Out in the Forty-Five Part 22

I said, "I have heard his name too, Uncle; but I do not know much about him, only Father seemed to think it a good joke that anybody should fancy him a wise man."

"Angus appears to be the best informed of you," said my uncle. "Speak out, my boy, and tell us what you know."

"Well, he is a queer sort of fellow, I fancy," said Angus. "He was one of the Methodists; but they say those folks have had a split, and Whitefield has broken with them. He travels about preaching, though, as they do; and they say that the reason why he took to field-preaching was because no church would hold the enormous congregations which gathered to hear him. He has been several times to the American colonies, where they say he draws larger crowds than John Wesley himself."

"A good deal of 'They say'," observed Uncle Drummond, with a smile. "Do 'they say' that the bishops and clergy are friendly to this remarkable preacher, or not?"

"Well, I should rather think not," answered Angus. "There is one bishop who has stuck to him through thick and thin--the Bishop of Gloucester, who gave him his orders to begin with; but the rest of them look askance at him over their shoulders, I believe. It is irregular, you know, to preach in fields--wholly improper to save anybody's soul out of church; and these English folks take the horrors at anything irregular. The women like him because he makes them cry so much."

"Angus!" cried Flora and I together.

"That's what I was told, I a.s.sure you, young ladies," returned Angus, "I am only repeating what I have heard."

"Well, that you may shortly have an opportunity of judging," said my Uncle Drummond; "for this gentleman has come to Selkirk, and has asked leave of the presbytery to preach in certain kirks of this neighbourhood. There was some demur at first to the admission of a Prelatist; but after some converse with him this was withdrawn, and he will preach next Sabbath morning at Selkirk, and in the afternoon at Monks' Brae. You can go to Monks' Brae to hear him, if you will; I, of course, shall not be able to accompany you, but I trust to find an opportunity when he preaches in the fields, if there be one. I should like to hear this great English preacher, I confess. What say you?"

"They'll go, you may be sure, Sir," said Angus, before we could answer.

"Trust a la.s.sie to gad about if she has the chance. Mind you take all the pocket-handkerchiefs you have with you. They say 'tis dreadful the way this man gars you greet. 'Tis true, you English are more given that way than we Scots; but folks say you cannot help yourself,--you must cry, whether you will or no."

"I should like to go, I think, Uncle," said I. "Only--I suppose he is a real clergyman?"

"There goes a genuine Englishwoman!" said Angus. "If Paul himself were to preach, she would not go to hear him till she knew what bishop had ordained him."

"Yes, Cary," answered my Uncle Drummond, smiling; "he is a real clergyman. More 'real' than you think me, I fear."

"Oh, you are different, Uncle," said I; "but I am sure Father would not like me to hear any preacher who was not--at least--I don't know--he did not seem to think this Mr Whitefield all right, somehow. Perhaps he did not know he was a proper person."

"'A proper person!'" sighed Angus, casting up his eyes.

"My dear," said my Uncle Drummond, kindly, "you are a good la.s.sie to think of your father's wishes. Never mind Angus; he is only making fun, and is a foolish young fellow yet. Of course, not having spoken with your father, I cannot tell so well as yourself what his wishes are; and 'tis quite possible he may think, for I hear many do, that this gentleman is a schismatic, and may disapprove of him on that account only. If so, I can tell you for certain, 'tis a mistake. But as to anything else, you must judge for yourself, and do what you think right."

"You see no objection to our going, Father?" asked Flora, who had not spoken hitherto.

"Not at all, my dear," said my Uncle. "Go by all means, if you like it.

You may never have another opportunity, and 'tis very natural you should wish it."

"Thank you," answered Flora. "Then, if Angus will take me, I will go."

"Well, I don't know," said Angus. "I am afraid some of my handkerchiefs are at the wash. I should not like to be quite drowned in my tears. I might wash you away, too; and that would be a national calamity."

"Don't jest on serious subjects, my boy," said Uncle; and Angus grew grave directly. "I am no enemy to honest, rational fun; 'tis human, and natural more especially to the young. But never, never let us make a jest of the things that pertain to G.o.d."

"I beg your pardon, Father," said Angus, in a low voice. "I'll take you, Flora. What say you, Cary?"

"Yes, I should like to go," I said. And I wondered directly whether I had said right or wrong. But I do so want to hear something that would help me.

I found that Monks' Brae was on the Monksburn road, but nearly two miles further on. 'Tis the high road from Selkirk to Galashiels, after you leave Monksburn, and pretty well frequented; so that Angus was deemed guard enough. But last night the whole road was so full of people going to hear Mr Whitefield, that it was like walking in a crowd all the way.

The kirk was crammed to the very doors, and outside people stood looking in and listening through the doors and the open windows. Mr Lundie, the minister of Monks' Brae, led the worship (as they say here); and when the sermon came, I looked with some curiosity at the great preacher who did such unusual things, and whom some people seemed to think it so wrong to like. Mr Whitefield is not anything particular to look at: just a young man in a fair wig, with a round face and rosy cheeks. He has a most musical voice, and he knows how to put it to the best advantage. Every word is as distinct as can be, and his voice rings out clear and strong, like a well-toned bell. But he had not preached ten minutes before I forgot his voice and himself altogether, and could think of nothing but what he was preaching about. And I never heard such a sermon in my life. My Uncle Drummond's are the only ones I have heard which even approach it, and he does not lift you up and carry you away, as Mr Whitefield does.

All the other preachers I ever heard, except those two, are always telling you to do something. Come to church, and say your prayers, and take the Sacrament; but particularly, do your duty. Now it always seems to me that there are two grand difficulties in the way of doing one's duty. The first is, to find out what is one's duty. Of course there is the Bible; but, if I may say it with reverence, the Bible has never seemed to have much to do with me. It is all about people who lived ever so long ago, and what they did; and what has that to do with me, Cary Courtenay, and what I am doing? Then suppose I do know what my duty is--and certainly I do in some respects--I am not sure that I can express it properly, but I feel as if I wanted something to come and make me do it. I am like a watch, with all the wheels and springs there, ready to go, but I want somebody to come and wind me up. And I do not know how that is to be done. But Mr Whitefield made me wish, oh so much! that that unknown somebody would come and do it. I never thought much about it before, until that talk with my Uncle Drummond, and now it feels to be what I want more than anything else.

I cannot write the sermon down: not a page of it. I think you never can write down on paper the things that stir your very soul. It is the things which just tickle your brains that you can put down in elegant language on paper. When a thing comes close to you, into your real self, and grapples with you, and leaves a mark on you for ever hereafter, whether for good or evil, you cannot write or talk about that,--you can only feel it.

The text was, "What think ye of Christ?"

Mr Whitefield saith any man that will may have his sins forgiven, and may know it. I have heard Mr Bagnall speak of this doctrine, which he said was shocking and wicked, for it gave men licence to live in sin.

Mr Whitefield named this very thing (whereby I saw it had been brought as a charge against him), and showed plainly that it did not tend to destroy good works, but only built them up on a safer and surer foundation. We work, saith he, not for that we would be saved by our works, but out of grat.i.tude that we have been saved by Christ, who commands these works to such as would follow Him. And he quoted an Article of the Church, [Note 4] saying that he desired men to see that he was no schismatic preaching his own fancies, but that the Church whereof he was a minister held the same doctrine. I wonder if Mr Bagnall knows that, and if he ever reads the Articles.

He spoke much, also, of the new birth, or conversion. I never heard any other preacher, except Uncle, mention that at all. I know Mr Digby thought it a fanatical notion only fit for enthusiasts. But certainly there are texts in the Bible that speak plainly of it. And Mr Whitefield saith that we do not truly believe in Christ, unless we so believe as to have Him dwelling in us, and to receive life and nourishment from Him as the branch does from the vine. And Saint John says the same thing. How can it be enthusiasm to say what the Bible says?

People seem so dreadfully frightened of what they call enthusiasm [Note 1]. Grandmamma used to say there was nothing more vulgar. But the queer thing is that many of these very people will let you get as enthusiastic as ever you like about a game of cards, or one horse coming in before another in a race, or about politics, or poaching, and things of that sort that have to do with this world. It is about the things of real consequence--things which have to do with your soul and the next world--that you must not get enthusiastic!

May one not have too little enthusiasm, I wonder, as well as too much?

Would it not be reasonable to be enthusiastic about things that really signify, and cool about the things that do not?

I want to write down a few sentences which Mr Whitefield said, that I may not forget them. I do not know how they came in among the rest.

They stuck to me just as they are. [Note 2]. He says:--

"Our senses are the landing-ports of our spiritual enemies."

"We must take care of healing before we see sinners wounded."

"The King of the Church has all its adversaries in a chain."

"If other sins have slain their thousands of professing Christians, worldly-mindedness has slain its ten thousands."

"How can any say, 'Lead us not into temptation,' in the morning, when they are resolved to run into it at night?"

"How many are kept from seeing Christ in glory, by reason of the press!"

(That is, he explained, that people are ashamed of being singularly good [Note 3], unless their acquaintances are on the same side.)

"Christ will thank you for coming to His feast."

When Mr Whitefield came near the end of his sermon, I thought I could see why people said he made them cry so much. His voice sank into a soft, pleading, tender accent, as if he yearned over the souls before him. His hands were held out as if he were just holding out Jesus Christ to us, and we must take Him or turn away and be lost. And he begged us all so pitifully not to turn away. I saw tears running down the cheeks of many hard-looking men and women. Flora cried, and so did I. But Angus did not. He did not look as though he felt at all inclined to do it.

This is one of the last sermons, we hear, that Mr Whitefield will preach on this side the sea. He sails for the American colonies next month. He is said to be very fond of his American friends, and very much liked by them. [Note 5].

As we were coming away, we came upon our friends from Monksburn, whom we had not seen before.

"This is preaching!" said Annas, as she clasped our hands.

"Eh, puir laddie, he'll just wear himself out," said the Laird. "I hope he has a gude wife, for sic men are rare, and they should be well taken care of while they are here."

"He has a wife, Sir," observed Angus, "and the men of his own kidney think he would be rather better off if he had none."

"Hoots, but I'm sorry to hear it," said the Laird. "What ails her, ken ye, laddie?"

"As I understood, Sir, she had three grave drawbacks. In the first place, she is a widow with a rich jointure."

"That's a queer thing to call a drawback!" said the Laird.