THE PRODIGAL SON.
"Bring me my pike-staff, daughter Matilda,--the one with the head
turned round like crummy's horn; I find it easiest for my hand. And do
you hear, Matty?--Stop, I say; you are always in such a hurry.--Bring
me likewise my best cloak,--not the tartan one, but the grey marled
one, lined with green flannel. I go over to Shepherd Gawin's to-day,
to see that poor young man who is said to be dying."
"I would not go, father, were I you. He is a great reprobate, and will
laugh at every good precept; and, more than that, you will heat
yourself with the walk, get cold, and be confined again with your old
complaint."
"What was it you said, daughter Matilda? Ah, you said that which was
very wrong. God only knows who are reprobates, and who are not. We can
judge from nought but external evidence, which is a false ground to
build calculations upon; but He knows the heart, with all our motives
of action, and judges very differently from us. You said very wrong,
daughter. But women will always be speaking unadvisedly. Always rash!
always rash!--Bring me my cloak, daughter, for as to my being injured
by my walk, I am going on my Master's business; my life and health are
in his hands, and let him do with me as seemeth good in his sight; I
will devote all to his service the little while I have to sojourn
here."
"But this young man, father, is not only wicked himself, but he
delights in the wickedness of others. He has ruined all his
associates, and often not without toiling for it with earnest
application. Never did your own heart yearn more over the gaining of
an immortal soul to God and goodness, than this same young
profligate's bosom has yearned over the destruction of one."
"Ah! it is a dismal picture, indeed! but not, perhaps, so bad as you
say. Women are always disposed to exaggerate, and often let their
tongues outrun their judgments. Bring me my cloak and my staff,
daughter Mat. Though God withdraw his protecting arm from a
fellow-creature for a time, are we to give all up for lost? Do you not
know that his grace aboundeth to the chief of sinners?"
"I know more of this youth than you do, my dear father; would to
Heaven I knew less! and I advise you to stay at home, and leave him to
the mercy of that God whom he has offended. Old age and decrepitude
are his derision, and he will mock at and laugh you to scorn, and add
still more pangs to the hearts of his disconsolate parents. It was he,
who, after much travail, overturned the principles of your beloved
grandson, which has cost us all so much grief, and so many tears."
"That is indeed a bitter consideration; nevertheless it shall be got
over. I will not say, The Lord reward him according to his works,
although the words almost brooded on my tongue; but I will say, in the
sincerity of a Christian disposition, May the Lord of mercy forgive
him, and open his eyes to his undone state before it be too late, and
the doors of forgiveness be eternally shut! Thanks to my Maker, I now
feel as I ought! Go bring me my cloak, daughter Matilda; not that
tartan one, with the gaudy spangles, but my comfortable grey marled
one, with the green flannel lining."
"Stay till I tell you one thing more, father."
"Well, what is it? Say on, daughter, I'll hear you. Surely you are not
desirous that this young man's soul should perish? Women's prejudices
are always too strong, either one way or another. But I will hear you,
daughter--I will hear you. What is it?"
"You knew formerly somewhat of the evil this profligate youth did to
your grandson, but you do not know that he has most basely betrayed
his sister, your darling Euphemia."
Old Isaac's head sunk down, while some tears involuntarily dropped on
his knee; and to conceal his emotion, he remained silent, save that he
uttered a few stifled groans. Natural affection and duty were at
strife within him, and for a time neither of them would yield. His
daughter perceived the struggle, and contented herself with watching
its effects.
"Where is my cloak, daughter Matilda?" said he, at length, without
raising his head.
"It is hanging on one of the wooden knags in the garret, sir," said
she.
"Ay. Then you may let it hang on the knag where it is all day. It is a
weary world this! and we are all guilty creatures! I fear I cannot
converse and pray with the ruthless seducer of both my children."
"Your resolution is prudent, sir. All efforts to regain such a one are
vain. He is not only a reprobate, and an outcast from his Maker, but a
determined and avowed enemy to his laws and government."
"You do not know what you say, daughter," said old Isaac, starting to
his feet, and looking her sternly in the face. "If I again hear you
presume to prejudge any accountable and immortal being in such a
manner, I shall be more afraid of your own state than of his. While
life remains, we are in a land where repentance is to be had and
hoped for, and I will not hear the mercy of God arraigned. Bring me my
cloak and my staff instantly, without another word. When I think of
the country beyond the grave, and of the eternal fate that awaits this
hapless prodigal, all my injuries vanish, and my trust in the Lord is
strengthened anew. I shall at least pray with him, and for him; if he
will not hear me, my Father who is in heaven may hear me, and haply He
will open the victim's eyes to the hope that is set before him; for
the hearts of all the children of men are in his hands, and as the
rivers of water He turneth them whithersoever He pleaseth."
So old Isaac got his staff in his hand that had the head turned round
like the horn of a cow, and also his cloak round his shoulders, not
the tartan one with its gaudy spangles, but the grey marled one lined
with green flannel. Well might old Isaac be partial to that cloak, for
it was made for him by a beloved daughter who had been removed from
him and from her family at the age of twenty-three. She was the mother
of his two darlings, Isaac and Euphemia, mentioned before; and the
feelings with which he put on the mantle that day can only be
conceived by those who have learned to count all things but loss save
Jesus Christ, and him crucified; and how few are the number who attain
this sublime and sacred height!
"The blessing of him that is ready to perish shall light on the head
of my father," said Matilda, as she followed with her eye the bent
figure of the old man hasting with tottering steps over the moor, on
the road that led to Shepherd Gawin's; and when he vanished from her
view on the height, she wiped her eyes, drew the window screen, and
applied herself to her work.
Isaac lost sight of his own home, and came in view of Shepherd Gawin's
at the same instant; but he only gave a slight glance back to his own,
for the concern that lay before him dwelt on his heart. It was a
concern of life and death, not only of a temporal, but of a spiritual
and eternal nature; and where the mortal concerns are centred, on that
place, or towards that place, will the natural eye be turned. Isaac
looked only at the dwelling before him: All wore a solemn stillness
about the place that had so often resounded with rustic mirth; the
cock crowed not at the door as was his wont, nor strutted on the top
of his old dunghill, that had been accumulating there for ages, and
had the appearance of a small green mountain; but he sat on the
kail-yard dike, at the head of his mates, with his feathers ruffled,
and every now and then his one eye turned up to the sky, as if
watching some appearance there of which he stood in dread. The
blithesome collies came not down the green to bark and frolic half in
kindness and half in jealousy; they lay coiled up on the shelf of the
hay-stack, and as the stranger approached, lifted up their heads and
viewed him with a sullen and sleepy eye, then, uttering a low and
stifled growl, muffled their heads again between their hind feet, and
shrouded their social natures in the very depth of sullenness.
"This is either the abode of death, or deep mourning, or perhaps
both," said old Isaac to himself, as he approached the house; "and all
the domestic animals are affected by it, and join in the general
dismay. If this young man has departed with the eyes of his
understanding blinded, I have not been in the way of my duty. It is a
hard case that a blemished lamb should be cast out of the flock, and
no endeavour made by the shepherd to heal or recall it; that the poor
stray thing should be left to perish, and lost to its Master's fold.
It behoveth not a faithful shepherd to suffer this; and yet--Isaac,
thou art the man! May the Lord pardon his servant in this thing!"
The scene continued precisely the same until Isaac reached the
solitary dwelling. There was no one passing in or out by the door, nor
any human creature to be seen stirring, save a little girl, one of the
family, who had been away meeting the carrier to procure some
medicines, and who approached the house by a different path. Isaac was
first at the door, and on reaching it he heard a confused noise
within, like the sounds of weeping and praying commingled. Unwilling
to break in upon them, ignorant as he was how matters stood with the
family, he paused, and then with a soft step retreated to meet the
little girl that approached, and make some inquiries of her. She tried
to elude him by running past him at a little distance, but he asked
her to stop and tell him how all was within. She did not hear what he
said, but guessing the purport of his inquiry, answered, "He's nae
better, sir."--"Ah me! still in the same state of suffering?"--"Aih
no,--no ae grain,--I tell ye he's nae better ava." And with that she
stepped into the house, Isaac following close behind her, so that he
entered without being either seen or announced. The first sounds that
he could distinguish were the words of the dying youth; they had a
hoarse whistling sound, but they were the words of wrath and
indignation. As he crossed the hallan he perceived the sick man's
brother, the next to him in age, sitting at the window with his elbow
leaning on the table, and his head on his closed fist, while the tints
of sorrow and anger seemed mingled on his blunt countenance. Farther
on stood his mother and elder sister leaning on each other, and their
eyes shaded with their hands, and close by the sick youth's bedside;
beyond these kneeled old Gawin the shepherd, his fond and too
indulgent father. He held the shrivelled hand of his son in his, and
with the other that of a damsel who stood by his side: And Isaac
heard him conjuring his son in the name of the God of heaven. Here
old Isaac's voice interrupted the affecting scene. "Peace be to this
house,--may the peace of the Almighty be within its walls," said he,
with an audible voice. The two women uttered a stifled shriek, and the
dying man a "Poh! poh!" of abhorrence. Old Gawin, though he did not
rise from his knees, gazed round with amazement in his face; and
looking first at his dying son, and then at old Isaac, he drew a full
breath, and said, with a quivering voice, "Surely the hand of the
Almighty is in this!"
There was still another object in the apartment well worthy of the
attention of him who entered--it was the damsel who stood at the
bedside; but then she stood with her back to Isaac, so that he could
not see her face, and at the sound of his voice, she drew her cloak
over her head, and retired behind the bed, sobbing so, that her bosom
seemed like to rend. The cloak was similar to the one worn that day by
old Isaac, for, be it remembered, he had not the gaudy tartan one
about him, but the russet grey plaid made to him by his beloved
daughter. Isaac saw the young woman retiring behind the bed, and heard
her weeping; but a stroke like that of electricity seemed to have
affected the nerves of all the rest of the family on the entrance of
the good old man, so that his attention was attracted by those
immediately under his eye. The mother and daughter whispered to each
other in great perplexity. Old Gawin rose from his knees; and not
knowing well what to say or do, he diligently wiped the dust from the
knee-caps of his corduroy breeches, even descending to the minutiae of
scraping away some specks more adhesive than the rest, with the nail
of his mid finger. No one welcomed the old man, and the dying youth in
the bed grumbled these bitter words, "I see now on what errand Ellen
was sent! Confound your officiousness!"
"No, Graham, you are mistaken. The child was at T----r to meet the
carrier for your drogs," said old Gawin.
"Poh! poh! all of a piece with the rest of the stuff you have told me.
Come hither, Ellen, and let me see what the doctor has sent."--The
girl came near, and gave some vials with a sealed direction.
"So you got these at T----r, did you?"
"Yes, I got them from Jessy Clapperton; the carrier was away."
"Lying imp! who told you to say that? Answer me!"--The child was mute
and looked frightened.--"Oh! I see how it is! You have done very well,
my dear, very cleverly, you give very fair promise. Get me some
clothes, pray--I will try if I can leave this house."
"Alas, my good friends, what is this?" said Isaac; "the young man's
reason, I fear, is wavering. Good Gawin, why do you not give me your
hand? I am extremely sorry for your son's great bodily sufferings, and
for what you and your family must suffer mentally on his account. How
are you?"
"Right weel, sir--as weel as may be expected," said Gawin, taking old
Isaac's hand, but not once lifting his eyes from the ground to look
the good man in the face.
"And how are you, good dame?" continued Isaac, shaking hands with the
old woman.
"Right weel, thanks t'ye, sir. It is a cauld day this. Ye'll be
cauld?"
"Oh no, I rather feel warm."
"Ay, ye have a comfortable plaid for a day like this; a good plaid it
is."
"I like to hear you say so, Agnes, for that plaid was a Christmas
present to me, from one who has now been several years in the cold
grave. It was made to me by my kind and beloved daughter Euphy. But
enough of this--I see you have some mantles in the house of the very
same kind."
"No; not the same. We have none of the same here."
"Well, the same or nearly so,--it is all one. My sight often deceives
me now."--The family all looked at one another.--"But enough of this,"
continued old Isaac, "I came not thus far to discuss such matters.
The sick young man, from what I heard, I fear, is incapable of
spiritual conversation?"
"Yes, I am," said he, from the bed, with a squeaking voice; "and I
would this moment that I were dead! Why don't you give me my clothes?
Sure never was a poor unfortunate being tormented as I am! Won't you
have pity on me, and let me have a little peace for a short time? It
is not long I will trouble you. Is it not mean and dastardly in you
all to combine against an object that cannot defend himself?"
"Alack, alack!" said old Isaac, "the calmness of reason is departed
for the present. I came to converse a little with him on that which
concerns his peace here, and his happiness hereafter: to hold the
mirror up to his conscience, and point out an object to him, of which,
if he take not hold, all his hope is a wreck."
"I knew it! I knew it!" vociferated the sick man. "A strong and great
combination: but I'll defeat it,--ha, ha, ha! I tell you, Father
Confessor, I have no right or part in the object you talk of. I will
have no farther concern with her. She shall have no more of me than
you shall have. If the devil should have all, that is absolute--Will
that suffice?"
"Alas! he is not himself," said old Isaac, "and has nearly been guilty
of blasphemy. We must not irritate him farther. All that we can do is
to join in prayer that the Lord will lay no more upon him than he is
able to bear, that he will heal his wounded spirit, and restore him to
the use of reason; and that, in the midst of his wanderings, should he
blaspheme, the sin may not be laid to his charge."
Gawin was about to speak, and explain something that apparently
affected him; the dying youth had likewise raised himself on his
elbow, and, with an angry countenance, was going to reply; but when
the old man took off his broad-brimmed hat, and discovered the
wrinkled forehead and the thin snowy hair waving around it, the sight
was so impressive that silence was imposed on every tongue. He sung
two stanzas of a psalm, read a chapter of the New Testament, and then
kneeling by the bedside, prayed for about half an hour, with such
fervency of devotion, that all the family were deeply affected. It was
no common-place prayer, nor one so general that it suited any case of
distress; every sentence of it spoke home to the heart, and alluded
particularly to the very state of him for whom the petitions were
addressed to heaven. Old Gawin gave two or three short sighs, which
his wife hearing, she wiped her eyes with her apron. Their fair
daughter made the same sort of noise that one does who takes snuff,
and the innocent youth, their second son, who leaned forward on the
table instead of kneeling, let two tears fall on the board, which he
formed with his fore-finger into the initials of his name; the little
girl looked from one to another, and wondered what ailed them all,
then casting down her eyes, she tried to look devout, but they would
not be restrained. The dying youth, who at the beginning testified the
utmost impatience, by degrees became the most affected of all. His
features first grew composed, then rueful, and finally he turned
himself on his face in humble prostration. Isaac pleaded fervently
with the Almighty that the sufferer's days might be lengthened, and
that he might not be cut off in the bloom of youth, and exuberance of
levity--at that season when man is more apt to speak than calculate,
and to act than consider, even though speech should be crime, and
action irretrievable ruin. "Spare and recover him, O merciful Father,
yet for a little while," said be, "that he may have his eyes opened to
see his ruined state both by nature and by wicked works; for who among
us liveth and sinneth not, and what changes may be made in his
dispositions in a few years or a few months by thy forbearance? Thou
takest no pleasure in the death of sinners, but rather that all should
repent, and turn unto thee, and live; therefore, for his immortal
soul's sake, and for the sake of what thy Son hath suffered for ruined
man, spare him till he have time and space to repent. Should his
youthful mind have been tainted with the prevailing vice of
infidelity, so that he hath been tempted to lift up his voice against
the most sacred truths; and should he, like all the profane, have been
following his inclinations rather than his judgment, how is he now
prepared to abide the final result? or to be ushered into the very
midst of those glorious realities which he hath hitherto treated as a
fiction? And how shall he stand before thee, when he discovers, too
late, that there is indeed a God, whose being and attributes he hath
doubted, a Saviour whom he hath despised, a heaven into which he
cannot enter, and a hell which he can never escape? Perhaps he hath
been instrumental in unhinging the principles of others, and of
misleading some unwary being from the paths of truth and holiness; and
in the flush of reckless depravity, may even have deprived some
innocent, loving, and trusting being of virtue, and left her a prey to
sorrow and despair; and with these and more grievous crimes on his
head,--all unrepented and unatoned,--how shall he appear before thee?"
At this part of the prayer, the sobs behind the bed became so audible,
that it made the old man pause in the midst of his fervent
supplications; and the dying youth was heard to weep in suppressed
breathings. Isaac went on, and prayed still for the sufferer as one
insensible to all that passed; but he prayed so earnestly for his
forgiveness, for the restoration of his right reason, and for health
and space for repentance and amendment, that the sincerity of his
heart was apparent in every word and every tone.
When he rose from his knees there was a deep silence; no one knew what
to say, or to whom to address himself; for the impression made on all
their minds was peculiarly strong. The only motion made for a good
while was by the soft young man at the table, who put on his bonnet as
he was wont to do after prayers; but remembering that the Minister was
present, he slipped it off again by the ear, as if he had been
stealing it from his own head. At that instant the dying youth
stretched out his hand. Isaac saw it, and looking to his mother, said
he wanted something. "It is yours--your hand that I want," said the
youth, in a kind and expressive tone. Isaac started, he had judged him
to be in a state of delirium, and his surprise may be conceived when
he heard him speak with calmness and composure. He gave him his hand,
but from what he had heard fall from his lips before, knew not how to
address him. "You _are_ a good man," said the youth, "God in heaven
reward you!"
"What is this I hear?" cried Isaac, breathless with astonishment.
"Have the disordered senses been rallied in one moment? Have our
unworthy prayers indeed been heard at the throne of Omnipotence, and
answered so suddenly? Let us bow ourselves with gratitude and
adoration. And for thee, my dear young friend, be of good cheer; for
there are better things intended towards thee. Thou shalt yet live to
repent of thy sins, and to become a chosen vessel of mercy in the
house of him that saved thee."
"If I am spared in life for a little while," said the youth, "I shall
make atonement for some of my transgressions, for the enormity of
which I am smitten to the heart."
"Trust to no atonement you can make of yourself," cried Isaac
fervently. "It is a bruised reed, to which, if you lean, it will go
into your hand and pierce it; a shelter that will not break the blast.
You must trust to a higher atonement, else your repentance shall be as
stubble, or as chaff that the wind carrieth away."
"So disinterested!" exclaimed the youth. "Is it my wellbeing alone
over which your soul yearns? This is more than I expected to meet with
in humanity! Good father, I am unable to speak more to you to-day, but
give me your hand, and promise to come back to see me on Friday. If I
am spared in life, you shall find me all that you wish, and shall
never more have to charge me with ingratitude."
In the zeal of his devotion, Isaac had quite forgot all personal
injuries; he did not even remember that there were such beings as his
grandchildren in existence at that time; but when the young man said,
that "he should find him all that he wished, and that he would no more
be ungrateful," the sobs and weeping behind the bed grew so audible,
that all farther exchange of sentiments was interrupted. The youth
grasped old Isaac's hand, and motioned for him to go away; and he was
about to comply, out of respect for the feelings of the sufferer, but
before he could withdraw his hand from the bed, or rise from the seat
on which he had just sat down, the weeping fair one burst from behind
the bed; and falling on his knees with her face, she seized his hand
with both hers, kissed it an hundred times, and bathed it all over
with her tears. Isaac's heart was at all times soft, and at that
particular time he was in a mood to be melted quite; he tried to
soothe the damsel, though he himself was as much affected as she
was--but as her mantle was still over her head, how could he know her?
His old dim eyes were, moreover, so much suffused with tears, that he
did not perceive that mantle to be the very same with his own, and
that one hand must have been the maker of both. "Be comforted," said
old Isaac; "he will mend--He will mend, and be yet a stay to you and
to them all--be of good comfort, dear love."
When he had said this, he wiped his eyes hastily and impatiently with
the lap of his plaid, seized his old pike-staff; and as he tottered
across the floor, drawing up his plaid around his waist, its purple
rustic colours caught his eye, dim as it was; and he perceived that
it was not his tartan one with the gaudy spangles, but the grey marled
one that was made to him by his beloved daughter. Who can trace the
links of association in the human mind? The chain is more angled, more
oblique, than the course marked out by the bolt of heaven--as
momentarily formed, and as quickly lost. In all cases, they are
indefinable, but on the mind of old age, they glance like dreams and
visions of something that have been, and are for ever gone. The
instant that Isaac's eye fell on his mantle, he looked hastily and
involuntarily around him, first on the one side and then on the other,
his visage manifesting trepidation and uncertainty. "Pray what have
you lost, sir?" said the kind and officious dame. "I cannot tell what
it was that I missed," said old Isaac, "but methought I felt as if I
had left something behind me that was mine." Isaac went away, but left
not a dry eye in the dwelling which he quitted.
On leaving the cottage he was accompanied part of the way by Gawin, in
whose manner there still remained an unaccountable degree of
embarrassment. His conversation laboured under a certain restraint,
insomuch that Isaac, who was an observer of human nature, could not
help taking notice of it; but those who have never witnessed, in the
same predicament, a home-bred, honest countryman, accustomed to speak
his thoughts freely at all times, can form no conception of the
appearance that Gawin made. From the time that the worthy old man
first entered his cot, till the time they parted again on the height,
Gawin's lips were curled, the one up, and the other down, leaving an
inordinate extent of teeth and gums displayed between them; whenever
his eyes met those of his companion, they were that instant withdrawn,
and, with an involuntary motion, fixed on the summit of some of the
adjacent hills; and when they stopped to converse, Gawin was always
laying on the ground with his staff, or beating some unfortunate
thistle all to pieces. The one family had suffered an injury from the
other, of a nature so flagrant in Gawin's eyes, that his honest heart
could not brook it; and yet so delicate was the subject, that when he
essayed to mention it, his tongue refused the office. "There has a
sair misfortune happened," said he once, "that ye aiblins dinna ken
o'.--But it's nae matter ava!" And with that he fell on and beat a
thistle, or some other opposing shrub, most unmercifully.
There was, however, one subject on which he spoke with energy, and
that was the only one in which old Isaac was for the time interested.
It was his son's religious state of mind. He told Isaac, that he had
formed a correct opinion of the youth, and that he was indeed a
scoffer at religion, because it had become fashionable in certain
college classes, where religion was never mentioned but with ridicule;
but that his infidelity sprung from a perverse and tainted
inclination, in opposition to his better judgment, and that if he
could have been brought at all to think or reason on the subject, he
would have thought and reasoned aright; this, however, he had avoided
by every means, seeming horrified at the very mention of the subject,
and glad to escape from the tormenting ideas that it brought in its
train.--"Even the sight of your face to-day," continued Gawin, "drove
him into a fit of temporary derangement. But from the unwonted
docility he afterwards manifested, I have high hopes that this visit
of yours will be accompanied by the blessing of Heaven. He has been a
dear lad to me; for the sake of getting him forret in his lair, I hae
pinched baith mysell and a' my family, and sitten down wi' them to
mony a poor and scrimpit meal. But I never grudged that, only I hae
whiles been grieved that the rest o' my family hae gotten sae little
justice in their schooling. And yet, puir things, there has never ane
o' them grieved my heart,--which he has done aftener than I like to
speak o'. It has pleased Heaven to punish me for my partiality to him;
but I hae naething for it but submission.--Ha! do ye ken, sir, that
that day I first saw him mount a poopit, and heard him begin a
discourse to a croudit congregation, I thought a' my pains and a' my
pinching poverty overpaid. For the first quarter of an hour I was sae
upliftit, that I hardly kenn'd whether I was sitting, standing, or
flying in the air, or whether the kirk was standing still, or rinning
round about. But, alake! afore the end o' his twa discourses, my heart
turned as cauld as lead, and it has never again hett in my breast
sinsyne. They were twa o' thae cauldrife moral harangues, that tend to
uplift poor wrecked, degenerate human nature, and rin down divine
grace. There was nae dependence to be heard tell o' there, beyond the
weak arm o' sinfu' flesh; and oh, I thought to mysell, that will
afford sma' comfort, my man, to either you or me, at our dying day!"
Here the old shepherd became so much overpowered, that he could not
proceed, and old Isaac took up the discourse, and administered comfort
to the sorrowing father: then shaking him kindly by the hand, he
proceeded on his way, while Gawin returned slowly homeward, still
waging war with every intrusive and superfluous shrub in his path. He
was dissatisfied with himself because he had not spoken his mind to a
person who so well deserved his confidence, on a subject that most of
all preyed on his heart.
Matilda, who sat watching the path by which her father was to return
home, beheld him as soon as he came in view, and continued to watch
him all the way with that tender solicitude which is only prompted by
the most sincere and disinterested love.--"With what agility he
walks!" exclaimed she to herself; "bless me, sirs, he is running! He
is coming pacing down yon green sward as if he were not out of his
teens yet. I hope he has been successful in his mission, and prevailed
with that abandoned profligate to make some amends to my hapless
niece."
How different are the views of different persons! and how various the
objects of their pursuit! Isaac thought of no such thing. He rejoiced
only in the goodness and mercy of his Maker, and had high hopes that
he would make him (unworthy as he was) instrumental in gaining over an
immortal soul to Heaven and happiness. He sung praises to Heaven in
his heart, and the words of gratitude and thankfulness hung upon his
tongue. His daughter never took her eye from him, in his approach to
his little mansion. Her whole dependence was on her father--her whole
affection was centred in him: she had been taught from her infancy to
regard him as the first and best of men; and though she had now lived
with him forty years, he had never in one instance done an action to
lessen that esteem, or deface that pure image of uprightness and
sincerity, which her affectionate heart had framed. When he came in,
her watchful kindness assailed him in a multitude of ways--every thing
was wrong; she would have it that his feet were damp, although he
assured her of the contrary--his right-hand sleeve was wringing wet;
and there was even a dampness between his shoulders, which was
exceedingly dangerous, as it was so nearly opposite the heart. In
short, old Isaac's whole apparel had to be shifted piecemeal, though
not without some strong remonstrances on his part, and the
good-natured quotation, several times repeated, from the old song:
"Nought's to be won at woman's hand,
Unless ye gie her a' the plea."
When she had got him all made comfortable to her mind, and his feet
placed in slippers well-toasted before the fire, she then began her
inquiries. "How did you find all at Gawin's to-day, now when I have
gotten time to speir?"
"Why, daughter Matty, poorly enough, very poorly. But, thanks be to
God, I think I left them somewhat better than I found them."
"I am so glad to hear that! I hope you have taken Graham over the
coals about Phemy?"
"Eh! about Phemy?"
"You know what I told you before you went away? You were not so
unnatural as to forget your own flesh and blood, in communing with the
man who has wronged her?"
"I did not think more of the matter; and if I had, there would have
been no propriety in mentioning it, as none of the family spoke of it
to me. And how was I assured that there was no mis-statement? Women
are always so rash-spoken, and so fond of exaggeration, that I am
afraid to trust them at the first word; and besides, my dear Matty,
you know they are apt to see things double sometimes."
"Well, my dear father, I must say that your wit, or raillery, is very
ill timed, considering whom it relates to. Your grand-daughter has
been most basely deceived, under a pretence of marriage; and yet you
will break your jokes on the subject!"
"You know, Matty, I never broke a joke on such a subject in my life.
It was you whom I was joking; for your news cannot always be depended
on. If I were to take up every amour in the parish, upon the faith of
your first hints, and to take the delinquents over the coals, as you
recommend, I should often commit myself sadly."
Matilda was silenced. She asked for no instances, in order to deny the
insinuation; but she murmured some broken sentences, like one who has
been fairly beat in an argument, but is loath to yield. It was rather
a hard subject for the good lady; for ever since she had bidden adieu
to her thirtieth year, she had become exceedingly jealous of the
conduct of the younger portion of her sex. But Isaac was too
kind-hearted to exult in a severe joke; he instantly added, as a
palliative, "But I should hold my tongue. You have many means of
hearing, and coming to the truth of such matters, that I have not."
"I wish this were false, however," said Matilda, turning away her face
from the fire, lest the flame should scorch her cheek; "but I shall
say no more about it, and neither, I suppose, will you, till it be out
of time. Perhaps it may not be true, for I heard, since you went away,
that she was to be there to-day, by appointment of his parents, to
learn his final determination, which may be as much without foundation
as the other part of the story. If she had been there, you must have
seen her, you know."
"Eh?" said Isaac, after biting his lip, and making a long pause; "What
did you say, daughter Matty? Did you say my Phemy was to have been
there to-day?"
"I heard such a report, which must have been untrue, because, had she
been there, you would have met with her."
"There was a lass yonder," said Isaac. "How many daughters has Gawin?"
"Only one who is come the length of woman, and whom you see in the
kirk every day capering with her bobbs of crimson ribbons, and looking
at Will Ferguson."
"It is a pity women are always so censorious," said Isaac--"always
construing small matters the wrong way. It is to be hoped these little
constitutional failings will not be laid to their charge.--So Gawin
has but one daughter?"
"I said, one that is a grown-up woman. He has, besides, little Ellen;
a pert idle creature, who has an eye in her head that will tell tales
some day."
"Then there was indeed another damsel," said old Isaac, "whom I did
not know, but took her for one of the family. Alake, and wo is me!
Could I think it was my own dear child hanging over the couch of a
dying man! The girl that I saw was in tears, and deeply affected. She
even seized my hand, and bathed it with tears. What could she think of
me, who neither named nor kissed her, but that I had cast her off and
renounced her? But no, no, I can never do that; I will forgive her as
heartily as I would beg for her forgiveness at the throne of mercy. We
are all fallible and offending creatures; and a young maid, that grows
up as a willow by the water-courses, and who is in the flush of youth
and beauty, ere ever she has had a moment's time for serious
reflection, or one trial of worldly experience--that such a one should
fall a victim to practised guilt, is a consequence so natural, that,
however deeply to be regretted, it is not matter of astonishment. Poor
misguided Phemy! Did you indeed kneel at my knee, and bathe my hand
with your affectionate tears, without my once deigning to acknowledge
you? And yet how powerful are the workings of nature! They are indeed
the workings of the Deity himself: for when I arose, all unconscious
of the presence of my child, and left her weeping, I felt as if I had
left a part of my body and blood behind me."
"So she was indeed there, whining and whimpering over her honourable
lover?" said Matilda. "I wish I had been there, to have told her a
piece of my mind! The silly, inconsiderate being, to allow herself to
be deprived of fair fame and character by such a worthless profligate,
bringing disgrace on all connected with her! And then to go whimpering
over his sick-bed!--O dear love, you must marry me, or I am undone! I
have _loved_ you with all my heart, you know, and you must make me
your wife. I am content to beg my bread with you, now that I have
_loved_ you so dearly! only you must marry me. Oh dear! Oh dear! what
shall become of me else!"
"Dear daughter Matilda, where is the presumptuous being of the fallen
race of Adam who can say, Here will I stand in my own strength? What
will the best of us do, if left to ourselves, better than the erring,
inexperienced being, whose turning aside you so bitterly censure? It
is better that we lament the sins and failings of our relatives, my
dear Matty, than rail against them, putting ourselves into sinful
passion, and thereby adding one iniquity to another."
The argument was kept up all that evening, and all next day, with the
same effect; and if either of the disputants had been asked what it
was about, neither could have told very precisely: the one attached a
blame, which the other did not deny; only there were different ways of
speaking about it. On the third day, which was Friday, old Isaac
appeared at breakfast in his Sunday clothes, giving thus an intimation
of a second intended visit to the house of Gawin the shepherd. The
first cup of tea was scarcely poured out, till the old subject was
renewed, and the debate seasoned with a little more salt than was
customary between the two amiable disputants. Matilda disapproved of
the visit, and tried, by all the eloquence she was mistress of, to
make it appear indecorous. Isaac defended it on the score of
disinterestedness and purity of intention; but finding himself hard
pressed, he brought forward his promise, and the impropriety of
breaking it. Matty would not give up her point; she persisted in it,
till she spoiled her father's breakfast, made his hand shake so, that
he could scarcely put the cup to his head, and, after all, staggered
his resolution so much, that at last he sat in silence, and Matty got
all to say herself. She now accounted the conquest certain, and
valuing herself on the influence she possessed, she began to
overburden her old father with all manner of kindness and teasing
officiousness. Would he not take this, and refrain from that, and wear
one part of dress in preference to another that he had on? There was
no end of controversy with Isaac, however kind might be the intent.
All that he said at that time was, "Let me alone, dear Matty; let me
have some peace. Women are always overwise--always contrary."
When matters were at this pass, the maid-servant came into the room,
and announced that a little girl of shepherd Gawin's wanted to speak
with the Minister. "Alas, I fear the young man will be at his rest!"
said Isaac. Matilda grew pale, and looked exceedingly alarmed, and
only said, "she hoped not." Isaac inquired of the maid, but she said
the girl refused to tell her any thing, and said she had orders not to
tell a word of aught that had happened about the house.
"Then something _has_ happened," said Isaac. "It must be as I feared!
Send the little girl ben."
Ellen came into the parlour with a beck as quick and as low as that
made by the water ouzel, when standing on a stone in the middle of the
water; and, without waiting for any inquiries, began her speech on the
instant, with, "Sir--hem--heh--my father sent me, sir--hem--to tell ye
that ye warna to forget your promise to come ower the day, for that
there's muckle need for yer helping hand yonder--sir; that's a',
sir."
"You may tell your father," said Isaac, "that I will come as soon as I
am able. I will be there by twelve o'clock, God willing."
"Are you wise enough, my dear father, to send such a message?"
remonstrated Matilda. "You are not able to go a journey to-day. I
thought I had said enough about that before.--You may tell your
father," continued she, turning to Ellen, "that my father cannot come
the length of his house to-day."
"I'll tell my father what the Minister bade me," replied the girl.
"I'll say, sir, that ye'll be there by twall o'clock;--will I, sir?"
"Yes, by twelve o'clock," said Isaac.
Ellen had no sooner made her abrupt curtsey, and left the room, than
Matilda, with the desperation of a general who sees himself on the
point of being driven from a position which it had cost him much
exertion to gain, again opened the fire of her eloquence upon her
father. "Were I you," said she, "I would scorn to enter their door,
after the manner in which the profligate villain has behaved: first,
to make an acquaintance with your grandson at the College--pervert all
his ideas of rectitude and truth--then go home with him to his
father's house, during the vacation, and there live at heck and
manger, no lady being in the house save your simple and unsuspecting
Phemy, who now is reduced to the necessity of going to a shepherd's
cottage, and begging to be admitted to the alliance of a family, the
best of whom is far beneath her, to say nothing of the unhappy
individual in question. Wo is me, that I have seen the day!"
"If the picture be correctly drawn, it is indeed very bad; but I hope
the recent sufferings of the young man will have the effect of
restoring him to the principles in which he was bred, and to a better
sense of his heinous offences. I must go and see how the family fares,
as in duty and promise bound. Content yourself, dear daughter. It may
be that the unfortunate youth has already appeared at that bar from
which there is no appeal."
This consideration, as it again astounded, so it put to silence the
offended dame, who suffered her father to depart on his mission of
humanity without farther opposition; and old Isaac again set out,
meditating as he went, and often conversing with himself, on the
sinfulness of man, and the great goodness of God. So deeply was he
wrapt in contemplation, that he scarcely cast an eye over the wild
mountain scenery by which he was surrounded, but plodded on his way,
with eyes fixed on the ground, till he approached the cottage. He was
there aroused from his reverie, by the bustle that appeared about the
door. The scene was changed indeed from that to which he introduced
himself two days before. The collies came yelping and wagging their
tails to meet him, while the inmates of the dwelling were peeping out
at the door, and as quickly vanishing again into the interior. There
were also a pair or two of neighbouring shepherds sauntering about the
side of the kail-yard dike, all dressed in their Sunday apparel, and
every thing bespeaking some "occasion," as any uncommon occurrence is
generally denominated.
"What can it be that is astir here to-day?" said Isaac to
himself.--"Am I brought here to a funeral or corpse-chesting, without
being apprised of the event? It must be so. What else can cause such a
bustle about a house where trouble has so long prevailed? Ah! there is
also old Robinson, my session-clerk and precentor. He is the true
emblem of mortality: then it is indeed all over with the poor young
man!"
Now Robinson had been at so many funerals all over the country, and
was so punctual in his attendance on all within his reach, that to see
him pass, with his staff, and black coat without the collar, was the
very same thing as if a coffin had gone by. A burial was always a good
excuse for giving the boys the play, for a refreshing walk into the
country, and was, besides, a fit opportunity for moral contemplation,
not to say any thing of hearing the country news. But there was also
another motive, which some thought was the most powerful inducement of
any with the old Dominie. It arose from that longing desire after
preeminence which reigns in every human breast, and which no man
fails to improve, however small the circle may be in which it can be
manifested. At every funeral, in the absence of the Minister, Robinson
was called on to say grace; and when they were both present, whenever
the Parson took up his station in one apartment, the Dominie took up
his in another, and thus had an equal chance, for the time, with his
superior. It was always shrewdly suspected, that the Clerk tried to
outdo the Minister on such occasions, and certainly made up in length
what he wanted in energy. The general remarks on this important point
amounted to this, "that the Dominie was langer than the Minister, and
though he was hardly just sae conceese, yet he meant as weel;" and
that, "for the maist part, he was _stronger on the grave_." Suffice
it, that the appearance of old Robinson, in the present case,
confirmed Isaac in the belief of the solemnity of the scene awaiting
him; and as his mind was humbled to acquiesce in the Divine will, his
mild and reverend features were correspondent therewith. He thought of
the disappointment and sufferings of the family, and had already begun
in his heart to intercede for them at the throne of Mercy.
When he came near to the house, out came old Gawin himself. He had
likewise his black coat on, and his Sunday bonnet, and a hand in each
coat-pocket; but for all his misfortune and heavy trials, he strode
to the end of the house with a firm and undismayed step.--Ay, he is
quite right, thought Isaac to himself; that man has his trust where it
should be, fixed on the Rock of Ages; and he has this assurance, that
the Power on whom he trusts can do nothing wrong. Such a man can look
death in the face, undismayed, in all his steps and inroads.
Gawin spoke to some of his homely guests, then turned round, and came
to meet Isaac, whom he saluted, by taking off his bonnet, and shaking
him heartily by the hand.--The bond of restraint had now been removed
from Gawin's lips, and his eye met the Minister's with the same
frankness it was wont. The face of affairs was changed since they had
last parted.
"How's a' w'ye the day, sir?--How's a' w'ye?--I'm unco blythe to see
ye," said Gawin.
"Oh, quite well, thank you. How are you yourself? And how are all
within?"
"As weel as can be expectit, sir--as weel as can be expectit."
"I am at a little loss, Gawin--Has any change taken place in family
circumstances since I was here?"
"Oh, yes; there has indeed, sir; a material change--I hope for the
better."
Gawin now led the way, without further words, into the house, desiring
the Minister to follow him, and "tak' care o' his head and the bauks,
and no fa' ower the bit stirk, for it was sure to be lying i' the
dark."
When Isaac went in, there was no one there but the goodwife, neatly
dressed in her black stuff gown, and check apron, with a close
'kerchief on her head, well crimped in the border, and tied round the
crown and below the chin with a broad black ribbon. She also saluted
the Minister with uncommon frankness--"Come away, sir, come away.
Dear, dear, how are ye the day? It's but a slaitery kind o' day this,
as I was saying to my man, there; Dear, dear, Gawin, says I, I wish
the Minister may be nae the waur o' coming ower the muir the day. That
was joost what I said. And dear, dear, sir, how's Miss Matty, sir? Oh,
it is lang sin' I hae seen her. I like aye to see Miss Matty, ye ken,
to get a rattle frae her about the folk, ye ken, and a' our
neighbours, that fa' into sinfu' gates; for there's muckle sin gangs
on i' the parish. Ah, ay! I wat weel that's very true, Miss Matty,
says I. But what can folk help it? ye ken, folk are no a' made o' the
same metal, as the airn tangs,--like you----"
--"Bless me with patience!" said Isaac in his heart; "this poor
woman's misfortunes have crazed her! What a salutation for the house
of mourning!" Isaac looked to the bed, at the side of which he had so
lately kneeled in devotion, and he looked with a reverent dread, but
the corpse was not there! It was neatly spread with a clean
coverlid.--It is best to conceal the pale and ghostly features of
mortality from the gazer's eye, thought Isaac. It is wisely done, for
there is nothing to be seen in them but what is fitted for corruption.
"Gawin, can nae ye tak' the Minister ben the house, or the rest o' the
clanjamphery come in?" said the talkative dame.--"Hout, ay, sir, step
your ways ben the house. We hae a ben end and a but end the day, as
weel as the best o' them. And ye're ane o' our ain folk, ye ken. Ah,
ay! I wat weel that's very true! As I said to my man, Gawin, quo' I,
whenever I see our Minister's face, I think I see the face of a
friend."
"Gudewife, I hae but just ae word to say, by way o' remark," said
Gawin; "folk wha count afore the change-keeper, hae often to count
twice, and sae has the herd, wha counts his hogs afore Beltan.--Come
this way, sir; follow me, and tak' care o' your head and the bauks."
Isaac followed into the rustic parlour, where he was introduced to one
he little expected to see sitting there. This was no other than the
shepherd's son, who had so long been attended on as a dying person,
and with whom Isaac had so lately prayed, in the most fervent
devotion, as with one of whose life little hope was entertained. There
he sat, with legs like two poles, hands like the hands of a skeleton;
yet his emaciated features were lighted up with a smile of serenity
and joy. Isaac was petrified. He stood still on the spot, even though
the young man rose up to receive him. He deemed he had come there to
see his lifeless form laid in the coffin, and to speak words of
comfort to the survivors. He was taken by surprise, and his heart
thrilled with unexpected joy.
"My dear young friend, do I indeed see you thus?" he said, taking him
kindly and gently by the hand. "God has been merciful to you, above
others of your race. I hope, in the mercy that has saved you from the
gates of death, that you feel grateful for your deliverance; for,
trust me, it behoves you to do so, in no ordinary degree."
"I shall never be able to feel as I ought, either to my deliverer or
to yourself," said he. "Till once I heard the words of truth and
seriousness from your mouth, I have not dared, for these many years,
to think my own thoughts, speak my own words, or perform the actions
to which my soul inclined. I have been a truant from the school of
truth; but have now returned, with all humility, to my Master, for I
feel that I have been like a wayward boy, groping in the dark, to find
my way, though a path splendidly lighted up lay open for me. But of
these things I long exceedingly to converse with you, at full length
and full leisure. In the meantime, let me introduce you to other
friends who are longing for some little notice. This is my sister,
sir; and--shake hands with the Minister, Jane--And do you know this
young lady, sir, with the mantle about her, who seems to expect a word
from you, acknowledging old acquaintance?"
"My eyes are grown so dim now," said old Isaac, "that it is with
difficulty I can distinguish young people from one another, unless
they speak to me. But she will not look up. Is this my dear young
friend, Miss Mary Sibbet?"
"Nay, sir, it is not she. But I think, as you two approach one
another, your plaids appear very nearly the same."
"Phemy! My own child Phemy! Is it yourself? Why did you not
speak?--But you have been an alien of late, and a stranger to me. Ah,
Phemy! Phemy! I have been hearing bad news of you. But I did not
believe them--no, I _would not_ believe them."
Euphemia for a while uttered not a word, but keeping fast hold of her
grandfather's hand, she drew it under her mantle, and crept
imperceptibly a degree nearer to his breast. The old man waited for
some reply, standing as in the act of listening; till at length, in a
trembling whisper, scarcely audible, she repeated these sacred
words--"Father, forgive me, for I knew not what I did!" The expression
had the effect desired on Isaac's mind. It brought to his remembrance
that gracious petition, the most fully fraught with mercy and
forgiveness that ever was uttered on earth, and bowed his whole soul
at once to follow the pattern of his great Master. His eye beamed with
exultation in his Redeemer's goodness, and he answered, "Yes, my
child, yes. He whose words you have unworthily taken, will not refuse
the petition of any of his repentant children, however great their
enormities may have been; and why should such a creature as I am
presume to pretend indignation and offence, at aught further than his
high example warrants? May the Almighty forgive you as I do!"
"May Heaven bless and reward you!" said the young man. "But she is
blameless--blameless as the babe on the knee. I alone am the guilty
person, who infringed the rights of hospitality, and had nearly broken
the bonds of confidence and love. But I am here to-day to make, or
offer at least, what amends is in my power--to offer her my hand in
wedlock; that whether I live or die, she may live without dishonour.
But, reverend sir, all depends on your fiat. Without your approbation
she will consent to nothing; saying, that she had offended deeply by
taking her own will once, but nought should ever induce her to take it
unadvisedly again. It was for this purpose that we sent for you so
expressly to-day, namely, that I might entreat your consent to our
union. I could not be removed from home, so that we could not all
meet, to know one another's mind, in any other place. We therefore
await your approbation with earnest anxiety, as that on which our
future happiness depends."
After some mild and impressive reprehensions, Isaac's consent was
given in the most unqualified manner, and the names were given in to
the old Dominie's hand, with proper vouchers, for the publication of
the bans. The whole party dined together at old Gawin's. I was there
among the rest, and thought to enjoy the party exceedingly; but the
party was too formal, and too much on the reserve before the Minister.
I noted down, when I went home, all the conversation, as far as I
could remember it, but it is not worth copying. I see that Gawin's
remarks are all measured and pompous, and, moreover, delivered in a
sort of bastard English, a language which I detest. He considered
himself as now to be nearly connected with the _Manse Family_, and
looking forward to an eldership in the church, deemed it incumbent on
him to talk in a most sage and instructive manner. The young shepherd,
and an associate of his, talked of dogs, Cheviot tups, and some
remarkably bonny lasses that sat in the west gallery of the church.
John Grierson of the Hope recited what they called "lang skelps o'
metre," a sort of homely rhymes, that some of them pronounced to be
"far ayont Burns's fit." And the goodwife ran bustling about; but
whenever she could get a little leisure, she gave her tongue free
vent, without regard either to Minister or Dominie. She was too well
trained in the old homely Scotch, to attempt any of the flights, which
to Gawin, who was more sparing in his speech, were more easy to be
accomplished. "Dear, dear, sirs, can nae ye eat away? Ye hae nae the
stamacks o' as mony cats. Dear, dear, I'm sure an the flesh be nae
good, it sude be good, for it never saw either braxy or breakwind,
bleer-ee nor Beltan pock, but was the cantiest crock o' the Kaim-law.
Dear, dear, Johnie Grierson, tak' another rive o't, and set a good
example; as I said to my man there, Gawin, says I, it's weel kenn'd
ye're nae flae-bitten about the gab; and I said very true too."
Many such rants did she indulge in, always reminding her guests that
"it was a names-gieing-in, whilk was, o' a' ither things, the ane
neist to a wedding," and often hinting at their new and honourable
alliance, scarcely even able to keep down the way in which it was
brought about; for she once went so far as to say, "As I said to my
gudeman, Gawin, says I, for a' the fy-gae-to ye hae made, it's weel
kenn'd faint heart never wan fair lady. Ay, weel I wat, that's very
true, says I; a bird in the hand is worth twa on the bush.--Won a' to
and fill yoursells, sirs; there's routh o' mair where that came frae.
It's no aye the fattest foddering that mak's the fu'est aumry--and
that's nae lee."
Miss Matilda, the Minister's maiden daughter, was in towering
indignation about the marriage, and the connexion with a shepherd's
family; and it was rumoured over all the parish that she would never
countenance her niece any more. How matters went at first it is
perhaps as well for Miss Matilda's reputation, in point of
good-nature, that I am not able to say; but the last time I was at the
Manse, the once profligate and freethinking student had become Helper
to old Isaac, and was beloved and revered by all the parish, for the
warmth of his devotion, and soundness of his principles. His amiable
wife Euphemia had two sons, and their aunt Matty was nursing them with
a fondness and love beyond that which she bore to life itself.
In conclusion, I have only further to remark, that I have always
considered the prayers of that good old man as having been peculiarly
instrumental in saving a wretched victim, not only from immediate
death, but from despair of endless duration.