavenly region manifesting themselves
on the hollow side of the celestial sphere of human vision,--he
would break forth in grand poetic speech that roused to aspiration
Malcolm’s whole being, while in the same instant calming him with
the summer peace of profoundest faith.
To no small proportion of his hearers some of such outbursts were
altogether unintelligible--a matter of no moment; but there were
of them who understood enough to misunderstand utterly: interpreting
his riches by their poverty, they misinterpreted them pitifully,
and misrepresented them worse. And, alas! in the little company
there were three or four men who, for all their upward impulses,
yet remained capable of treachery, because incapable of recognizing
the temptation to it for what it was. These by and by began to confer
together and form an opposition--in this at least ungenerous,
that they continued to assemble at his house, and show little sign
of dissension. When, however, they began at length to discover that
the master did not teach that interpretation of atonement which
they had derived--they little knew whence--but delivered another
as the doctrine of St. Paul, St. Peter, and St. John, they judged
themselves bound to take measures towards the quenching of a dangerous
heresy. For the more ignorant a man is, the more capable is he of
being absolutely certain of many things--with such certainty,
that is, as consists in the absence of doubt. Mr Graham, in the
meantime, full of love, and quiet solemn fervour, placed completest
confidence in their honesty, and spoke his mind freely and faithfully.