an elder, were solemn and long. First of all, the minister of the
congregation, Mr. Peden, went up into the pulpit, gave out a psalm
to be sung, and offered up a long prayer. Then, while a second psalm
was being sung, he gave place to a reverend brother, Mr. Herd, of
the Byres, who, not satisfied with the prayer already given, thought
it necessary to engage in another of equal length. The sermon came
next, severely doctrinal, many-headed, long-tailed; and then a short
prayer and a psalm concluded the forenoon service. Mr. Torrance, in
the interval, led his family to a room in a private house, where
they silently lunched on _baps_ and ale. The afternoon service was a
repetition of that of the forenoon, with one of the long prayers left
out.
Some people of the present day may be inclined to sneer at this service
as "weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable." But to the intelligent
and pious rustics who had few books, it was an intellectual and a
spiritual treat, which edified and refreshed them. Their most heartfelt
associations clustered round the church and its worship, and they could
sing with genuine feelings the lines of the psalm:
"Blessed are they in Thy courts that dwell,
They ever give Thee praise."
A great mistake, however, was made in subjecting mere children to these
ordinances. It was thought, indeed, that the preaching of the Word,
though not understood, was bound to touch them and foster within them
a love of religion. The very reverse, however, was often the result.
Their bodies were wearied out, their minds were stupefied, and they
formed disagreeable associations with the church, which were sometimes
never dispelled.
Willie Torrance, in the afternoon especially, passed through a very
disagreeable ordeal. He sat on a high, hard seat with his feet dangling
in the air. Under the influence of the heat of the crowded church,
and the monotonous tones of the minister, he fell fast asleep. Then
he was roughly awakened by a nudge from his father, and a kick from
his brother; and his mother whispered to him, "Sit up, and listen to
the minister." The poor lad, rubbing his eyes, tried to obey her,
but he could not understand a single scrap of the sermon. It was as
meaningless and depressing to him as the moaning of the east wind at
the kitchen window on a wild winter night. What could he do, therefore,
but sit wearily, and allow his thoughts to stray to all sorts of
things, and, above all, wonder what Bob was doing at the loch side,
until the word "Amen" told him that the sermon was at last done, and
the end of his imprisonment near. What a welcome sound had that word
always been! It was the only part of a discourse that ever stirred
him; and even in a dead sleep he could hear it, and waken up with the
feeling that a wearisome ordeal was passed. Yet on that particular day
when he came out into the sunshine, he did not experience his usual
joy. A strange depression lay upon his spirits. He could not help
feeling that God was angry with him for not listening to the sermon,
and for not liking the church. He had also the apprehension that a
punishment was hanging over him, and on this occasion that apprehension
was fated to be realised.
On their way home, when they came near the loch, he saw that something
unusual had happened. A group of people were standing on the bank,
and talking excitedly; and two men, hurrying towards the village,
whispered something to his father, who was in front. He heard the name,
"Fortune," and in another minute he became conscious that a terrible
calamity had befallen him. His boy friend and protector was drowned.
Two young men, in the course of the day, had come to the loch, and had
got hold of a boat to have a row, and had invited Bob to go along with
them. When they were at some distance from the land, the two young men
fell into a dispute, and after the foolish manner of gawks, stood up
in the boat and had some horse-play. In an instant the boat was upset,
and the three occupants were in the water struggling for life. The
young men managed, with difficulty, to reach the shore; but the boy,
who was not a swimmer, could only cling to the bottom of the boat. For
some time he struggled to get out of the water on to the keel, crying
desperately all the while for help. But his brother could not swim,
and the two young men were either too tired or too timid to venture to
rescue him; and while they were standing wondering what they should
do, the poor lad, worn out with his ineffectual struggles, sank out of
sight. A minute afterwards, men from the neighbouring farm arrived in
another boat, but it was too late. All they could do now was to recover
the body. After an hour's dragging, it was found, placed on a barn
door, and covered with a cloak to be carried home. The Torrances, on
arriving at the loch side, saw the melancholy procession proceeding up
the road by the Mill Farm.
This terrible disaster fell upon Willie like a blow, and stunned him.
His powers were paralysed, and he could neither speak nor weep. He
saw the loch, the excited groups on the shore, and the muffled figure,
lying on the barn door, disappearing in the distance; but the whole
scene appeared to be a terrible nightmare. This stupor continued as he
walked home, and sat silent by the fire. But after he had gone to bed,
his mother heard him sobbing, and, in a voice half-choked with tears,
praying that God would restore to life his lost friend. And in the
morning he was really hopeful that his prayer would be answered. God
had raised the dead in past times, and why should He not do the same
now? And he actually waited for his daily companion, looking up the
pathway in the Back Planting, and expecting to see him, as formerly,
coming bounding down like a deer. But he waited and looked in vain, and
was obliged to set out for school alone.
As he went along the familiar road, his grief broke out afresh. Almost
every object reminded him of his best friend, who was gone, and would
never, never come again. He lingered awhile with a strange, melancholy
feeling over the ruins of the chaffinch's nest that still lay on the
road. There was one object, however, that he could not face, and that
was the cruel loch which had drowned his friend; and to escape it he
went round by the Myre Farm, and down the links. Then as he came near
the village, the thought suddenly flashed across his brain: What if Bob
should be there, if he should have recovered, and, for some reason,
gone to school by another way, and should be sitting waiting for him?
But alas! no such joyful experience awaited him, but another of a very
different kind.
There is a set of well-meaning but narrow-minded Christians, who take
a very paltry view of God's government of this vast and complicated
universe. They imagine that every calamity is a judgment, that it
is the punishment of some particular sin, and that this sin can be
identified. They are also convinced that it is their duty to call
attention to this calamity, and hold it up as a warning to their
fellow-men. And this they call "sanctifying the dispensation of
Providence." Mr Sloan was one of these; and when Willie entered, he
was beginning to read to his awestruck scholars a speech which his
minister, the Rev. Mr Moodie, of the Original Protesting Church, had
prepared for him:
"They were met," he said, "under the gloom of a sad calamity. One of
their number, while playing by the loch side on the Fast Day, had been
drowned. His heart bled for the poor boy cut off in the springtime of
his days. But while he owed a duty to the dead, he also owed a duty
to the living. He had now to tell them that God was reading to them a
terrible warning. Had this unfortunate boy been attending to his duty,
had he been at church, had he been observing the day set apart by God's
own people, he would still have been in the land of the living and the
place of hope. As it was, the punishment fell upon him in the midst of
his sin, and without any time for repentance he was sent before the
Great Judge. It was an awful thought, but if they believed the Bible it
was a thought that they could not help having, that their unfortunate
schoolmate was now bitterly repenting his neglect of ordinances in the
place of woe."
At the sound of these last three words, horror fell upon the young
listeners, and a childish voice was heard calling out, "It's a lee."
"Who said that?" cried the master, white with rage.
"William Torrance," cried the officious Christopher Bain, in a tone
of exultation; and, seizing the culprit by the collar, he dragged him
forward.
The master took the child by the throat, and shook him. "Now, sir! do
you know what you are saying? you are calling, not only my word, by the
Word of God a lie. Do you still say that what I said was a lie?"
"It's no true," said Willie, with flashing eyes, and a look of
determination on his childish features.
"Then," said the master, taking off his coat and pulling out the
_tawse_, "I must punish you, first for the offence, and then I must
flog you till you express your regret for what you have said."
Then was witnessed a spectacle which was not uncommon in that class of
schools--a man trying to beat what he called "human depravity" out of a
child, just as a housemaid beats the dust out of a dirty carpet. But,
in this case, the man failed in his task. The boy frequently writhed
as the cutting stripes fell upon him; but he shed not a single tear,
and kept his teeth resolutely clenched; and at every interval when he
was asked if he was not sorry, he kept repeating the phrase, "it's
no true." At last the master, puffing and perspiring, was obliged to
give in and sit down; and the small culprit stood before him, red and
dishevelled, but unsubdued.
"Go out of this school," panted forth, at last, the defeated pedagogue;
and the little lad, with a dignity beyond his years, took up his cap
and books, walked to the door, and deliberately shut it behind him. He
took the same way by which he had come in the early morning; and he
carried out his determination not to cry, till at the turning of the
road, he unexpectedly caught a glimpse of the loch. Then, before he was
aware, an uncontrollable paroxysm of grief came on, and when he arrived
at home he was sobbing hysterically. At first, he could not tell his
mother what was wrong; and it was only by persistent questioning
that she extracted from him all the details of the disaster. She was
struck dumb with consternation, and she could only wash his face,
brush his hair, and lay him down to rest on her own bed. But when
the family assembled at dinner, the horror which his crime excited
found expression. "It was an awfu' like thing," said the mother, "to
contradick the maister."
"Contradickin' the maister," said the father, "that was the least o't;
it was contradickin' the Word o' God."
"I wonder what the neibours will say," skirled the sister, "and Sawbath
the Sacrament. I'll never be able to gang forrit."
"It should be threshed oot o' him," growled the brother.
"And that's exactly what I'll dae," said the father; "bring the strap."
The mother, however, was instantly up in arms. She was in general an
obedient wife; but here her obedience found its limit. "'Tweel," she
cried, "ye'll dae naething o' the kind. The bairn's been hashed enough
already. The bluid's barkened on his skin, and his serk's stickin' to
his back;" and she took him in her arms as if to protect him.
Next morning his father told him that he must go back to the school and
apologise to the master; but that look of determination came again into
his youthful face, and he said, "No, I'll no gang." The father got hold
of the strap, seized him by the collar, and was about to flog him; but
stopped when he said, "Ye may kill me, but I'll no gang." The father
was startled and half afraid at this unprecedented rebellion. It was
something eerie and uncanny. He did not know what it might lead to. He
therefore desisted, and throwing the boy aside, said--
"Weel, I'm through wi' ye. I've dune a' that I can for ye; and if ye
gang to the bad, it's yer ain faut. But ye'll no eat the bread o'
idleness here. If ye wunna learn ye maun work. Ye maun gang and herd
the sheep in the Back Park."
And now was this little fellow made to suffer for his sin. His life
must have been very like that of an excommunicated one in the Catholic
times. His own father would not speak to him, and would not permit
him either to attend church or family worship. The neighbours stared
and shook their heads when he passed. His former school-fellows must
have been told to avoid him, for they never came near him. The only
sympathy he got, if it could be called sympathy, was from "auld Wull
Crabbie," the stone-breaker, who plied his hammer near the entrance
to the village. This wayside philosopher, shaggy-browed keen-eyed,
hook-nosed, perched upon a seat made of an upright stone with a bunch
of straw on the top of it, _knapped_ away at the "bing" before him;
and in the intervals of labour watched all that was going on. From
every stranger that passed he levied some bit of information, and to
every acquaintance that came near he imparted some sarcastic comment.
In fact, he was a cynic, a true follower of Diogenes, scorning the
luxuries which never came to him, and finding his true luxury in
criticising severely the failings of his fellow-creatures.
One morning when Willie was passing, Wull, fixing his ferret-like eyes
upon him, said, "And sae, laddie, ye were bold enough to ca' auld Sloan
a leer. Ye stupid shaver, dae ye no ken that dominies and ministers
never tell lees. They're perfeck. Did ye ever hear them confess that
they were ever wrang? Na! Dod I come to think that they must have been
present at the creation, and that they brocht awa wi' them the Mawker's
plans, and hae packed them a' into the twa buirds o' the Confession o'
Faith. But, toots, what am I sayin'? I'm jist haverin'. Wha am I, to
sit in judgment upon men o' that kind? It's aye best to be ceevil, as
the auld wife said when she bobbit to the deevil;" and with that he
made a fierce blow at a stone and said no more.
For several months Willie continued to be a herd-boy. It was thought
a degradation by his father; but he himself felt it to be the
reverse. After the bondage and oppression of Sloan's school, what an
unspeakable relief it was! He had now the freedom--a freedom which
should be the birthright of every young creature--to wander about over
the green earth and under the blue sky, to drink in the fresh air and
sunshine, to notice all the beauties of beast, and bird, and flower,
and to share in the general banquet of joy provided by nature. And
another pleasure altogether unexpected awaited him.
One Sunday morning, as he was setting out for the Back Park, his mother
said to him that, as it was the Sabbath day, he should take his Bible
with him and read it as he herded the sheep. To please her, although
the method of his education had given him unpleasant associations
connected with the Book, he put it in his pocket; and in the afternoon,
as he lay on the grass in a listless mood, he took it out and opened
it. Now, it chanced that the passage which caught his eye was the
history of Abraham, and before he was almost aware, he was reading it
attentively. He could not master some of the hard names and allusions;
but he knew enough to understand and appreciate the narrative. Here
was a discovery: The Bible, after all, was not a collection of hard
names and difficult passages fitted only to puzzle and torment school
children. It was a delightful story-book. So he continued to read it
day after day. Surrounded as he was with pastoral associations, he
dwelt with especial delight on the pastoral scenes in Genesis. In fact,
he was never tired of reading them. What a wonderful magic lies in a
book which enabled this Scottish shepherd lad in the nineteenth century
to enter into the lives and feelings of those primitive shepherd kings
of the East! In his own little way he fancied he saw them and heard
them speak. He often found himself placing the scenes of the principal
events in the pastures that lay before him. For instance, a large
beech standing by itself was the tree under which Abraham pitched his
tent; a pleasant meadow in the distance was the field where Isaac was
meditating at the eventide, when "he lifted up his eyes and saw, and
behold, the camels were coming;" and the watering-place at the foot of
the Back Park was the well where "Jacob kissed Rachel, and lifted up
his voice and wept." This was literally bringing ancient history home
to him.
When the winter was coming on, Willie's mother saw that something must
be done for his education. Now, there was in Sandyriggs another school
of much higher standing than Sloan's, and the master of it, Mr Fairful,
was college-bred, and had the very highest character for intelligence
and Christian philanthropy. She, therefore, resolved to apply to him.
He was very likely, she thought, to refuse to take her scapegrace,
through fear of his contaminating the other children; but at any rate
she must do something for the boy. So, one morning, with Willie in
her hand, she knocked at the door of the school and asked to see the
master. When he came out, he looked so frank, genial, and kind, that
she had no hesitation in telling him all about her child.
"I know all about the case," he said. "No doubt the lad was wrong; but
those that provoked him were still more to blame. There are certain
religious questions so mysterious that they should never be handled,
especially before the young. What we have got to do, is to set people
on the right road in this world: we should never attempt to fix their
everlasting destiny in the next." Then, taking Willie by the hand, and
looking at him kindly, he added: "I'll be happy to receive him, and
do what I can for him." Mrs Torrance thanked him warmly, and went away
very much relieved.
As time passed on, Mrs Torrance fancied that she saw a change for the
better in Willie. He became tidier, and was more particular in washing
his face and hands and brushing his hair; and on Sabbath evenings he
was often seen reading the Bible. But, on the other hand, very little
time seemed to be devoted by him to the preparation of his lessons. On
the long winter nights he was usually engrossed with a book, entitled
"Natural History of Beasts, Birds, and Fishes," poring over its pages,
and copying on paper its pictures of animals; and when the lightsome
evenings of spring came, he was almost always out of doors, playing
with the tenants of the farmyard, or roving through the woods in search
of nests. His big brother, in that masterful tone generally assumed by
big brothers, often asked him, "Hoo are ye gettin' on at the schule?"
But the invariable answer was "fine." "What dae ye mean by _fine_?" the
brother demanded. "Ou, jist fine," was all the reply.
At length came the time when the school year was to be closed with
the public examination. It was a great event; for not only were the
pupils to be examined in presence of the public, but the prizes were
to be decided on the spot by the voices of the scholars themselves.
This method, though common enough in those days, seems to us rough and
ready, and apt to lead to favouritism. Yet it seldom failed to arrive
at the right decision. The fact was, that the best pupils generally
stood out unmistakably; and when there was any doubtful case, the
teacher had ways and means of turning opinion in the right direction.
The parents were respectfully invited to be present at this ceremony.
Mrs Torrance resolved to go; but it was with fear and trembling.
She was afraid that Willie would fail in his examination, and bring
disgrace upon her before the public. He was such a queer laddie, and
had never brought them anything like credit. And when she went into the
schoolroom, and saw the company assembled, her feeling rose to alarm.
There were the laird's wife, Mrs Campion, and the parish minister's
sister, Miss MacGuffog, and the wife of the principal grocer and of the
principal baker, Mrs Figgins and Mrs Cook, and many others. There were
several ministers, black-coated, white-necktied, solemn-faced. Above
all there was the Rev. Mr MacGuffog, who had denounced Willie from the
pulpit. Oh, what a countenance he had, self-denying and holy without
doubt, but oh, so hard and so devoid of ordinary sympathy! There was
no saying what this fanatical man might think it his duty to do. He
might seize this opportunity of catechising her son and exposing his
deficiencies before the assembled company.
The examination, however, went on quietly; and when Willie's class
came forward a pleasant surprise awaited her. There was her boy at the
top, happy and intelligent, catching encouragement from the teacher's
eye, and answering every question. She could not believe that it was
the same lad who was so silent, and often so stupid-looking, at home.
With flushed cheeks and bright eyes he actually appeared good-looking.
His very hair seemed no longer red, but auburn. And when the time came
for his class-fellows to award the prizes, there was just one name on
their lips, and that was "William Torrance"; and the three rewards,
for English, Bible Knowledge, and Arithmetic respectively, all went
to him. And how shall I describe her emotions when the exhibition was
over, and all the principal people--Mrs Campion, Mrs Figgins, Mrs
Cook, the ministers, and among them Mr MacGuffog himself--came up to
congratulate her! The tears were in her eyes, her heart was in her
mouth, and she could scarcely frame words wherewith to thank them.
Then the teacher, Mr Fairful, came up, and shaking her hand, told her
how gratified he was by Willie's success. "The poor boy," he said, "had
been very much misunderstood. He had within him a keen desire to know
all about the natural objects around him--human beings, beasts, and
birds. Instead of gratifying this desire, those who should have known
better tried to cram him with tasks that had no interest for him. The
consequence was that he became disgusted, and wore what was considered
a sullen and stupid look. But when he came to us, we gave him lessons
that were not only interesting, but referred to the familiar scenes
around him. Therefore, he devoured them eagerly, and became a most
diligent scholar. And then it was that the information about country
sights and sounds, which of his own accord he had collected, became of
use to him and gave him an advantage over his fellows. A young human
soul, in fact, is a rosebud full of delightful possibilities. Keep it
in a chilly atmosphere, and it will never develop itself properly, and
will very likely become a canker. Surround it with bright and genial
influences, and it will gradually open wide its petals, and delight the
world with its grace, fragrance, and splendour."
"But, sir, he did not spend much time over his lessons at night."
"No," replied Mr Fairful, "we do not approve of long home lessons. If
children give all their attention at school for four or five hours a
day, that should nearly be enough. They should then be allowed to enjoy
their own freedom, to run about and use their eyes, their limbs, and
their lungs, and to learn what their parents and Mother Nature herself
can teach them. You need have no anxiety about your son. Leave him to
himself, and he will develop his talents in his own way, and if he is
spared he will yet be a credit to you."
The master's prophecy was fulfilled. Twenty years afterwards, a lecture
on "The Poetry of Science" was given in Sandyriggs. The lecturer
was the eminent professor, Dr William Torrance, from Canada; and the
lecture-hall was that very church where he had been denounced as a Boy
Heretic.
HOW THE DEACON BECAME AN ABSTAINER.
About sixty years ago a stranger arrived in the burgh, who at once
attracted notice. His name was Mitchell Roper, wholesale brazier; but
everyone called him "The Deacon." Why he was called so, nobody knew;
and, indeed, nobody inquired, for it was felt that such a special man
required a special title.