INCIDENTS IN BLINKBONNY.
“Oh! many a shaft at random sent
Finds mark the archer little meant!
And many a word at random spoken
May soothe or wound a heart that’s broken.”
_Sir Walter Scott._
The energy of the Free Church had been a subject of special dislike to
Miss Park; and when she heard that Mr. Barrie called on Dan, and that
Bell, for whom before the Disruption she had a great respect, was on
such intimate terms with him that she actually allowed him to sit in
her kitchen, and even tried to make a Free Churchman of him, she was
exceedingly bitter in her remarks on the subject.
One day Mr. Walker chanced to call, and she expatiated to him on the
burning shame she felt at such ongoings.
“The Free Church folks must be hard up for supporters when they have
to go to such a worthless vagabond and try to make a Christian of him.
It’s a disgrace, a scandal—it’s sacrilege!” and much to the same
effect.
Mr. Walker not only did not sympathize with her, but spoke very firmly
to her for thus traducing the very first principles of Christian
charity, and said that the “plucking of such brands from the burning
was the grandest work the Church could undertake.”
“Then why did _you_ not do it?” said Miss Park.
Mr. Walker pled guilty to having been remiss in discharging such
duties, but said that he would try to amend, and that he would see Dan
soon.
He told her that it was not an easy matter to meet every case. “For
instance,” said he, “I was calling a fortnight ago on a man; he said
he was in great distress, both of mind and body, ‘just real ill—just
real, real ill, every way, temporally and spiritually—a’ wrang, body
and the ither way; an’ to add to my troubles, my landlord—the sweep
o’er there—has warned me out o’ his house, for altho’ I aye paid him
his rent, plack an’ farthin’, when I was weel, I’ve fa’en behind this
half-year, an’ I’m just fair despairin’, just awfu’ bad.’ I advised him
to cast all his cares, of every kind, temporal and spiritual, cares
of mind, cares of body, cares of estate, on his Maker, and ask His
guidance.”
“_IT’S AN ILL WIND._”
“I have just now returned from visiting him, and to-day I found him
in grand spirits, although not, in my opinion, so much improved in
health as to account for his being so very cheerful. ‘Well,’ said I,
‘how do you feel to-day?’ ‘Eh, sir!’ said he, ‘yon was a grand advice
ye gied me a fortnight ago, just an awfu’ grand advice. When you went
out I just did as you told me: I cast a’ my care o’ a’ kinds, baith for
this world an’ the next, a’ my care about mysel’ an’ fam’ly, indeed
a’thing, where ye tell’d me;’ and, he added, with a very hearty voice,
jerking his thumb in the direction of his landlord’s house, ‘eh, man!
_the sweep’s deid_; he’ll no’ bother me again. So, ye see, it’s a grand
thing to tak’ gude advice; an’ hasna’ Providence been kind, kind?’”
I can recall a visit I paid to a widow shortly after her husband’s
death. He was a well-informed, active, abstemious man, but had a very
violent temper, and was more easily put into a towering passion than
any man I ever knew. On the slightest provocation, often on none,
he would say the snellest [most biting], sharpest things. He was a
fireside theologian, well read in the old divines, and an extreme
Calvinist, for he came of a Cameronian stock, and was a Pharisee of the
Pharisees as touching every jot and tittle of church law and form.
I knew the household well, and whenever I appeared, Mrs. Gray welcomed
me. She was a quiet, industrious body, and had been to him a good wife
under very difficult circumstances. She had got through with her work
amongst her cows for the night, but had still on the rough worsted
apron of nappy homespun wool, called a “brat.” She told me familiarly
to take a chair, and sat down herself in an old high-backed arm-chair,
which stood close to the chimney cheek. There were two or three
cushions on it, highest at the back: it looked an uncomfortable seat,
but it enabled her to rest her feet on the floor, so that her posture
was half leaning backwards and half sitting. She filled her pipe, for
smoking was not unknown amongst the women-folks round Blinkbonny, but
instead of lighting it by a spunk, she pushed it into the “ribs” of the
kitchen fire, and left it there for a second or two. Whilst she was
preparing for her favourite “weakness,” I referred to her late husband
as mildly as I could, speaking of his infirmity of temper as now no
more to him, as it really had been a source of “great tribulation.”
_THE SPEERIT OF MEEKNESS._
She withdrew the pipe from the fire, and put it in her mouth. Some
burning sparks were now and again falling from it on to her brat, but
this did not seem to annoy her, she “dichtit” [wiped] them quietly
down her sloping figure, and said after a few “draws,” “‘Deed ay,
it just shows ye”—here she took a few more draws in silence—“that
the grace o’ God will bide wi’ a man that nae ither body can bide
wi’,”—another silent draw or two,—“for I haena the slichtest doubt but
that Tammas is in heaven;” some strong draws followed, as the profuse
smoke testified,—“_but_ he was ill to thole [put up with] here. I had
my ain adaes [to do] wi’ him, for he was just a very passionate man;
but ae part o’ the white robe he has on noo will be the speerit o’
meekness.”
* * * * *
An elder in one of the Blinkbonny churches was a very reserved, silent
man, almost afraid to hear the sound of his own voice. He was an
undertaker, and was on one occasion employed at a funeral. The company
had met, but the minister did not turn up,—a very unusual thing, for
clergymen are most attentive on such occasions.—(His absence was caused
by the breaking down of a gig when he was on the way.) The father of
the dead child whispered quietly into the undertaker’s ear:
“Just pit up a prayer yersel’, Mr. Sommerville, if you please.”
“Eh!” said the worthy man; “no—eh—no—oh, dinna, dinna ask me; no, I
canna!”
After waiting another quarter of an hour, during which the elder was in
a state of great nervous excitement, the father again came to him, but
the elder beckoned him to come out of the room. When both were outside,
the father said:
“Eh, Mr. Sommerville, the wife, puir bodie, canna bear to let her wee
Tammie be ‘liftit’ without a bit word o’ prayer; an’ she hasna gotten
to the kirk since Tammie turned badly, an’ she’ll be the better, an
we’ll a’ be the better, o’ a bit prayer. It’s awfu’ heathen-like to
tak’ awa’ the bit bairn for gude an’ a’ out o’ it’s mother’s house
without a word o’ comfort; dinna refuse us—we’re a’ kent [known] folk
here.”
Mr. Sommerville, who was twitching his fingers until the father had
finished, said: “Oh! for ony favour dinna ask me,—I positeevely cannot
do’t in company;” then taking the father’s hand he pulled him near him,
and said with great earnestness: “I wad rather gi’e the _coffin for
naething_. Oh! ask the new schoolmaster.”
This was a young teacher who had lately come to Blinkbonny, and
although he was taken aback, he engaged shortly in prayer. All present
were much pleased, said that he was an uncommonly nice lad, very
obliging, and that anybody could see by his prayer that “the root o’
the matter was in him.”
_MODEST WORTH._
It may seem strange to add that Mr. Sommerville was a first-rate
elder; he was charitable, considerate, upright, and helpful to many.
His advices were short, but very “pat:” to the rash, it was, “Leisure a
wee;” to the foolish, “Mend your ways;” to the intemperate, “Do thyself
no harm;” to his apprentices or workmen when they committed mistakes,
his reproofs were not rebukes, far less reproaches, but, “It’s a pity,”
“Ye’ve gane wrang,” “That’s no’ wiselike;” the most severe was, “That’s
very stupid-like.”
Mr. Tait, the young schoolmaster above referred to, had succeeded the
good old man who had been parish teacher for nearly half a century.
He was selected from a list of applicants owing to the excellent
testimonials he presented, and had been asked to meet with the
examination committee in Mr. Walker’s house before the appointment
was finally made. He had acted for some time as assistant in a parish
school adjoining Middlemoor, and was well known to Mr. Walker. Report
said he was “after” a niece of Mr. Walker’s.
Mr. Tait on the day of meeting was shown into the parlour beside Mrs.
Walker, the committee being in the study. He told Mrs. Walker how
nervous he was, and he looked it. She told him not to be afraid—she
would help him through. There was a roast of beef at the kitchen fire,
which she made the servant carry through the lobby, and slowly past
the door of the study; when the fragrant steam got diffused, she opened
the study door, and said, “Mr. Tait’s here.”
_THE CIVIL SERVICE EXAMINATION._
The other business that had occupied the committee was very quickly
despatched. Mr. Tait was called in, and Mr. Walker was telling the
committee what he knew of Mr. Tait’s abilities and scholarship, when
Mrs. Walker, after the servant had again carried the hissing roast
through the lobby, half opened the study door, and gave a nod to Mr.
Walker. This, along with the appeal to the lower nature through the
sense of smell, proved irresistible. The gentleman who had been deputed
to examine the applicant did so with such haste, and put such childish
questions, that everybody saw it was a joke, for he rattled off
questions and answers as quickly as he could. Mr. Tait never needed to
utter a word.
_Arithmetic,_—said he. _Ques._ How many are six
and four?—_Ans._ Ten, to be sure; that will do for
that.
_History._—_Ques._ Who gave the king the most
practical lessons?—_Ans._ George Buchanan; right
again.
_Geography._—_Ques._ What is the largest town in the
world? _Ans._ Why, Biggar of course—London’s a
big town, but Biggar’s Biggar.
_Mathematics._—_Ques._ What is a simple equation?
_Ans._ Six and half-a-dozen.
_Latin._—_Ques._ What is the Latin for Fish? _Ans._
_Aqua vitæ_, or “Glenlivat.” _Ques._ Translate _Ex nihilo
nihil fit_? _Ans._ It’s time we had something.
_General Knowledge._—_Ques._ What’s the best change
for a wearied teacher? _Ans._ Hill air, for it always
makes him hilarious.
_Literature._—_Ques._ What did John Gilpin’s wife say
to him, and what did he reply?
_Ans._ “The dinner waits, and we are tired;”
Says Gilpin, “So am I.”
The examination was declared satisfactory. Mr. Tait was appointed
schoolmaster of Blinkbonny. The merry company sought the dining-room,
did ample justice to Mrs. Walker’s hospitality, and drank Mr. Tait’s
good health and great success to him after that toast had been proposed
by Mr. Walker, who, in doing so, spoke a good deal of Mr. Tait’s
uncle, David Tait of Blackbrae in this parish, who will reappear more
prominently amongst the future “Bits.”
My brother-in-law, the Rev. John Macnab, had come out with the Free
Church, and was assisting Mr. Barrie at a communion season. The sermon
he preached in the evening was a most carefully prepared one; his
subject was “Heaven;” and as I do not wish to give an opinion of my
relative’s abilities, I may say that three of the elders said it was
“most beautiful,—it was like a series of dissolving views.” It was a
long sermon, and the descriptive part of it took up so much time that
there was no “application” part in it.
Old George Brown was, as he had often been on similar occasions, my
guest for the “preachin’s,” as the services at communion seasons were
called; and in these days they were abundant in number, being two
sermons on Thursday, one on Saturday, and at least one on Monday,
besides from about eleven to four and an evening service on Sabbath.
When we got home, George astonished Mr. Macnab by the amount of the
day’s services he could repeat; and when he had given his _résumé_ of
the evening sermon, he finished up with:
“It was really a grand sermon as far as it went. I never enjoyed a
description of heaven better. Ye told us a’thing aboot heaven except
_hoo to get there_; and, Maister Macnab, you’ll excuse me, my young
friend, for sayin’ that that shouldna hae been left out, for ye’ll
admit yersel’ if that’s awantin’ a’s awantin’. Ye’ll mind o’ the king’s
son’s feast? The servants didna only tell that a’thing was ready, but
they compelled them to come in.”
“_THERE._”
Mr. Macnab said to me that night as we sat together after every
other body had retired: “I’ve been criticized by learned professors
and doctors of divinity, by ministers of experience and ability, by
fellow-students and relatives, but that good old man has given me more
insight into what preaching should be than all the others put together;
and I hope that as long as I live I will never, never, when delivering
God’s message to my fellow-men, forget to tell them ‘how to get there.’”
George “got there” before another communion season came round, and
with him were buried many sayings that were “like apples of gold in
pictures of silver.” Those I have tried to reproduce will remind many
men who are now far on in the journey of life of the frequent use of
Scripture language and metaphor by the men of two or three generations
ago. A tall man was a “Saul among the people;” news were carried “from
Dan to Beersheba;” a disagreeable man was “a Mordecai at the gate;” and
language which was in any way approaching profanity,—and the standard
was a rigorous one,—was styled “part in the speech of Ashdod, and part
in the Jews’ language.” Single names were also used, and to many they
were most expressive, such as an “Achan,” a “Jezebel,” a “Nathaniel,” a
“Goshen,” an “Ishmael.”
I have heard a keen politician, during the course of the election of a
member of Parliament (in the days of open voting, before the “ballot”
was introduced, when the hourly returns of the voting at the various
polling stations were made, and transmitted by swift riders from one
to another), as the numbers were summed up, ask, in order to know the
state of the poll, “Is the young man Absalom safe?” I have also heard a
very worthy elder say in the presence of a very worthy minister, “Mary,
bring out Jeroboam.” Mary produced the whisky bottle. My teetotal
friends will doubtless think this a most appropriate name.
* * * * *
Mrs. Barrie had been so pleased with Dan’s attention to Nellie’s grave,
that she laid aside the first suit of clothes Mr. Barrie cast off (I
may as well tell that Bell and she between them had “turned” them), and
she was debating with herself whether to go to his house with them, or
send for him, when she met him at the manse gate. With considerable
difficulty she prevailed on him to come up to the house, but could not
induce him to come on to the front approach, much less in by the front
door.
“I’ll stand here, if you please, mem,” said Dan.
_THE WEIGHT OF HONOURS._
“But I wish to speak with you in the house, Mr. Corbett, if you
please,” said Mrs. Barrie. Dan grinned from ear to ear at “_Mr._”
Corbett; he did not remember of ever having been called that before,
and he kept repeating, “Maister,—Maister, if you please—Eh, Dan,
ye’ll dae now,” laughing heartily either to or at himself. Dan seldom
laughed—it was almost a new sensation to him; but the “Maister, if
you please,” tickled him immensely, and by the time Bell had got the
kitchen door open, for she saw him halt before the window, and slap
his leg, and laugh until even the blind eye opened and yielded copious
tears (so she said), he was in a social, happy glow.
“What’s ta’en ye the day, Dan? what grand news hae ye gotten? have ye
seen the Cornel?”
Dan could not reply, but brushed past Bell, and said when he settled a
little:
“It’s naething at a’, Bell—it’s fair silliness o’ me; but Mrs.
Barrie met me at the road end and said,” here he fell a-laughing
again,—“‘Maister Corbett, if you please.’ I’m no’ used wi’ such genty
manners, an’ like mony anither fule I was laughin’ at mysel’.”
Mrs. Barrie came into the kitchen, and he laughed when she again
called him “Mr. Corbett,” and said: “Ca’ me Dan, if you please, mem;
naebody ever ca’d me Maister a’ my days afore, and it sounds very
droll—_Maisterin’_ me.”
“Well, Daniel, then!” said Mrs. Barrie.
“Dan, if you please, mem—just plain Dan.”
“Well, Dan!”
“Ay, that’s liker the thing,” said he.
And Mrs. Barrie spoke very nicely to him; her silver tones touched his
ear like music, and her words reached his heart as she thanked him
for what he had so beautifully done at wee Nellie’s grave; and she
prevailed on him to come into the dining-room to see a miniature of her
Nellie that a friend had painted from memory, and presented to her.
There were other pictures on the walls, mostly engravings, which Mrs.
Barrie explained so neatly, and with so much animation and clearness,
that Dan forgot himself in listening to her, and when she had gone
round the room he asked:
“What did ye say about this ane, if you please, mem? I think ye called
it the Angel’s Whisper?”
“_MINISTERING ANGELS._”
When she re-described it, he asked about another and another. All the
engravings were on suggestive subjects, and Mrs. Barrie made them
doubly interesting by her explanations; and almost unconsciously to
herself, she kept dropping into his weary heart simple loving words
of truth and peace as poor Dan turned from one picture to another,
and Mrs. Barrie followed up her description with increasing interest
to herself as well as to Dan. She also gave him the clothes, and very
sweetly counselled him to go to the church, any church he liked, and he
would hear some fine pictures.
“There’s nane in the Blinkbonny kirks that I ever heard o’, unless it
be yon marble image on young Captain McLellan’s headstane at the side
o’ the auld kirk pulpit; an’ I aye said to Guy’s gude-faither, auld
Ritchie, that it was daftlike to hae guns and bayonets an’ swords stuck
up like stooky [stucco] images in a kirk. But I dinna ken what to do
wi’ thae fine claes [clothes]; they’re no’ the least like me.”
Dan, however, accepted them at length with a very proper bow, if
lowness is any criterion, took another look of Nellie’s miniature, and
made several bows to Mrs. Barrie as he left the dining-room.
His description of the pictures gave Bell great delight, and she
dropped in a useful word or hint now and again as he went on. Dan ended
with:
“Bell, yon picture o’ wee Nellie let’s me ken her noo, an’ I will keep
her grave snod; an’ there’s yon ane about the angel’s whisper, an’
anither ane I maun ask ye to let me see again some day. D’ye ken if
Mrs. Barrie wad haud [hold] the kirk in the dinin’-room, an’ gang o’er
yon pictures, she wad beat a’ the ministers ever I heard” (“No very
mony, after a’,” thought Dan to himself, “mair’s the pity”). “What for
do they no’ hae pictures in the kirk, an’ tell ye’ about them, like
Mrs. Barrie? I think they wad soon fill their kirks if they did that.”
Dan tried on the clothes as soon as he got home, and he scarcely knew
himself. His first remark was, “Guy, mind yersel’, or I’ll rin ye hard
for the beadleship!” His next, looking at his hands, “They’s no like
thae claes.” He then took down his fishing-rod, took his towel with him
(it was a ragged old potato bag), bought a bit of soap as he passed
through the village, sought out a quiet pool, and made himself as clean
as soap, water, and a rough towel could make him. After this was over,
“Ah, but I’m the better o’ that; I’ll do’t oftener,” said he, and put
up his fishing-rod. The best of the fish he caught were put under Knowe
Park “bass” as formerly, long after night had fairly settled down. Dan
started next day to clean his house. Some corners needed it very badly.
He did the cleaning very well considering.
He had a strange dream the night after he had seen the pictures, and
after thinking over it and wondering about it for nearly a week, he was
driven to tell it to Bell for peace’ sake, as follows:
_THE GATES AJAR._
“I thocht I was in heaven, an’ about the first body I met was wee
Nellie. I didna ken her at first, but she kent me, an’ she was that
glad to see me; an’ somehow I wasna the least feared. An’ she asked me
if I would come an’ see her mansion, an’ she took me into a beautiful
room, an’—but I couldna lay’d off till ye, so I’ll no try’t—an’ I asked
her wha gied her’t, an’ I never saw onything as bonnie as her face,
or heard onything as sweet as her voice, as she said, ‘Jesus! O Dan,
come away an’ see Him!’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘Nellie; He’s no’ for the like
o’ me.’ If ye had seen her face when she said, ‘But He is, Dan, He is;
He likes you better than a’ the gold in a’ the world.’ Then she said,
‘I’ll let ye see mamma’s mansion.’ It was as bonnie as Nellie’s, but it
was a’ hung round wi’ pictures, an’ Mrs. Barrie was in them a’, an’ aye
some ither wi’ her—whiles ane, Nellie, or maybe Mr. Barrie, an’ whiles
folk I ken, besides folk I dinna ken; but she was aye in the middle
o’ the picture. An’ there was ane wi’ mysel’ an’ her in’t, an’ it was
something like the ‘Angel’s Whisper,’—but the angels were awfu’ like
her tae.
“An’ Nellie showed me your mansion, Bell, an’ it was braw, an’ fu’ o’
bonnie pictures just like Mrs. Barrie’s; an’ I was in some o’ them tae.
An’ I noticed that ye had on your everyday working claes—your very
commonest, and hardly ever on your Sabbath claes at a’.
“Weel, Nellie said to me, ‘Come an’ see your mansion, Dan.’ I was
kind o’ terrified, but she could mak’ me do anything she likit. Weel,
we went to what she ca’d my mansion, an’ the pictures round it were
fearsome to look at, an’ I was in the middle o’ every ane; an’ there
was ane where there were angels very like Mrs. Barrie, an’ Mr. Barrie,
an’ you, speaking to me, an’ lookin’ at me, an’ pointin’ up,—an’ I
lookit up.
“I was sae much ta’en up wi’ the pictures, I didna notice that Nellie
had gaen out; but when I saw Mrs. Barrie an’ you pointin’ up in the
picture, I lookit up, an’ in a moment Nellie comes in an’ says, ‘Here’s
Jesus;’ an’ all at once the pictures vanished, an’ the walls were as
clean an’ white as the driven snaw, an’ there was only one picture
left, an’ that was Jesus. An’ somehow He didna fear me till He cam’
out o’ the picture an’ showed me His hands, an’ there were marks in
the very middle o’ them, like as if nails had once been driven through
them; an’ he was gaun to lay His hands on me when I wakened;—and it’s
been in my head ever since, but I didna like to tell aboot it. D’ye
think it means that I shouldna wear yon fine claes? or what d’ye think?”
Need I say that Bell was greatly struck with the dream, and did what
she could to press home the lesson it so clearly taught? But Dan said,
“Oh, but, Bell, mind He didna lay hands on me; but that was maybe my
blame, for I started back. But I’m glad I’ve tell’t you, an’ ye can
tell Mrs. Barrie if you like.”
_NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND._
Bell did so. And although Dan was not much changed outwardly, he liked
to speak to Bell about good things, and gave over sundry bad habits,
and went to Mr. Walker’s kirk; although, poor man, he knew so little
about the service, that when Mr. Walker said at the end of his sermon,
“I will conclude by,” Dan set off, supposing that all would follow
very soon, and he was astonished to find that the folk took so long
to come home from the church that day. Generally his wonder had been,
“Are they oot a’ready?” as Sunday forenoon had been a great day for
Watty and his cronies meeting in Dan’s house and garden for a crack on
bull-dogs, game-cocks, and sporting matters. But they paid this respect
to religion, that they did not start for Dan’s until the church was
“in,” and left so as to be home before the church was out.
Dan gave up keeping game fowls, but stuck to his other favourites, and
became a quieter man; but I will not enter further into his state of
mind than say that, I believe he attended the parish church, and I was
told that some time after the dream, but I cannot say as to the precise
date, he tried to put himself in the way of Mr. Scott of Babbie’s Mill.
Mr. Scott stared to see Dan, and spoke rudely to him. Dan waited till
he was done, and then said, “Mr. Scott, there’s a slap in your hedge,
an’ the sheep’s among the corn. I’ve driven them out, and stappit
[pushed] in a bush, but if ye’ve ony stabs or palings I’ll mend it for
ye in a crack.”
“I want nane o’ yer mendings.”
“Aweel,” said Dan, “I see ye’re angry; and I can only say, Mr. Scott,
if ye’ll no’ be friends, dinna blame me. I own I spoke sair till ye,
but was you no’ first in the fault? I’m no’ seeking onything frae ye,
but as I’m an auld man I want to die in peace wi’ my neibours, so I ax
yer pardon, and gude day.”
“Die in peace!—ye’ll die in a jail, or no’ unlikely on a gallows!” said
the miller.
“Maybe,” said Dan, “but Mr. Walker was tellin’ us on Sabbath about a
deein’ thief, an’ he was made a’ richt as he was deein’; an’ maybe Him
that helpit him will help me.”
“Dan,” said the miller in astonishment, “are you gaun to the kirk noo?”
“Ay,” said Dan,—“whiles.”
“Weel, Dan, ye seem to make a better use o’ the kirk than I dae; and
as ye was saying, we’ll let byganes be byganes. And thank ye about the
sheep.”
_THE PIPE OF PEACE._
“Aweel,” replied Dan, “Mr. Walker whiles speaks about lost sheep,
and I thocht as I saw yours amang the corn, that the sooner our slaps
[gaps] are filled up the better for ourselves and for the sheep, for
some o’ them seemed _swalled_ [swollen].”
The miller and Dan started with the requisites, mended the slap, looked
at the sheep, smoked a quiet pipe, and parted.
“That cowes [beats] a’,” said the miller.
“The canny way’s the best way, after a’,” said Dan.
* * * * *
Colonel Gordon was spending part of the summer with Mr. Kirkwood, and
they called at Knowe Park. The Colonel’s relationship to Mrs. Barrie
was clearly established; and a piano, and some other marks of kindness
on the Colonel’s part, were sent from Edinburgh shortly thereafter. But
unfortunately Bell was not in when the gentlemen called, greatly to Mr.
Kirkwood’s regret, and their visit had been a short one.
Colonel Gordon was in indifferent health, and Mr. Kirkwood would not
allow him to exert or excite himself in any way, so that Bell’s “castle
in the air” was as hazy as ever; and as neither Mr. nor Mrs. Barrie
had thought much on the matter, the presents were taken as tokens of
goodwill, and politely acknowledged as such, but they formed no ground
in their minds of any, far less of such great expectations as they did
in Bell’s.
The social element in religion was greatly promoted by the soirees and
meetings of that nature held in connection with the Free Church. Mr.
Barrie used to tell of Mr. Taylor’s usual welcome when he dropped in of
an evening: “Come away, Mr. Barrie, ye’ll spend an hour wi’ us. There’s
a great deal o’ religion in sociality, an’ there’s far ower little
sociality in our religion—for that’s what I think is the ‘communion of
saints,’ it’s just sociality—gude neibourship, as far as our firesides
are concerned.”
At one of our soirees—I think it was in 1850—Sir John McLelland
suddenly appeared in the Free Church lobby. Dr. Guthrie was one of
the speakers, and the church was crammed. Some young men acted as
ticket-collectors and stewards at the door, and they had been so
anxious to lose nothing of the speeches, that they did not even look
round in reply to Sir John’s question, “Could you find room for me?”
“Have you a ticket?” was the reply.
“A ticket! What sort of ticket? I’ve no ticket,” said Sir John.
“Weel, there are no bags left, and there’s no room in the church, so
you cannot get in.”
_LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP._
This was said without the speaker’s even turning round to see to whom
he was speaking. Luckily one of the deacons observed Sir John, who
said to him, “Can I not get in? This young man here spoke to me about
some bag and ticket, and said I could not get in.”
“Stupid fellow!—beg pardon!—please come this way,” was the reply.
When the poor steward looked round he was so utterly ashamed of himself
that he stood speechless. He “catch’t it” from the other stewards, and
his evening’s enjoyment was spoiled.
Sir John was shown into the vestry, and when the speaker for the time
had concluded, he came to the platform.
The surprise at his appearance added to the warmness of his reception.
It seemed as if the audience could not cease their expressions of
delight. When silence was restored, Mr. Barrie announced Dr. Guthrie as
the next speaker.
Sir John instantly rose and asked to be allowed to say a few words.
He first told the story of the children and Dr. Guthrie at the
post-office, which made Kennedy the tailor spring first on to the seat,
then stand astride on two seats, and wave his Turkey-red and white
spotted cotton handkerchief so excitedly, and cheer so loudly, that he
had to be taken down almost by force.
After Kennedy was quiet, Sir John said, “I spoke to Mr. Barrie and
several of this audience at the time of the Disruption in a way that
I now regret. My language was unguarded and unwise. I do not state my
present opinions; but I then made publicly some very strong statements
which I now wish as publicly to withdraw. Mr. Barrie, and hundreds of
ministers besides him, acted like truly Christian heroes, and carried
out their conscientious convictions in most difficult and trying
circumstances. I honour them for it. But,” turning to the audience, “I
honour you, and those who form the membership of the Free Church of
Scotland, for the noble, and liberal, and high-toned manner in which
you have recognised this heroism, and carried forward so triumphantly
the cause for which they contended. The Free Church is in my opinion,
in Scotland, THE _event_ of the century, and I can hardly conceive that
a more noble testimony to principle could have been possible in any
other country in the world.”
Then turning to Dr. Guthrie, he asked to be excused for almost
interrupting him; and to the audience for trespassing on their patience
when such a speaker as Dr. Guthrie was to follow him.
Dr. Guthrie shook hands long and warmly with Sir John, and they had
plenty of time; and when Dr. Guthrie did speak, it was with a “forty
parson” power. He excelled himself, enchained his audience, and that
soiree is a “red-letter” day in Blinkbonny Free Church annals.
Bell said it was “awfu’ splendid,”—“just magnificent,”—“it beat
everything,”—“she just couldna say what it wasna,—it was ‘maist awfu’,
awfu’ splendid!”
THE ANGEL’S WHISPER.
By Samuel Lover.
A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that when a child
smiles in its sleep it is “talking with angels.”
A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea,
And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman’s dwelling,
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh, come back to me!”
Her beads while she number’d, the baby still slumber’d,
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;
“Oh! blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.
“And while they are keeping bright watch o’er thy sleeping,
Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me,
And say thou wouldst rather they’d watch o’er thy father;
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”
The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning,
And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see;
And closely caressing her child, with a blessing,
Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.”