THE TWO SIDES OF THE CHURCH QUESTION.
“They lay aside their private cares
To mind the Kirk and State affairs;
They’ll talk o’ patronage and priests
Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation ’s comin’,
And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.”—_Burns._
_THE SEED POTATOES._
The agitation which resulted in the Disruption of 1843, when nearly
five hundred ministers left the Established Church of Scotland and
formed the “Free Church,” extended even to the quiet parish of
Blinkbonny, although Mr. Barrie had not taken an active part in the
conferences held on the subjects in dispute between the Government and
the Non-Intrusionists, as they were sometimes called. He rather avoided
the subject; but in the presbytery his attitude indicated that his
sympathies were with those who ultimately formed the Free Church,—so
much so that many of his friends remonstrated with him, urging him to
be careful, to consider his family, not to commit himself hastily. The
latter advice Mr. Barrie carried out by thanking is advisers very
sincerely, assuring them that he would endeavour to act conscientiously
and “judeeciously;” and although he did not commit himself, his
answer was made the basis of different conclusions, according as the
“conscientiously” or the “judeeciously” was put foremost.
He more nearly committed himself to Bell than to any other person,
and this accidentally. She was the head, the only gardener, and early
spring found her deeply absorbed in the arrangement of the season’s
crops. She had already planted peas and beans, and sundry vegetables;
had carefully cut the seed of the early potatoes, making each potato
yield as many bits with eyes or buds as she thought safe; and had the
“dibble” in her hand to form the holes into which to drop the seed,
when Mr. Barrie, returning from the village, stopped at the “break”
which she was beginning to plant.
He never passed Bell without some kindly word. In the garden it was
generally, “Well, Bell, always at it?” and Bell’s “Yes, sir” followed
him, for he generally walked on. But on this occasion he stood for a
few seconds, long enough for Bell to look at him inquiringly, then
to wonder whether to speak or not. At length Mr. Barrie said, with
something like an introductory sigh:
“Well, Bell, planting the early potatoes, I see. How will you look if
we have to flit soon and leave the crop to some other body?”
“Flit!” said Bell; “flit! What d’ye mean, sir? We’ll flit nane;” and
forgetting her usual good manners, she added, “Ye havena gotten a call
to ony ither kirk that I’ve heard o’, or to ony o’ the big town kirks,
have ye, sir?”
“No, not exactly that, Bell; but we _may_ have to leave the manse for
all that. But if we have, we will leave the garden in such a state
as to be a credit to us.” Then collecting himself, and observing her
perplexed face, he made a passing remark on the weather, and had moved
towards the manse, too confused to be able to reply to Bell’s practical
question, which cut him to the quick, simple as it was, “What for did
ye no’ speak about that before I cut the pitaties, sir?”
_COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE._
The question was not asked in Bell’s usual respectful tone, and
although she saw that Mr. Barrie had got into the house, she kept
looking at the closed door as if it should answer her; then slowly
surveyed the garden, the mould of which had been enriched by her
industry. She rested her eye first on what she had already planted,
next on what she intended to plant; wistfully on the rows that were
already above the ground, and that had an hour before been her pride;
then looked again at the manse door with an expression of bewilderment.
She took the hamper which contained the seed-potatoes in the one hand,
still holding the dibble in the other, and walked dreamily round the
parts of the garden that were planted. The pace was very unlike her
everyday one; it was slow, heavy, interrupted. Every few steps she
looked around her solemnly, until she reached the top of the garden,
when, as if some forgotten engagement had flashed across her mind, she
walked briskly to the outhouse, laid down her perplexing seed-potatoes,
locked the door, and tidied herself more quickly and more carelessly
than usual. Putting on her shawl and a knitted worsted black cap or
“mutch” with a crimson border (for she wore a bonnet only on Sundays),
something like a hood (it had a name, which I now forget), she went to
Mrs. Barrie to inquire if she needed anything from the village,—that
being Bell’s way of asking whether she could get out for a short time.
“Nothing, Bell,” said Mrs. Barrie, “nothing at all that I remember of;
and I am anxious to have as little as possible in the house at present.”
This added to Bell’s confusion and quickened her step. She made
straight for the village. I happened to be at the door at the time,
and, struck with the smartness with which she was walking, I
apprehended that there might be something wrong at the manse, and had
taken a step or two towards her. While yet about two yards distant she
asked quickly, “Hoo’s the garden doing, Mr. Martin?”
“Just middlin’, Bell; but come round and see it.”
As we went she further asked, “Have ye gotten your early taties in yet?”
“No,” said I; “my garden is far behind this year. I have been trying
to get that house ready for the Whitsunday term. Ye’ll see that we’re
putting a better house on the Knowe Park? It’s a nice stance. The old
cottage was done, so we’re putting up a good plain house; but the
plasterers have dilly-dallied; they’re a provoking set.”
We were now in the garden. Bell’s first remark was, “This is no’ like
you, Mr. Martin; but, however, I want to ask ye a secret” (so Bell put
it). “Can you tell me if Mr. Barrie’s gotten a call, or if he’s likely
to get a call, to ony other kirk?”
“Not that I know or have heard of.”
Then she told me very circumstantially what Mr. Barrie had said, and
what Mrs. Barrie had said, and ended by asking, “What can _you_ mak’ o’
what he said about the taties?”
_BELL’S VIEW OF THE CASE._
I tried to explain that it was possible that many inisters would leave
the Church of Scotland on account of something the Government had done.
“What!” said Bell firmly; “that cannot be—that’s no’ possible. The
Government wadna daur to meddle wi’ Mr. Barrie. There may be as gude
ministers, but there’s nane better. Let them try to put out Mr. Barrie,
and they would see a bonnie stramash,—that they would. Leave the manse!
Na; thae covenantin’ times are a’ past. Just let Government try’t.”
I said that it was not at all likely that force would be required, as I
believed that if the Government persisted in doing what the ministers
thought wrong, the ministers would leave the Church quietly rather
than submit to have their rights and those of the Christian Church
interfered with.
“There’s nae Government will ever gang against gude ministers, at ony
rate against Mr. Barrie; they’re the best friends the Government has,”
said Bell. Then looking at it in her particular light, she added, “Will
ony ither body, Government or no Government, get the peas and cabbage
and taties out o’ _our_ garden?” for Bell was an active partner.
“I hope not,” said I, “but it’s not _very_ unlikely.”
“If I thocht that, I would neither plant nor sow anither dreel—that I
would not; and if you’ll take the early taties I’ve cut, I’ll _sell_
ye them. They’re a grand kind, the auld early Dons,—grand growers,
lots at every shaw, and gude eaters,—nothing to beat them for size and
quality.”
I agreed to take Bell’s seed-potatoes, which partly pacified her; but
she came back on, “It’s no’ possible! Leave the manse—na!” until I said
that the Knowe Park garden would need to be put right at once, that it
was very good soil, that I would be happy to buy all her spare plants
and seeds, and that she should still keep the manse garden right, as
there was no saying what might happen.
Bell gave a qualified assent to this proposal: “She would see; but she
maun awa’ hame. She would need to take something up with her;” the
something was a bunch of spunks (bits of thin split wood, very dry,
about six inches long, tipped with sulphur, used for lighting candles
and lamps, unknown now that lucifer matches are so common) and a few
pounds of salt.
Mr. Barrie looked in on me shortly after Bell had left, and after a
little general talk he quietly remarked that the house—villa, he termed
it—was getting on, and that it looked a nice place. “Was I going to
build on the east side of the Knowe Park? Had I any tenant in view?
What would be the rent? Would it be ready by Whitsunday—and dry?”
_THE SHADOWS DEEPEN._
His manner and precision evinced something more than mere friendly
interest, and following as they did so much in the train of Bell’s
visit, I concluded that he would “come out” if the Government did not
yield. It had been evident for some time that his sympathies were with
what was then called the “Evangelical” party, although that name was
by him considered unfair to the other side, and he preferred calling
it the protesting party; but he had taken no prominent part in the
public discussions, and was scrupulously careful about introducing
ecclesiastical politics into his pulpit ministrations. “The good seed
is the Word of God,” he would often say; “and as ordained to minister
to the souls of my parishioners, I try to preach it faithfully,
fully, and practically, avoiding controversy of all kinds, political,
ecclesiastical, theological, or dogmatic. The only way to do real good,
even in opposing error or bigotry, is to preach the truth in love.”
April had passed; May had covered the earth with beauty, and blossom,
and promise. Never did the manse look so well, or its surroundings more
delightful, than on the evening before Mr. Barrie left for the General
Assembly in Edinburgh. I made an errand to the manse, ostensibly to ask
him to procure a certain book for me when in town, but really to see
if I could pick up an inkling of his mind on the Church controversy,
and to offer to be of any service in my power.
Mrs. Barrie and he were sauntering in the garden. He was grave, and as
they stopped opposite some familiar flower, both seemed sad. Bell (a
most unusual thing for her) was stealthily eyeing them from the kitchen
window, having turned up the corner of the little green-striped dimity
under-screen. When she saw me, she signalled me to meet her at the
back of the manse by jerking her thumb in that direction, and added a
slight trembling motion of her clenched hand, to express further that
she wanted me to do so without Mr. and Mrs. Barrie’s knowing it. When I
reached the back court, there she was, and she at once took speech in
hand.
_THE TOWN CLERK OF EPHESUS._
“Whatever’s gaun to happen, Mr. Martin? The minister has been
bundle-bundlin’ in the study for twa or three days. Mrs. Barrie has
been clearin’ oot auld corners, or rather searchin’ into them, for
there’s no’ much to clear out that’s either useless or lumbery. Is’t
possible we maun leave? It’s no’ possible. I’ve a gude mind to speak to
Mr. Barrie mysel’. Sir John was here last night, and I heard him say as
he gaed through the lobby, ‘For all our sakes, for your own sake, for
your family’s sake, for the sake of the Church of our fathers, for His
sake who wishes all His people to be one, think over the matter again
before you make a schism in His body. Carry out the good doctrine you
preached the other day when lecturing on the town clerk of Ephesus,
that we ‘ought to be quiet, and do nothing rashly.’ Mr. Barrie only
said, ‘Thank you, Sir John;’ but as he was coming ‘ben’ the lobby
from seeing Sir John away, I took the liberty o’ saying, ‘Sir John’s
a clever man, a sensible man, and he’s aye been our friend. So, sir,
excuse me for saying that I hope you will’—but I got no further; I saw
the tear was in Mr. Barrie’s e’e, and that fairly upset me.” Then she
added, “Will ye no’ speak till him, Mr. Martin, seriously and firmly?
Leave the manse, and the kirk, and the garden!—I wadna leave them if I
was him, unless they sent a regiment of dragoons.”
I said I would try. “Na,” said she, “ye maun baith try’t and do’t too.
He’s gaun to Edinburgh the morn to the Assembly, and they say he’ll
settle whether to leave the Kirk or bide in’t before he comes back here
again.”
Leaving Bell, I came to the front of the manse, and stood for a little
admiring the scene. The evening sun was about to set behind the western
hills. Nature was in her summer mantle of beauty and verdure,—the
garden smiling at my feet; the fields beyond, green, loamy, and rich;
the stream glistering and murmuring in the valley; the distant hills
lighted up with the evening glow; the clouds red, golden, and grey,
massed or straggling over the glorious sky. I felt with Bell that
to leave such a place was no easy matter, and as I had given little
attention to the Church controversy, I was at a loss what to say. Mr.
and Mrs. Barrie observed me, and came forward. After a quiet greeting,
I said, “This is a lovely scene. I find myself quoting from _Marmion_,
‘Who would not fight for such a land?’”
I had given the quotation strongly; it startled Mr. Barrie. He
said softly and dreamily, as if speaking to himself, “Without were
_fightings_, within were fears;” then looking me steadily in the
face he said, “I go to Edinburgh to-morrow,—a most eventful journey
for me and mine. In all probability I will return disjoined from the
Established Church of Scotland, and no longer minister of the parish of
Blinkbonny. Excuse me, Mr. Martin, for feeling perplexed and anxious.”
_BELL’S SUMMING UP._
Bell had by this time become a listener, having crept forward very
quietly. She _looked_ at me with an imploring face to speak out.
I tried to say something, but Mr. Barrie’s look was so calm and
overpowering, that I could only get out “that I dared not presume to
advise in the matter; that several of his people would follow him if he
did find it his duty to come out; and that the Lord would provide.”
This was too much or rather too little for Bell, so she joined the
colloquy, addressing herself, however, to me. “Maybe He will, if
there’s a real need-be; but what sense or religion either can there
be in leaving a kirk and manse provided for us already, and where He
has countenanced us and given us peace and prosperity, for a chance o’
anither or maybe nane at a’? I would see anither door opened first;
as Sir John said yestreen about the clerk o’ the toun o’ Ephesus, we
should do nothing rashly. Think on Mrs. Barrie an’ the bairns, and the
garden and the dumb craiturs, and,” looking at the churchyard, she
added softly, “wee Nellie.”
Bell had joined the party suddenly, and the above sentence was finished
by her almost in a breath. It made Mr. Barrie wince. Mrs. Barrie saw
this, and at once left us; she got Bell to follow her, by saying that
doubtless Mr. Martin had business with Mr. Barrie. Mrs. Barrie did her
best to soothe Bell by agreeing with her: “Yes, Bell, it will be a
severe trial to leave the manse.”
“And a terrible risk, too,” said Bell. “Oh, mem, try and dinna let the
maister do’t, at least no’ as suddenly as he speaks of.”
“I leave Mr. Barrie entirely to the guidance of his own conscience in
the matter. If he goes, I go.”
“So will we a’, I fancy.”
“Well, Bell,” said Mrs. Barrie thoughtfully, “we may not be able to
keep a servant. If we are, and you are willing to go with us, you will
be an immense help to us all.”
[Illustration: Bell and Daisy. (_Page 70_).]
_BELL’S PARISH._
This overwhelmed Bell. Leaving the manse was bad, but leaving the
family was terrible; such a thing had never entered her mind. Luckily
the cow “Daisy” began to low impatiently, which relieved Mrs. Barrie of
present embarrassment. Bell methodically started for her milking-pail,
muttering, “The very coo’s no’ hersel’ the nicht, naether am I; I’m
behint time wi’ Daisy, and kye should be milkit regular,”—which Bell
set about with more than her ordinary vigour, all the time speaking
away to Daisy about leaving the manse, and stiffly arguing the matter
with the cow. The cow did not seem quite to understand her; she usually
did, and answered Bell with her meek eye and stolid face; but Bell’s
_manner_ to-night was abrupt and excited, and Daisy had probably
more difficulty in comprehending the _matter_; so she wagged one ear
quickly, made sundry short, impatient shakes of her head, and stared
intently at Bell, but not with the usual signs of intelligent concert.
Daisy couldn’t make it out; neither, alas! could Bell.
I did not go into the manse, although Mr. Barrie asked me. I excused
myself on the ground of his requiring all the time at his disposal to
prepare for to-morrow’s journey, but said that many along with myself
would wait anxiously for the decision he might make, and I asked him to
give me as early intimation of it as he conveniently could, assuring
him that I would be most happy to be of any service in my power. He
thanked me, and putting his arm in mine walked slowly down the garden.
As we passed between its healthy crops and trim flower-beds, he said:
“This is Bell’s parish, and well tended it is. I’m very sorry for Bell;
it must be a severe trial to her—worthy, honest, laborious Bell!”
We halted at the little wicket gate at the bottom of the garden. There
was a sad look on Mr. Barrie’s face as he turned round and looked at
the pleasantly situated, snug manse. Memory seemed busy unfolding her
roll of bygone days. It had been the home of his happy married life,
the birthplace of his children. Then he looked at the church: it had
been the scene of his labours, the joy of his heart, the place of his
ministry to the flock he loved. Then he looked at the churchyard:
there was one little spot specially dear, but many others hallowed
in his mind by associations of the kind and good who lay there. So
absorbed was he by the reflections awakened by the scene, that he
seemed unconscious of my presence, and as his eye travelled from
object to object, he spoke sadly and to himself, “Yes, beautiful for
situation.—Thou excellest them all.—Olive plants.—Where prayer was
wont to be made.—Watch-tower.—Pleasure in her stones.—With Christ; far
better.—We shall not all sleep.” Then, as if awaking from a dream, he
said, “Excuse me, Mr. Martin; the old Adam is too strong for young
Melanchthon. Every human consideration urges me to remain in the Church
of Scotland. I would exhaust every possible means for the sake of all
concerned to avert a disruption, but I cannot, I dare not submit to see
her rights infringed or her prerogatives violated; it would be treason
to my Master. And bitter, bitter as the alternative is, I will act
as my conscience impels me (and I have given the subject the devout
consideration it demands), and leave all, although I freely confess it
is a sore trial of my faith. I fear as I enter into the cloud. I must
walk by faith, not by sight.”
_THE EVE OF BATTLE._
There was a nobility, a display of true valour in his attitude, tone,
and expression that awed me. The fire of his words kindled a flame in
my heart, which grew in intensity as he proceeded. When he had finished
he seemed as if he had been transfigured; his sadness was gone; he
looked like a knight challenging a field of foemen. I could only
grasp his hand and stumble out, “The battle is the Lord’s; be of good
courage, and let us behave ourselves valiantly for our people and for
the cities of our God, and the Lord do that which is good in His sight.”
He returned the grasp very warmly, and said, “Exactly; that text must
be our motto. I thank you for it. But I am detaining you. I will let
you know the result whenever declared; possibly I may be your tenant
at Knowe Park.” He said this with a pleasant smile; and as we said
good-night, I added, “Knowe Park will be made as comfortable as I can
make it, although, had I expected such a tenant, I would have made it
better.”
“It’s perhaps as much as we’ll can afford,” said he cheerfully half-way
up the garden. “Good night again.”
As I walked homeward I met Sir John McLelland. I knew him as a
gentleman of the neighbourhood, and had been in the habit of saluting
him respectfully, but had rarely spoken to him; I was therefore
surprised when he said, “I called at the house, Mr. Martin, but
learning you were at the manse, I came to meet you. Have you a spare
half-hour? I wish to see you particularly.”
“I am quite at your service, Sir John.”
“Then take a quiet turn down the road;” which we did. Sir John then
began:
_SIR JOHN McLELLAND’S OPINIONS._
“Mr. Martin, I want a long talk with you about Mr. Barrie. I know that
you are very intimate with him. I need not tell you that I esteem
him very highly. As a minister he has few equals, that we all feel;
he is, besides, a gentleman in every sense of the word—a scholar,
a man of culture, quite an acquisition to the district. Then Mrs.
Barrie is a most delightful creature,—I do not know a more thorough
lady than she is; and they have a very nice family—very nice children
indeed—good-looking;—so they may well be, considering their parents—the
handsomest couple in the parish, I may say in the county. But _that_
is by the bye. Well, the party in the Church of Scotland that call
themselves the ‘Evangelicals,’ as if they were the only true preachers
of the gospel,—a most unwarrantable and impertinent name for any party
to assume, or rather to _adopt_, for they parade it so offensively that
it betrays their former orphanage, and they strut about in the plumes
they have stuck on themselves, calling their opponents ‘Moderates,’ as
if that were a term of contempt. It would be more consistent if they’d
let their moderation be known to all men;—but _that_ is by the bye.
Well, these schismatics and agitators—‘Evangelicals,’ if you like—have
raised a hue-and-cry about the Church in danger, and trampling on the
rights of the Christian people, and have pestered not only the church
courts, but the courts of law and the Government of the country, by
their pertinacious intermeddling with time-honoured institutions and
the rights of proprietors. And so determined and malignant are the
leaders of this movement, that they have dug out one or two exceptional
cases (you know the exception proves the rule), and dragged them
through the law courts, where they got ignominiously beaten, because
justice was administered impartially. This has raised the ‘odium
theologicum,’ the most unreasonable and insatiable of all passions; and
instead of acting as law-abiding subjects and as peacemakers, they are
determined, if Government, forsooth, will not yield to them, to break
up the Church of Scotland if they can! The law has been clearly laid
down by the judges of the land, but they demand to be allowed to be a
law to themselves.”
_HEAVY HITTING._
Here Sir John looked very indignant, then went on in a calmer tone:
“What I cannot understand is, that ministers above all others should
object to their own rights being protected. The principal uproar has
been about some ministers who were appointed to parishes, but the
people would not receive them, and even the presbytery refused to
ordain them. Now, especially in the Church of Scotland, every student
before he is licensed to preach the gospel has had a complete college
education, and several years’ training in the divinity halls, and has
undergone successfully very searching examinations conducted by eminent
professors, and has, moreover, under presbyterial superintendence
gone at least creditably through trials for licence, which included
sermons on texts assigned to him. Could anything further be desired
as a safeguard against unfit men being allowed to be ministers? It is
from such that the patron, who is generally the largest proprietor
in the parish, and has therefore the greatest interest in it, must
make a selection and present a minister to a vacant parish church,
not unfrequently to the church in which he worships. Well, these
‘Evangelicals’—ministers themselves, remember—wish it to be in the
power of the members of a church (and you know what a mixture the
membership is, of all sorts and conditions—good and indifferent, not to
say bad) to reject the minister appointed by the patron,—a minister
trained as I explained before,—and possibly from whim, or spleen, or
spite at the patron, to object to his settlement, which can only be
done by objecting to his preaching; and to prove their case, I grieve
to say, they do not scruple at condemning his services as unedifying,
or uninteresting, or unintelligible (very likely to them), or even
unsound,—set them up for judges!—and do all in their power to blast the
minister’s prospects. Does it not strike you, Mr. Martin, as something
very strange that ministers should desire to commit themselves to such
tribunals in preference to the existing ones?”
I was at a loss what to say and how to get out of the difficulty, when
Sir John began again with great animation: “What they aim at seems to
be a sort of preaching competition, where the man who has the knack
of tickling the ears, or wheedling the affections, or flattering the
vanities of a congregation, would certainly outweigh the man of more
solid parts. The result would be that young ministers would prepare one
or two _taking_ sermons, and thereby secure parishes; and what ought
to be a congregation of devout worshippers would become a congregation
of critics; and some fussy nobody, by dint of sheer impertinence,
would set himself—ay, even herself—up as ‘grieved at the prospect of
the incalculable injury to be done to the highest interests of the
parish,’ and with a long face say ‘she felt it her duty, her bounden
duty, her painful duty,’ and stuff of that sort. Dissenting churches
have oftener split on the election of preachers than any other thing,
and bitter and disgraceful results have followed. In such cases votes
are counted, not weighed. I know of a little insignificant ‘bodie,’—his
neighbours called him ‘Little Gab,’—a creature who was in misery
through his indolence and his intermeddling with other folk’s affairs
to the neglect of his own. He was a Dissenter, and at the meetings for
choosing a minister in the chapel he went to, he chattered and moved
and objected and protested, and was so often on his feet with his
‘Moderator, I move,’ ‘Moderator, I object,’ ‘Moderator, by the forms
of procedure, page, etc.,’ that he provoked a smart word from one of
their best men every way—in education, position, and judgment. This
set the bodie fairly up, and although he richly deserved more than he
got, he spoke so glibly that he saddled the church with a minister
of whom the late Dr. Hunter, on hearing his first sermon after his
ordination—generally a man’s best—said to a friend as they came out of
the church, ‘Ye’ll get that ane to bury.’ But _that_ is by the bye.”
_LITTLE GAB._
As Sir John now looked to me to say something, I merely added, “That
was like the doctor. I think I know the church you refer to; Little Gab
was a waspish bodie.”
He at once resumed: “I am surprised that a man of good sense and sound
judgment like Mr. Barrie should be misled by the noisy demagogues—many
of them otherwise good men, but on this subject perfect fanatics. I
spoke to him on the subject the other night, but made no impression.
Have you remonstrated with him? Did he say anything on the subject to
you to-night?”
I told him what had passed at the manse. When he heard of Mr. Barrie’s
firm resolve, he said very excitedly: “It’s utter folly—it’s sheer
madness—it’s social suicide, bringing ruin on his family for a mere
phantom of excited sentimentality! Let them stay in the Church and use
constitutional means to reform abuses, if any exist. The Church of
Scotland has had an honoured past, and must have a glorious future.
They vowed to maintain and defend her; they are trying to divide
and weaken her. Can they not wait patiently until events are ripe?
Progress in a complicated body such as a church is gradual, and should
be deliberate. The leaders of this movement are principally men who
have risen to ecclesiastical eminence by their popular gifts. Not a
few of them fought bitterly against the Dissenters in the Voluntary
controversy (which, by the bye, seems shelved for good and all; the
pace was too quick to last), and now they urge their brethren to secede
if _their_ absurd demands are not immediately conceded. I much doubt
if the noisiest now will be the first to come out. If they do, I would
not wonder to see them the first to rush back again, and change their
‘Retract! no, not a hair’s-breadth!’ into a breakneck stampede, in
which they will crush past their deluded followers, and whine pitifully
for pardon and _place_. The State has treated them well, too well, and
is entitled to have its conditions fulfilled. They want the pay and the
place, but kick at the terms—wish these all one-sided; and when the law
steps in with quiet dignity and strict justice to protect the rights of
proprietors, ministers, and people alike, and to insist on these being
administered according to express statute, the men who vowed to abide
by the law either set it at nought, or demand its subservience to their
revolutionary ideas. They wish liberty without control, privileges
without conditions, and power to exercise despotism without appeal. And
because they cannot get it,—because they should not get it,—because,
having respect to the welfare alike of Church and State, they must not
get it, they keep crying out about tyranny and treason, and ‘spiritual
independence,’ and what not.”
Sir John paused for a little, and I thought he had finished, but
something seemed to strike him, and he at it again:
_VIALS OF WRATH._
“By the bye, these folks call themselves the Non-Intrusion party.
Was ever name so outrageously violated? Is a proprietor an intruder
on his own estate? Only a desperate poacher would say yes. Is a man
an intruder in his own house? None but a burglar would think so.
Is a mother an intruder in her own nursery? Only a vile and cruel
nurse, caught in the act of ill-treating the children, would have
the audacity to conceive of such a monstrous anomaly. Yet these
intruding non-intrusionists say to the State that fostered them and
supports them, and that only wishes to have its fundamental principles
respected, like the poacher, ‘Be off! you have no right here;’ like
the burglar, ‘I want this, and will have it by hook or by crook’—crook
should be put first; and like the nurse, ‘Get out of this nursery!
you have no business here. I’ll do what I like, and if you oppose me
I’ll take the children away from you.’ I may be carried away by the
strong convictions that force themselves on me as I consider the whole
proceedings, the wily, oily sophisms of these non-intrusionists; but
excuse me, Mr. Martin, for saying that they should take Judas for
their patron, and Herod the king—any of the Herods they like—for their
foster-brother.”
Sir John seemed to feel that he had gone too far, and excused himself
for being so bitter. He was a confirmed Tory, and began about
“vote-voting, everything was vote-voting now-a-days since that Reform
Bill had passed. Give some men a vote in Kirk or State, and they became
self-conceited, consequential creatures. The more they are canvassed,
the more unbearable they get. But _that_ is by the bye. I presume you
are a Whig, Mr. Martin, so we’ll not meddle politics to-night. Then you
really think Mr. Barrie will ‘come out’?”
“I’m sure of it, Sir John. Mr. Walker of Middlemoor and he start for
Edinburgh early to-morrow morning.”
_SIR JOHN’S VERDICT._
“Mr. Walker!” said Sir John; “he’s a quiet, peaceable man; he’ll not
be led away by any Will-o’-the-wisp. He’ll smoke over it, and think
over it, and come back parish minister of Middlemoor as heretofore.
I’m glad that Mr. Walker is going with Mr. Barrie; he’ll give him the
common-sense, considerate view of the question—especially the home
view, the family and fireside interest, which seems entirely ignored.
Should a secession take place, there will be a sad awakening when too
late to the meaning of these words: ‘If any provide not for his own,
and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith and
is worse than an infidel,’—worse than an infidel—worse!” Then, after a
pause of a few seconds, he said, “I’m sorry, very sorry for Mr. Barrie;
if it were possible to be angry with such a man, I feel angry—certainly
at his conduct, or rather his intentions. But I’m glad Mr. Walker goes
with him. I am member of Assembly for a royal burgh, and intend going
in the day after to-morrow; I’ll set Mr. Walker on Mr. Barrie.” Then
looking at his watch, he said, “It’s getting late; do you think it
would be of any use for me to see Mr. Barrie to-night? The fact is, I
cannot rest over this matter—it’s too—too—too dreadful altogether.”
I hinted as politely as I could that I thought nothing would shake Mr.
Barrie’s resolve. Sir John said “he feared as much, but he would see
Mr. Walker and other friends, and try to _save_ Mr. Barrie from”—here
he hesitated, repeating, “from—from—well, I cannot get a better
word—ruin to himself and his family—certain ruin.” He shook hands
frankly with me, hoped he had not kept me too long, and promised to let
me know how matters went; and as he said good night, he looked towards
the manse and said, “I cannot get Mr. Barrie and his family out of my
head,” then started homewards.
Late as it was, I went to see the new house and garden at Knowe Park.
I had urged on the tradesmen, and it was all but finished and _drying_
nicely. The garden had received special attention. Except immediately
around the new house, it had not been interfered with; and as it was
stocked with good fruit-trees and bushes in the days of the old house,
these only required trimming and pruning. Bell’s cut potatoes and spare
plants were further forward than those in the manse garden. When I got
home it took a long time to tell Agnes the events of the night. Both
of us were puzzled as to whether Mr. Barrie or Sir John was right—we
rather inclined to Sir John’s notion of patience and prudence; and
whilst we admired Mr. Barrie’s noble resolution, we, especially Agnes,
spoke of “whatever was to become of Mrs. Barrie and the dear bairns?”
and did not see through it at all.