A spirit of prophecy, whether from the Lord or not, was abroad this
summer among the clergy of Glamerton, of all persuasions. Nor was its
influences confined to Glamerton or the clergy. The neighbourhood and
the laity had their share. Those who read their Bibles, of whom there
were many in that region, took to reading the prophecies, all the
prophecies, and scarcely anything but the prophecies. Upon these every
man, either for himself or following in the track of his spiritual
instructor, exercised his individual powers of interpretation, whose
fecundity did not altogether depend upon the amount of historical
knowledge. But whatever was known, whether about ancient Assyria or
modern Tahiti, found its theoretic place. Of course the Church of Rome
had her due share of the application from all parties; but neither the
Church of England, the Church of Scotland, nor either of the dissenting
sects, went without its portion freely dealt, each of the last finding
something that applied to all the rest. There were some, however, who
cared less for such modes, and, themselves given to a daily fight with
antichrist in their own hearts, sought--for they too read the
prophecies--to fix their reference on certain sins, and certain persons
classed according to these their sins. With a burning desire for the
safety of their neighbours, they took upon them the strongest words of
rebuke and condemnation, so that one might have thought they were
revelling in the idea of the vengeance at hand, instead of striving for
the rescue of their neighbours from the wrath to come. Among these were
Thomas Crann and his minister, Mr Turnbull. To them Glamerton was the
centre of creation, providence, and revelation. Every warning finger in
The Book pointed to it; every burst of indignation from the labouring
bosom of holy prophet was addressed to its sinners. And what the
ministers spoke to classes from the pulpit, Thomas, whose mode of
teaching was in so far Socratic that he singled out his man, applied to
the individual--in language occasionally too much to the point to admit
of repetition in the delicate ears of the readers of the nineteenth
century, some of whom are on such friendly terms with the vices
themselves, that they are shocked at the vulgarity and rudeness of the
_names_ given them by their forefathers.
"Ye ken weel eneuch that ye're a drucken vratch, Peter Peterson. An' ye
ken weel eneuch that ye're nane better, forbye, than ye sud be. Naebody
ever accused ye o' stealin'; but gin ye haud on as ye're doin', that'll
come neist. But I doobt the wrath o' the Almichty'll be doon upo' 's
like a spate, as it was i' the days o' Noah, afore ye hae time to learn
to steal, Peter Peterson. Ye'll hae _your_ share in bringin'
destruction upo' this toon, and a' its belongin's. The verra kirk-yard
winna hide ye that day frae the wrath o' Him that sitteth upo' the
throne. Tak' ye tent, and repent, Peter; or it'll be the waur for ye."
The object of this terrible denunciation of the wrath of the Almighty
was a wretched little object indeed, just like a white rabbit--with
pink eyes, a grey face and head, poor thin legs, a long tail-coat that
came nearly to his heels, an awfully ragged pair of trowsers, and a
liver charred with whisky. He had kept a whisky-shop till he had drunk
all his own whisky; and as no distiller would let him have any on
trust, he now hung about the inn-yard, and got a penny from one, and
twopence from another, for running errands.--Had they been sovereigns
they would all have gone the same way--namely, for whisky.
He listened to Thomas with a kind of dazed meekness, his eyes wandering
everywhere except in the direction of Thomas's. One who did not know
Thomas would have thought it cowardly in him to attack such a poor
creature. But Thomas was just as ready to fly at the greatest man in
Glamerton. All the evildoers of the place feared him--the rich
manufacturer and the strong horse-doctor included. They called him a
wheezing, canting hypocrite, and would go streets out of their way to
avoid him.
But on the present occasion he went too far with Peter.
"And it's weel kent your dochter Bauby's no better nor she sud be;
for--"
Peter's face flushed crimson, though where the blood could have come
from was an anatomical mystery; he held up his hands with the fingers
crooked like the claws of an animal, for the poor creature had no
notion of striking; and, dancing backwards and forwards from one foot
to the other, and grinning with set teeth in an agony of impotent rage,
cried out:
"Tam Crann, gin ye daur to say anither word against my Bauby wi' that
foul mou' o' yours, I'll--I'll--I'll--worry ye like a mad dog-ye
ill-tongued scoonrel!"
His Bawby had already had two children--one to the rich manufacturer,
the other to the strong horse-doctor.
Thomas turned in silence and went away rebuked and ashamed. Next day he
sent Peter a pair of old corduroy trowsers, into either leg of which he
might have been buttoned like one of Paddy's twins.
In the midst of this commotion of mind and speech, good Mr Cowie died.
He had taken no particular interest in what was going on, nor even in
the prophecies themselves. Ever since Annie's petition for counsel, he
had been thinking, as he had never thought before, about his own
relation to God; and had found this enough without the prophecies. Now
he had carried his thoughts into another world. While Thomas Crann was
bending his spiritual artillery upon the poor crazy tub in which
floated the earthly presence of Peter Peterson, Mr Cowie's bark was
lying stranded upon that shore whither the tide of time is slowly
drifting each of us.
He was gently regretted by all--even by Thomas.
"Ay! ay!" he said, with slow emphasis, 'long drawn out'; "he's gane, is
he, honest man? Weel, maybe he had the root o' the maitter in him,
although it made unco little show aboon the yird. There was sma' flower
and less fruit. But jeedgment disna belang to us, ye see, Jean, lass."
Thomas would judge the living from morning to night; but the dead--he
would leave them alone in the better hands.
"I'm thinkin'," he added, "he's been taen awa' frae the evil to
come--frae seein' the terrible consequences o' sic a saft way o'
dealin' wi' eternal trowth and wi' perishin' men--taen awa' like Eli,
whan he brak his neck at the ill news. For the fire and brimstane that
overthrew Sodom and Gomorrha, is, I doobt, hingin' ower this toon,
ready to fa' and smore us a'."
"Hoot! hoot! dinna speyk sic awfu' words, Thamas, Ye're nae the prophet
Jonah, ye ken."
"Are ye the whaul than, to swallow me and my words thegither, Jean? I
tell ye the wrath o' God _maun_ be roused against this toon, for it's
been growin' waur and waur for mony a year; till the verra lasses are
no to be lippent oot them-lanes (alone)."
"What ken ye aboot the lasses, Thamas? Haud ye to the men. The lasses
are nae waur nor in ither pairts. I wat I can come and gang whan and
whaur I like. Never a body says a word to me."
This was true but hardly significant; seeing Jean had one shoulder and
one eye twice the size of the others, to say nothing of various
obliquities and their compensations. But, rude as Thomas was, he was
gentleman enough to confine his reply to a snort and a silence. For had
he not chosen his housekeeper upon the strength of those personal
recommendations of the defensive importance of which she was herself
unaware?
Except his own daughters there was no one who mourned so deeply for the
loss of Mr Cowie as Annie Anderson. She had left his church and gone to
the missionars, and there found more spiritual nourishment than Mr
Cowie's sermons could supply, but she could not forget his kisses, or
his gentle words, or his shilling, for by their means, although she did
not know it, Mr Cowie's self had given her a more confiding notion of
God, a better feeling of his tenderness, than she could have had from
all Mr Turnbull's sermons together. What equal gift could a man give?
Was it not worth bookfuls of sound doctrine? Yet the good man, not
knowing this, had often looked back to that interview, and reproached
himself bitterly that he, so long a clergyman of that parish, had no
help to give the only child who ever came to him to ask such help. So,
when he lay on his death-bed, he sent for Annie, the only soul, out of
all his pariah, over which he felt that he had any pastoral cure.
When, with pale, tearful face, she entered his chamber, she found him
supported with pillows in his bed. He stretched out his arms to her
feebly, but held her close to his bosom, and wept.
"I'm going to die, Annie," he said.
"And go to heaven, sir, to the face o' God," said Annie, not sobbing,
but with the tears streaming silently down her face.
"I don't know, Annie. I've been of no use; and I'm afraid God does not
care much for me."
"If God loves you half as much as I do, sir, ye'll be well off in
heaven. And I'm thinkin' he maun love ye mair nor me. For, ye see, sir,
God's love itsel'."
"I don't know, Annie. But if ever I win there, which'll be more than I
deserve, I'll tell him about you, and ask him to give you the help that
I couldn't give you."
Love and Death make us all children.--Can Old Age be an evil thing,
which does the same?
The old clergyman had thought himself a good Protestant at least, but
even his Protestantism was in danger now. Happily Protestantism was
nothing to him now. Nothing but God would do now.
Annie had no answer but what lay in her tears. He called his daughter,
who stood weeping in the room. She came near.
"Bring my study Bible," he said to her feebly.
She went and brought it--a large quarto Bible.
"Here, Annie," said the dying man, "here's my Bible that I've made but
ower little use o' mysel'. Promise me, if ever ye have a house o' your
own, that ye'll read out o' that book every day at worship. I want you
not to forget me, as, if all's well, I shall never forget you."
"That _will_ I, sir," responded Annie earnestly.
"And ye'll find a new five-pound note between the leaves. Take it, for
my sake."
Money! Ah, well! Love can turn gold into grace.
"Yes, sir," answered Annie, feeling this was no time for objecting to
anything.
"And good-bye, Annie. I can't speak more."
He drew her to him again, and kissed her for the last time. Then he
turned his face to the wall, and Annie went home weeping, with the
great Bible in her arms.
In the inadvertence of grief, she ran into the shop.
"What hae ye gotten there, lassie?" said Bruce, as sharply as if she
might have stolen it.
"Mr Cowie gave me his Bible, 'cause he's dein' himsel', and doesna want
it ony langer," answered Annie.
"Lat's luik at it."
Annie gave it up with reluctance.
"It's a braw buik, and bonnie buirds--though gowd an' purple maitters
little to the Bible. We'll jist lay't upo' the room-table, an' we'll
hae worship oot o' 't whan ony body's wi' 's, ye ken."
"I want it mysel'," objected Annie, in dismay, for although she did not
think of the money at the moment, she had better reasons for not liking
to part with the book.
"Ye can hae't when ye want it. That's eneuch, surely."
Annie could hardly think his saying so enough, however, seeing the door
of _the room_ was kept locked, and Mrs Bruce, patient woman as she was,
would have boxed any one's ears whom she met coming from within the
sacred precincts.