IS varied charge was given to the good man on the morning of market day
as he brought the mare out from the stable, as he harnessed her into the
dogcart, as he packed the butter basket below the seat, as he wrestled
into his top coat, worn for ceremony's sake, and as he made the
start--line upon line and precept upon precept as he was able to receive
it; but the conclusion of the matter and its crown was ever the same,
“Dinna forget Spurgeon.”
“There's twal pund o' butter for the grocer, the best ever left this
dairy, and he maun gie a shillin,' or it's the laist Andra Davie'ill get
frae me; but begin by askin' fourteenpence, else it's eleven ye'll bring
back. He's a lad, is Andra, an' terrible grippy.
“For ony sake tak' care o' the eggs, and mind they're no turnips ye're
handlin'--it's a fair temptin' o' Providence to see the basket in yir
hands--ninepence a dozen, mind, and tell him they're new laid an' no
frae Ireland; there's a handfu' o' flowers for the wife, and a bit o'
honey for their sick laddie, but say naethin' o' that till the bargain's
made.
“The tea and sugar a've markit on a bit paper, for it's nae use bringin'
a bag o' grass-seed, as ye did fower weeks ago; an' there's ae thing
mair I micht mention, for ony sake dinna pit the paraffin oil in the
same basket wi' the loaf sugar; they may fit fine, as ye said, but
otherwise they're no gude neeburs. And, John, dinna forget Spurgeon.”
Again and again during the day, and in the midst of many practical
operations, the good wife predicted to her handmaidens what would
happen, and told them, as she had done weekly, that she had no hope.
“It's maist awfu' hoo the maister'ill gae wanderin' and dodderin' thro'
the market a' day, pricing cattle he's no gaein' tae buy, an' arguin'
aboot the rent o' farms he's no gaein' to tak', an' never gie a thocht
tae the errands till the laist meenut.
“He may bring hame some oil,” she would continue, gloomily, as if that
were the one necessity of life to which a male person might be expected
to give attention; “but ye needna expect ony tea next week”--as if there
was not a week's stock in the house--“and ye may tak' ma word for it
there'ill be nae Spurgeon's sermon for Sabbath.”
As the provident woman had written every requirement--except the oil,
which was obtained at the ironmonger's, and the Spurgeon, which was
sold at the draper's--on a sheet of paper, and pinned it on the topmost
cabbage leaf which covered the butter, the risk was not great; but that
week the discriminating prophecy of the good man's capabilities seemed
to be justified, for the oil was there, but Spurgeon could not be found.
It was not in the bottom of the dogcart, nor below the cushion,
nor attached to a piece of saddlery, nor even in the good man's
trouser-pocket--all familiar resting-places--and when it was at last
extricated from the inner pocket of his top coat--a garment with which
he had no intimate acquaintance--he received no credit, for it was
pointed out with force that to have purchased the sermon and then to
have mislaid it, was worse than forgetting it altogether.
“The Salvation of Manasseh,” read the good wife; “it would have been a
fine like business to have missed that; a'll warrant this 'ill be ane
o' his sappiest, but they're a' gude”: and then Manasseh was put in a
prominent and honourable place, behind the basket of wax flowers in the
best parlour till Sabbath.
It was the good custom in that kindly home to ask the “lads” from the
bothie into the kitchen on the Sabbath evening, who came in their
best clothes and in much confusion, sitting on the edge of chairs and
refusing to speak on any consideration. They made an admirable meal,
however, and were understood to express gratitude by an attempt at “gude
nicht,” while the foreman stated often with the weight of his authority
that they were both “extraordinar' lifted” by the tea and “awfu' ta'en
up” with the sermon. For after tea the “maister” came “but,” and having
seen that every person had a Bible, he gave out a Psalm, which was
sung usually either to Coleshill or Martyrdom--the musical taste of the
household being limited and conservative to a degree. The good man then
read the chapter mentioned on the face of the sermon, and remarked by
way of friendly introduction:
“Noo we'ill see what Mr. Spurgeon has to say the nicht.”
Perhaps the glamour of the past is on me, perhaps a lad was but a
poor judge, but it seemed to me good reading--slow, well pronounced,
reverent, charged with tenderness and pathos. No one slept or moved, and
the firelight falling on the serious faces of the stalwart men, and the
shining of the lamp on the good grey heads, as the gospel came, sentence
by sentence, to every heart, is a sacred memory, and I count that Mr.
Spurgeon would have been mightily pleased to have been in such meetings
of homely folk.
It was harvest-time, however, when Manasseh was read, and there being
extra men with us, our little gathering was held in the loft, where they
store the com which is to be threshed in the mill. It was full of wheat
in heavy, rich, ripe, golden sheaves, save a wide space in front of the
machinery, and the congregation seated themselves in a semi-circle on
the sheaves. The door through which the com is forked into the loft
was open and, with a skylight in the low dusty roof, gave us, that fine
August evening, all the light we needed. Through that wide window we
could look out on some stacks already safely built, and on fields,
stretching for miles, of grain cut and ready for the gathering and,
beyond, to woods and sloping hills towards which the sun was westering
fast. That evening, I remember, we sang
“I to the hills will lift mine eyes.”
and sang it to French, and it was laid on me as an honour to read
“Manasseh.” Whether the sermon is called by this name I do not know, and
whether it be one of the greatest of Mr. Spurgeon's I do not know, nor
have I a copy of it; but it was mighty unto salvation in that loft, and
I make no doubt that good grain was garnered unto eternity. There is
a passage in it when, after the mercy of God has rested on this chief
sinner, an angel flies through the length and breadth of Heaven, crying,
“Manasseh is saved, Manasseh is saved.” Up to that point the lad read,
and further he did not read. You know, because you have been told, how
insensible and careless is a schoolboy, how destitute of all sentiment
and emotion... and therefore I do not ask you to believe me. You know
how dull and stupid is a plowman, because you have been told... and
therefore I do not ask you to believe me.
It was the light which got into the lad's eyes, and the dust which
choked his voice, and it must have been for the same reasons that a
plowman passed the back of his hand across his eyes.
“Ye'ill be tired noo,” said the good man; “let me feenish the sermon,”
but the sermon is not yet finished, and never shall be, for it has been
unto life everlasting.
Who of all preachers you can mention of our day could have held such
companies save Spurgeon? What is to take their place, when the last
of those well-known sermons disappears from village shops and cottage
shelves? Is there any other gospel which will ever be so understanded of
the people, or so move human hearts as that which Spurgeon preached in
the best words of our own tongue? The good man and his wife have entered
into rest long ago, and of all that company I know not one now; but
I see them as I write, against that setting of gold, and I hear the
angel's voice, “Manasseh is saved,” and for that evening and others very
sacred to my heart I cannot forget Spurgeon.