Reader, have you ever visited the western Highlands of Argyleshire?
If you have, you will doubtless retain many a pleasant memory of the
wild glens and the fair lakes, and the picturesque and magnificent
mountains that make up the lovely scenery of these regions of the
beautiful. If you have not, trust yourself for a few brief minutes to
our guidance, while we strive to recal the impressions of one day,
out of many happy days, passed in a Highland village there, not very
long ago.
The traveller who visits this spot, seldom leaves it without
exploring the upper shores and the Serpent’s Fall, at the head of
Loch ——, nor did I and my companion; and, as we were slowly rowed
up it against the tide, we gazed in admiration at the pyramidal
and craggy mountains that towered majestically above the deep blue
waters of the lake, shelving into them, and jutting out in little
promontories that almost met on either side, damming up the current
so as to make it discharge itself with tenfold impetuosity as it
escaped from the narrowed channel. One of our guides was a student
of St. Andrew’s, the son of one of the smaller tenantry on the
Lochiel estates, and, during the vacation, he was endeavouring,
by rowing visitors about the lake, to raise a small sum of money
for the purchase of books to enable him to pursue his studies on
his return to college. He was a fine athletic-looking lad, with a
countenance of remarkable intelligence, and was perfectly well versed
in all the legends of the locality. Indeed, his older and more staid
fellow-labourer at the oar now and then allowed a half incredulous
smile to steal over his weather-beaten face, as Mr. —— related how
the shepherd of the glen, in ages past, had, after many warnings,
been changed into a mountain on the Inverness side (where, alas! he
was wont to stray), and how his faithful wife, who had many a time
strained her eyes in vain in watching for his return, was rewarded
for her fidelity and devotion, by finding herself and the stone, on
which she used to sit in the dim twilight, gradually growing into the
shapely mountain that still bears her name,[1] so that, while the
world lasts, she shall never again lose sight of her gude man. It
was truly an idle tale, and yet not, perhaps, altogether vain, for
it might suggest a thought of sin and sorrow, that pair inseparably
united by a decree which none may break. But we must not linger thus,
lest minutes turn to hours, and patience be tired before her time.
After many a vigorous stroke, and many a long pull, that caused the
beads of dew to stand thick upon the brows of our almost-exhausted
boatmen, who with all their efforts could scarcely keep their course
among the eddies of opposing currents, we at length saw the water of
the fall, flowing into the lake, and gazing on it in admiration, like
a silver line upon a field of ultramarine, soon after landed.
I will not stop to tell of sketching and climbing, and of boggy
swamps that threatened to impede our way to the most desirable points
of view. I will only say that we were thoroughly exhausted with
fatigue and hunger, when, after some hours spent in exploring, we
turned our steps towards a “house of refreshment” which our boatmen
had pointed out. They had promised to announce our approach, and
accordingly we found the table spread with freshly-made oat-cake,
still hot and crisp, a large bowl of rich cream, fresh butter, a
bottle of whisky, and a drinking-horn.
The “house of refreshment” was, however, nothing more than a rough
Highland hut, situated at the foot of the old road up the glen, if
road that could be called which was formed of a succession of vast
ledges of rock from three to five feet high; such as it is, it is
the only opening among the mountains that, bare and rugged, rise
abruptly on all sides, and it is bordered by a narrow track, down
which the drovers still conduct their flocks and herds, unless when
it is flooded by the mountain torrents, that rush thundering through
the glen, and discharge themselves through a chasm in the rock to
the left of the hut, forming one of the small streams that feed the
lake. A huge, shapeless mass of rock rises just opposite this rustic
shelter, and must serve to break the violence of the blasts that
sweep the glen, though it also hides the romantic beauties of its
entrance.
A little group of three or four children were clambering over the
rocks, and dragging huge branches of the bracken, which they had been
out to get, as litter for the favourite cow that stood in a byre or
shed at one end of the hut. At the sound of their ringing laughter
as they drew near, a rough, wiry-headed tabby cat, that had been
basking in the sun, put up her back, and after leisurely stretching
herself and pawing, walked to meet the merry ones, and purred and
rubbed herself against each in turn, turning up her green eyes as
if she expected a caress in answer to her greeting. The bracken was
dragged to the cow-shed, and then with a yell of self-gratulation,
or of hunger, we cannot precisely say which, the whole number rushed
into the room we occupied, and as suddenly disappeared through a side
door.
Our meal despatched, and neither waiter nor hostess appearing, we
had leisure to survey the apartment. The centre was supported on
what was literally a roof _tree_, for a venerable beech, that had,
perhaps, been the original attraction to the site, still upheld the
simple framework of the roof, raised aloft on its double-twisted
stem, selected, doubtless, for its promise of double strength. In
one corner of the room stood a solid oaken chest, the receptacle of
the meal that supplied the family with food; opposite was a bed, or
rather shake-down, for it was on the floor, but looked very clean
and comfortable; on the third side the peat was giving out its red
heat from a spacious hearth, and indeed induced such a feeling of
suffocation, that we would fain have opened the window for a little
fresh air from the mountains. The massive framework, however, was
not made to open; it seemed calculated rather to exclude light as
well as air, for the proportion of glass was small indeed; so in
despair I went to the side door, and, in opening it, nearly tumbled
through, for the earth (there was no flooring) had sunk so much at
the threshold as to have left a sort of trench. I recovered myself
and stepped over, and there were the four barefooted urchins with
their curly heads and their rosy cheeks, the very picture of health
and glee, standing round a three-legged stool on which their mother
had set a large bowl of smoking potatoes and milk. They were sipping
and eating, and just as I entered the room, the elder boy having
fished up a particularly attractive, flowery bit of potato between
his finger and thumb, ran to the baby, a fine child of some ten or
eleven months old, who was sitting on its mother’s knee, and began
to cram its tiny mouth with the delicious morsel which broke and
crumbled and fell into the infant’s lap; the petted baby smiled and
laughed, and helped to pick up the crumbs, and put them, not into her
own mouth, but her mother’s. “That’s a braw bairn,” exclaimed the
mother, “a right Highland lassie, aye to gie the bit and sup afore
you tak’ it yoursel;” and the child, at the sound of its mother’s
voice, turned to her, and forgot the potato and nestled in her
bosom, and she bent her head over the bonnie wee thing, and gave it a
long fond kiss, as though it had been her first-born. She was seated
on a low oaken bench, such as in England is called a settle, and a
high screen behind her prevented her seeing our entrance.
We stood for a moment looking on the scene of simple domestic
happiness before us, and then introducing ourselves by a few words
of greeting to the group around the bowl, we thanked the hostess
for our seasonable refreshment, and asked what we should pay. “Oh,
naething, just naething,” was the reply; “ye’re wanderers and far
frae hame, and ye’re welcome.” We remonstrated. She shook her head,
saying, “God has gi’en us plenty, and he bids us use hospitality,
and ye winna gainsay his bidding, so just gang in peace,” she added,
laughing goodhumouredly, “for ye’re far frae ——, I guess, and ye’ll
hae a long pull hame.”
It was indeed getting late, and the thought of four hours on the
lake in the dark, had a hurrying tendency, so pointing to the Bible
and hymn-book on the shelf above the children’s bed, we bade her
remember us in their evening worship, and, slipping some silver into
the children’s hands, we took our leave. We had not gone many yards
before we met a Highlander with a net at his back, and a basket of
fish before him, and the shout of delight which in another moment
burst from the cot, proved him to be, as we had supposed, the father
of the group within. Before we had gone far, we heard a sonorous
voice raising the evening hymn, and anon the sound of shrill and
infant voices mingling with it. We could not stop to listen, but we
joined in heart, and as a fresh breeze from the mountain pass brought
the sweet sounds once more to our ear, we fervently exclaimed (as
again they died away), in the words of their native poet:—
“May He who stills the raven’s clamorous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride,
Yet, in the way his wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide,
But chiefly in their hearts with _grace divine_ preside.”
Such was the condition of a Highland family in the autumn of 1845.
And now we are about to reverse the picture; to show our Highland
family under other circumstances, and we would entreat the reader to
remember that since the joyous and the grievous, the bright days and
dark days, are alike of God’s appointment, it must be good for us to
look upon both,—to look, to meditate, to minister, and it may be, in
so doing, to learn a lesson that may be to _our_ profit as well as
theirs. May God of his infinite mercy grant it, to the glory of his
holy name, through Jesus Christ!
Eighteen months had passed over the Highland cottage, and in their
brief course had swept away almost all that it had once contained
of the appliances of domestic usefulness and comfort; for the
scarcity which had been felt on the partial failure of the potato
crop in 1845, had, in consequence of the _general_ failure of the
following year, advanced through the successive stages of privation
and destitution, till it might now truly be said in the simple, but
emphatic language of Scripture, that “the famine was sore in the
land,” for “_their food has been destroyed,_ and means of purchasing
other food they have not.”[2]
It is about the second week in January, 1847, that we would again
introduce our friends to the home of the M’Kenzies. An air of
desolation now reigned around it,—all was still. There was no hum
of children’s voices making glad the lonely glen; the fowls that
had gathered round the cottage-door were no longer to be seen, the
pig-stye was empty,[3] the stream was frost-bound.
The thatch which had been secured by birch twigs linked together in
the Highland fashion, and kept down by a great stone suspended from
the twisted ends, and dangling in front, was half off. The elder bush
that had grown beside the shed was gone, and its hollow branches no
longer creaked in the wintry blast, for when labour was scarce, and
peat was three times its usual price, any thing that would serve for
firing was little likely to be spared. The interior of the cottage
offered a sad and striking contrast to the scene of joy and plenty it
had presented before.
The table, formerly so hospitably spread for us, was gone; the
meal-chest, the children’s bed, the comfortable settle, each in
its turn had been parted with for food; the inner door was open,
and there were the bairns, no longer fresh, rosy, full of life and
vigour; they had ceased to attend the school; they had ceased to
climb the overhanging rocks, and splash and dabble, like so many
wild birds, in the stream that foamed beneath the ledge on which the
cottage stood. Poor children! they were all lying huddled together
on a mattress, with a dirty blanket over it: their old pet the grey
cat curled up among the group. They were scarcely covered, for
the one scanty, tattered garment which did not reach the knees,
showed the deep poverty that had fallen on the parents. They were
anxiously waiting for the hour when the little portion of milk
which the wretched half, no, not half-fed cow, still yielded, was to
be divided among them. It was now three days since they had tasted
any other nourishment, and M’Kenzie and his wife began to think it
would be better to sell or kill their cow, than thus to see their
little ones pining away beneath the united pangs of cold and hunger.
But there had been no fire upon the hearth that day; for the few
peats that remained were husbanded to dress the meals that they
were daily hoping might, through some providential channel, come to
them. And the children awoke at night, crying with cold; and one
of them sobbed, and said,—“Collie is always warm. Oh! mither, let
me gang sleep wi’ Collie; for Robin and Moggie are like the frost
to me.” The father spoke not! but he went to the shed and led in
the poor miserable-looking cow, that staggered from weakness as it
stepped over the stones at the door. He brought it to the side of the
children’s bed, and, when it lay down they stretched themselves upon
it, and the gentle creature, that in happier days had been caressed
and often wreathed with garlands of the broom and heather by them,
turned its head and fixed its large mild eye upon them, as though
sensible of their sufferings, and pleased to minister to them, and
for some hours suffering was forgotten in sleep.
The following morning word was brought that there was work to be had
at ——, across the hills, and that, perhaps, M’Kenzie might be able to
get some. He sighed heavily, but he nodded assent, and, bidding his
wife get the Bible from the shelf, and beckoning to the children to
come and stand around him, he read the twenty-third Psalm, and his
voice became firm and clear as he said,—“I shall not want,” for he
said it in David’s spirit, and he believed it in his heart, and the
sense of his failing strength that had clouded his brow, gave place
to the assurance of faith, as he read the promise of the Staff that
is of power to support the weak. And when he had prayed that in the
might of the promise he might go forth, he lifted the hymn as usual;
and it was a hymn of _praise_, so that the passing stranger might
still have thought it went up from light and happy hearts. And so,
indeed, it did; for how “shall the righteous be made sad, whom I have
not made sad? saith the Lord God.”
The morning worship over, M’Kenzie started on his long and toilsome
walk. The embankment, which was the scene of labour, was full ten
miles off, over moor and mountain, but he got there after two hours’
hard walking, and applied for employment. He was received, and at the
end of the day was paid _one shilling_ for his toil; and he went
further ere he turned towards his home, to spend his earnings in meal
for his family. It was late ere he reached his cabin, his little
ones had cried themselves to sleep. His wife, after watching long
for his return, oft turning to her sleeping children in the sickness
of hope deferred, and then again straining her eyes to look through
the casement for her husband, had seated herself at the foot of the
bed with her hands clasped tightly together, the indication of a
strong mental effort to repress the feelings of anxious suspicion
that were busy at her heart, and thus M’Kenzie found her. He shewed
the bag of meal, and told her that he had no doubt of being employed
at the embankment while the works were in progress; but as he
spoke, his words became tremulous, his hand dropped, and he would
have fallen, if his wife had not supported, and half dragged him
to the bed. Reader, you have read in books of fancy and fiction,
scenes of _imaginary_ faintings from _imaginary_ sources of emotion
and of suffering, and, perhaps, you have wept at them; and for such
_imaginary_ distresses, your tears were _enough_, nay, all too much.
They will _not_ suffice here. M’Kenzie had walked ten miles to his
labour. He had honestly put forth all his strength to his appointed
task, he had made a circuit of six miles to get the oatmeal for his
children ere he set out on his homeward path. ALL this he had done,
and _he had not tasted food that day_. His wife succeeded so far in
reviving him, that he raised his head and looked around, but he could
not speak. She looked for a sup of milk in the earthen jar—their only
remaining vessel of any kind,—but it was empty. The poor respited cow
gave what she could—a scanty supply, all thin and watery! and unlike
the rich abundance she had formerly yielded; still it was precious,
and as Margaret saw the colour stealing over her husband’s wan face,
she was thankful that Collie had been spared. If they could but
manage to keep her alive still, but the skin hung in huge wrinkles
over the projecting bones, and except the dry and withered bracken,
fodder there was none for her.
To kindle the few smouldering peats that lay upon the hearth, and to
prepare a mess of porridge for her husband, was Margaret’s next care,
but M’Kenzie protested that he was abundantly refreshed already,
and that he was too sleepy to wait for the cooking of the porridge.
Margaret urged him, but he would not be persuaded, and they closed
the day with prayer and reading, and together joined in praising Him
who had made good his promise of the morning, and supplied their
need,—“I shall not _want_;” and as they lay down on their heather
mattress with their little ones, all sense of want was gone, and
filled with the consciousness of their Heavenly Father’s presence
with them, and of his love towards them, his everlasting love in
Christ Jesus, they slept in peace! Reader, what would _they_ have had
to sustain their fainting spirits if they had been living without God
in the world?
But morning came again, and with it the cries of the little ones
for bread. The elder children tried to hush them, but they had
had nothing except an occasional sip of milk the day before, and
their cries were only to be stopped by food. Margaret soon rose and
prepared the porridge, asking God’s blessing on that which He had
given. They stood round and eat by turns, beginning at the youngest
save one, who was an infant at the mother’s breast. But when it
came to M’Kenzie’s turn, he shook his head, and looked away. “Nae
lassie, nae, I canna eat the children’s bread,” he exclaimed. But
now the wife would not be refused; “And what is your strength but
the children’s bread?” she replied, “ah, man! ye maun eat, or ye
canna work; and neither bit nor sup shall pass _my_ lips till ye hae
eaten what’s there. I’ve mair on the fire for the bairns, and you’re
wanting to be awa’, for its a sair, sair bit, that ye hae to gang
till your work.”
“Dinna ca’ it _sair_, lassie, and I’ll do as ye would hae me, for
oh, its mony and mony a braw Highlander that looking on a family o’
hungry weans would bless God for the like, even if the wage were
less;” and he eat up the porridge as he was bidden (there might be a
matter of a tea-cup full).
Again the blessed book was read aloud; again he led the prayer, that
was prayer indeed, for it arose from a sense of actual want, and it
arose in the assurance that, through the merits of the Redeemer, that
want, the temporal as well as the spiritual, would be supplied. And
the thought of the mercies of yesterday quickened his faith, and gave
animation to his voice as he raised it in the hymn of praise: and
then he “went forth to his labour,” for that was _his_ part, and he
felt strong to do it.
We will not prolong our history by recording the details of days
that came and went in like manner: for about three weeks the father
continued to work at the embankment, returning to his family with
the fruits of his labour every evening. But day by day his strength
declined, and on the fifth of February, it was two hours past
midnight before he returned to his anxious wife. He found her in
earnest prayer, and as he stepped over the threshold, the words,
“Lord, wilt Thou leave us to perish, the mother with the little
ones?” fell on his ear in accents wrung from an agonized spirit. In
the intenseness of her supplication she had not heard even _his_
approach. Her head which had been flung back was suddenly bent
forward, her hands relaxed somewhat of the tightness of their grasp,
and the anguish seemed to have passed away as she fervently and
firmly added,—“Yet not _my_ will, but _Thine_ be done.” It must be so
indeed, for would our gracious God have bidden us “cast our burden
upon him,” unless it had been his purpose to receive it from us?[4]
Her eye now fell upon her husband, and a strange chill crept over
her as she remarked his wild and haggard look. Yes, the plague had
begun! nature overtasked day by day, could hold out no longer; and
though the spirit of the man had sustained his infirmities, his
strength had failed at last. For some days he had been struggling
with low fever, but he felt that he could struggle no more, and
that the hand of death was upon him. He looked round upon his wife
and children, but he remembered who had said,—“Leave thy fatherless
children to Me, and let thy widows trust in Me;” and he felt that in
exchanging the weak ministry of his unnerved arm for the strength of
the “everlasting arms,” there was no room for lamentation.
He tried to read the chapter as usual, but his sight failed, and
he lay back upon the clay floor, and never rose from it again. The
fever rapidly assumed the worst form of typhus, and ere the third day
closed in, Margaret M’Kenzie was a widow indeed, and desolate. We
will not linger over details too painful to be needlessly dwelt upon;
we will not unveil a sorrow too sacred to be exposed and dissected;
but we must observe, that there is one feature in the Highland
character which exercised a painful influence on the poor family
in this their hour of deepest affliction. From the rareness among
them of such visitations, any disorder of a contagious or epidemic
kind is regarded by the Highlanders with such a degree of horror as
leads them to shrink from any offices involving contact with the
sufferers, and thus there was none to help; and oh, who but those who
have known what it is to feel the _loneliness_ of sorrow, can realize
the strong consolation that the M’Kenzies found in the assurance of
the sympathy of Christ, and in the remembrance that of him in his
sufferings, it is written,—“Of the people there was none with me?”
The elder boy had been sent to the nearest place to procure a coffin,
and to promise the cow in payment,—it was their only remaining
possession, except the heather mattress, and _that_ none would take,
from dread of the fever,—and Margaret’s wedding gown, which her
husband had tried to exchange for money or for food; but no one had
either to give for it.
When the carpenter heard the boy’s name, he shrunk back, and bade him
be gone, in a voice in which terror predominated over sympathy.
In due time, however, the coffin was brought to the door, and there
deposited; and of the few clansmen who attended to bear their
kinsman to the grave, not one would enter the dwelling to assist in
moving the remains of him to whom living or dying, under any other
circumstances, they would have refused nothing. Poor Margaret! that
_was_ a trial! but not greater than the promise,—“_As_ thy day, so
shall thy strength be.” It was indeed a dark, dark day; but the
promise _could_ not be hidden, even though it was a darkness to be
_felt_. _How_ it was accomplished, the poor widow knew not. The
first-born had helped, and fallen panting at the threshold, fainting
with exertion and with horror; and when the door was opened, those
without drew back, and bade her, though in tones of solemn pity, lay
her burden in its narrow bed herself; and then they signed to her to
retire. She closed the door behind her, and in a few minutes they
drew round the coffin, closed, and bore it to the boat, and rowed in
silence to the island resting-place of the M’Kenzies, in the middle
of the lake.
There is something peculiarly solemn in standing on an island of
graves. The very dust that the summer breeze wafts over us, may
indeed remind us of our mortality,—suggest a thought that it,
perhaps, was once animated: but the complete isolation of such a spot
as this, fixes the mind to the contemplation, as though thought for
once were fettered, and the subject of her meditations were bound
upon her, like the wave upon that sepulchral shore,—and so it was
felt by all now, and not a word was spoken as they laid M’Kenzie in
his long home.
But we must return to the cabin where the roof-tree had thus fallen
in its prime, and where yet, through faith and hope that is in
Christ Jesus, the widow was enabled, amid the desolation of all
things earthly, still to bear up, and amid her first tears, to thank
God that her husband had departed in peace. The delirium had ceased
about an hour before his death, and he had bade his Margaret remember
that, though while spared to his family they had a right to look to
him for support, yet he had been but the instrument, in God’s hands,
for providing it; and that now he was taken from them, God would be
sure to supply their necessities through some other channel, rather
than be wanting to his promise of being a “husband to the widow, and
a father to the fatherless.” He bade her read him the eighth chapter
of Romans, “that blessed chapter,” he said, “which begins with no
condemnation and ends with no separation.” When she came to the words
“killed all the day long—accounted as sheep for the slaughter,” he
fixed his eyes upon her; and as she read on, “in all these things we
are more than conquerors through him who loved us,” he repeated after
her “more than conquerors through Him,” “_more_ than conquerors.” And
as she read further, “I am persuaded that neither death, nor life,
nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor
things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall
be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ
Jesus,” he bowed his head as if in experimental assent, and his
spirit departed to God who gave it.
Such had been M’Kenzie’s end; and his widow as she thought of his
freed spirit rejoicing before the Throne and with the Lamb, was
comforted, and found peace in the expectation of the time when she
and his little ones should also be summoned to that land where “they
neither hunger nor thirst any more.”
That night she read the latter part of the seventh chapter of the
Revelation with her children; and as she told how their father was
now among this “great multitude,” little Moggie cried, and asked as
she shivered with the cold, why they might not go to him; for “O
mither, though ye hae read that there’s nae heat there, onie mair
than here, yet gin there’s nae hunger, it wadna be sae sair to bear.”
The tears fell fast from Margaret’s eyes, the first tears she had
shed, as she took the child upon her knee, and told her that none
could enter that land, but those whom God was pleased to call there,
and that till he gave the summons we must patiently abide here,
suffering his will, and enduring unto the end whatever he sees fit.
“And oh, Moggie, lass,” she added, “ye ken I bless God ye hae aye
kennit, since ye were auld enoo’ to understand, ‘that our Heavenly
Father so loved the world that he gave his only Son to die for us;’
‘and now shall he not with him also freely give us _all_ things?’ And
as he gives hunger and cold to us now, it’s because they’re best for
us, for he _could_ give food and firing just as easily. And oh, my
dear bairns, doesna’ it soften your pangs to think that your Father
in Heaven sends them?”
Moggie put her arm round her mother’s neck and nodded assent and
tried to smile, but the shivering that had seized her was the
beginning of the fever, and she too drooped and died. Margaret told
her that the summons _had_ now come for her, and she asked her if she
would like to go to the Lord Jesus, the good shepherd who had said,
“Suffer the little children to come to me?” The child could not
speak, but she stretched her arms upward, and ere they fell again at
her side, she knew what it was to be gathered among the lambs of the
heavenly pasture; she knew (oh, may we all one day know too), _what
it is_ to “be with Jesus.”
The little stock of meal that the clansmen had brought with them on
the day of M’Kenzie’s funeral, was now exhausted; the cow had ceased
to yield any milk, and would have been killed for food, but none had
strength to deal the fatal blow. The extremity of destitution had now
come upon the bereaved family. The poor infant sought in vain for the
nourishment that was no longer supplied, and cried and mourned upon
its mother’s knees. The two elder boys were down with the fever, but
they struggled hard with it, _their_ summons was not sounded yet.
And do you ask _how_ Margaret and her children were supported? She
shall answer for herself. “We lived upon the promises of God’s
Word, and when they seemed to tarry, we just read the fourth of
Philippians, and so were enabled to wait, though they tarry, through
Christ that strengtheneth us in the spirit.”
Oh, the blessings of a _Bible_ education; if those who undervalue,
or would substitute something else in its stead, could just contrast
the peace of a Highland family, with the despair of an Irish cabin,
where the Scriptures are unknown, and the way of salvation is hidden
from their eyes; they would surely be content to give the Scriptures,
at all events, to those to whom they can secure no earthly good
beside. And may those who _have_ the Scriptures and have _with_ them
the good things of this life, learn to prize them the more highly,
when they see those who have received them into their hearts and
minds, “thankful and contented amid the horrors of starvation.”[5]
But we digress,—two days had come and gone without food of any kind,
and as she had no breakfast to give them, Margaret had let her
children sleep late in the morning; and when, ere she lay down at
night by their side, she had looked on their pale wan faces, the skin
prematurely shrivelled and wrinkled, the bones projecting in place
of the dimpled roundness of childhood, she felt that their hours
must be numbered, and often instead of sleeping, she rose and put
her ear close to each, that she might be sure they still breathed.
And she shrunk overpowered from the thought of passing another night
thus; and then the weary day that followed—deserted by all, not a
living thing came near the dwelling. Still strong in faith, Margaret
cheered her remaining little ones till evening came, and they asked
her to pray that they might go to their father and Moggie. She asked
if they would leave her then alone? they said she should ask to go
too. And then the second girl Jeanie asked why, if God heard prayer,
he had not heard theirs and given them bread? It is written, “He
giveth not account of any of his matters,” said the mother solemnly.
“It is written, too, ‘He doth not _willingly_ afflict the children
of men,’ and (in pity to the weakness of our faith, and as if to
meet the very cravings of our questioning), it is most graciously
written also, ‘What I do thou knowest not now, but thou _shalt_
know hereafter.’” This was said, as is generally the case with the
Scotch in speaking directly of Scripture, in the pure English of
the authorized version; it was also said, in a tone of rebuke, for
perhaps nothing could have excited her feelings so deeply as the idea
of unbelief of God’s Word, or distrust of God’s love in any of her
children. It was as though the enemy had found entrance; as though
the wolf, seeking whom he might devour, had got into her little fold.
She took the child on her knee, “Jeanie, lass,” she said, “It is nae
sae lang syne that you should forget the day your father corrected
ye and kept you withouten yer parritch for dinner or supper, because
ye’d displeased and disobeyed him; and did ye think _then_ either
that he _could na’_ have bidden me gie ye the parritch; or that
he had nae gude reason for not bidding me. Ye thinkit nae siccan a
thing, Jeanie, and ye maun ken that your Heavenly Father has a right
to chasten ye, as well as your earthly, and ye maun _feel_ as well
as _ken_ that he does it for your profit.” The little girl leant her
head against her mother’s shoulder and wept; and Margaret kissed her,
and continued soothingly,—“I dinna expect ye to find it pleasant,
lass, ‘for no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but
grievous.’ And this is grievous above measure, in especial for weans
like ye; but remember we ‘do not live by bread alone, but by every
word that proceedeth out of the mouth of the Lord.’ And pray, pray to
him to forgive you the thought of your heart, and to make you ‘trust
him, though you canna trace him;’ he says, ‘I will never leave thee,
nor forsake thee.’ You saw that he was with your father and Moggie,
yet they died, but He was with them as the life of their spirit, and
now they are with Him for ever.” The child, soothed by her voice and
warmed by her embrace, ere long fell asleep in her arms; and thus
Margaret passed the dreaded night. She would not move for fear of
breaking the deep, sound sleep; but the presence of her God was with
her, and none of the terrors of darkness were suffered to approach
her.
The morning dawn showed Margaret her other children stretched on
their mattress as usual; but the grey cat, their constant companion
had disappeared. Stiff and weary, the mother laid herself down by
them and fell asleep; and the day was far advanced when she again
opened her eyes on the scene of so much suffering. The fever had not
attacked the others; and the boys who had had it, were recovering,
though so weak that without nourishment as they were, it was plain
they could not long survive. The baby seldom unclosed its eyes, it
lay and slumbered either on its mother’s lap, or on a bundle of rags
in a corner of the room. The rest had become too weak to cry, too
faint to talk, and except when the chapter was read, and the prayer
arose, or when Margaret repeated aloud some promise from God’s Word
to support the hearts of her little ones, silence reigned in the
cottage. Exhaustion produced drowsiness, and quieted the pangs of
hunger. The hope of procuring food had almost deserted her; the only
dwelling within two miles, was a solitary cabin, whose tenants were
little likely to be better provided than herself; and Margaret felt
that she had now only to wait in patience, till He who hath the keys
of death, should open the portals of the shadowy valley and lead them
all through it, to the mansions prepared for them above. Her own
strength was wonderful; it could not be natural strength, for that
had been drained by her infant, and by long abstinence and painful
watching; it was the strength of woman’s devotedness, upheld by faith
in the Word of God.
She led the morning worship as usual, and she prayed in calm
resignation that she might be enabled to submit her will with
cheerfulness to the will of God; and she praised the loving Saviour
for his gracious assurance, in his invitation to the little children,
that he would receive them. To Him in death, as she believed, she
now committed them; but the thought, that she had not yet fully done
_her_ part, sunk upon her conscience; and giving the baby into the
charge of the elder ones, she bade them pray that God would guide
her way while she went in search of food to keep them all alive. But
she had overtasked her powers, and as she met the current of fresh,
cold air, her head swam, her steps tottered, and she fell as she
crossed the threshold. And it was a shriek of ecstasy such as she
little thought her famishing bairns could have raised, such as for
many a day, many a week had never fallen on her ears that roused her
again to consciousness. She rose, and supporting herself by the wall,
re-entered the room. And oh, what a sight met her eyes, there was
the grey cat with a large fish in its mouth upon the children’s bed.
He who had formerly fed his prophet by the ravens, had now in this
affecting providence shown his care of them.[6] The fish was brought
as one of the boys suggested, from an old _yare_, or fish trap at
the head of the lake. Hunger had overcome the instinctive dislike of
the cat to water, and the instinct which leads the species to play
with its prey before despatching it, had thus been overruled for the
sustenance of his people, by him “who ordereth _all_ things.”
The cat dropped the fish between the children, and purring and
rubbing herself against them, jumped down, and made her way through
the opened door. She returned with a second supply, and for three
days the family were kept alive in this manner. If Margaret’s faith
had been firm and unwavering before, we need not wonder that now all
care for the future seemed taken from her heart. God had begun to
restore, he would not mock her hopes; and the desire of life and the
thought of better, no not better (for never had she lived so near
her God), but brighter days revived. It was at this time that the
deputation from the Destitution Committee arrived in Argyleshire.
They visited the glen, and awarded to Margaret, in common with about
120 of the most destitute families, an allowance of meal, sufficient
for the support of herself and her family for six weeks.
And now we would, ere we part, say a few last words to the reader.
Have you as you read felt moved by the tale of suffering, such as
perhaps you never even imagined before? Then if you have, let the
feeling _work_; for it has been well said, “When such relations in
real life are listened to, without any efforts for the relief of
the sufferer, the emotion is gradually weakened;” and that moral
condition, “so abhorrent to our fellow creatures, so alien from the
Divine Nature, is produced, which we call selfishness and hardness of
heart.” And we might appeal even to this very selfishness; for that
which is the case of our brethren now, may ere long be our own. We
trust that through the sparing mercy of our God, and his blessing
on our harvests, sought by our humiliation through the merits of
the Redeemer, it may be averted from us. But “_as_” in such a case,
_should_ it ever be your own, “ye would that men should do unto you,
_even so_ do unto them.” “To-day harden not your hearts.”
The Highlander too has a peculiar claim on our bounty, for he has
ever been ready to minister to the wants of the stranger and the
traveller. During a tour of some weeks among the mountains and the
glens, we very frequently closed an evening ramble by a visit to
their cottages. And never in one single instance, though we were a
party of five, were we allowed to depart without partaking of their
hospitality; nor would they receive remuneration in return. Their
hospitality they can no longer offer, their meal chest is empty,
their cow has long been gone, and is it not the time for us to render
back what we so freely received? But they have a _higher_ claim. It
is written,—“Do good unto all men, _specially unto them that are of
the household of faith_,” and such are they.
“And oh, may we all have grace so to deny ourselves that we may be
enabled to follow the example of His compassion, Who, ‘though He was
rich, yet for our sakes became poor.’ And Who, though content for
our sakes to endure himself the pinching pains of hunger and want,
yet suffered not the multitudes to go hungry away.”