Bits from Blinkbonny; or, Bell o' the Manse

by John Strathesk

CHAPTER IV.

THE TWO SIDES OF THE CHURCH QUESTION.

“They lay aside their private cares

To mind the Kirk and State affairs;

They’ll talk o’ patronage and priests

Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts,

Or tell what new taxation ’s comin’,

And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.”—Burns.

THE SEED POTATOES.

THE agitation which resulted in the Disruption of 1843, when nearly five hundred ministers left the Established Church of Scotland and formed the “Free Church,” extended even to the quiet parish of Blinkbonny, although Mr. Barrie had not taken an active part in the conferences held on the subjects in dispute between the Government and the Non-Intrusionists, as they were sometimes called. He rather avoided the subject; but in the presbytery his attitude indicated that his sympathies were with those who ultimately formed the Free Church,—so much so that many of his friends remonstrated with him, urging him to be careful, to consider his family, not to commit himself hastily. The latter advice Mr. Barrie carried out by thanking is advisers very sincerely, assuring them that he would endeavour to act conscientiously and “judeeciously;” and although he did not commit himself, his answer was made the basis of different conclusions, according as the “conscientiously” or the “judeeciously” was put foremost.

He more nearly committed himself to Bell than to any other person, and this accidentally. She was the head, the only gardener, and early spring found her deeply absorbed in the arrangement of the season’s crops. She had already planted peas and beans, and sundry vegetables; had carefully cut the seed of the early potatoes, making each potato yield as many bits with eyes or buds as she thought safe; and had the “dibble” in her hand to form the holes into which to drop the seed, when Mr. Barrie, returning from the village, stopped at the “break” which she was beginning to plant.

He never passed Bell without some kindly word. In the garden it was generally, “Well, Bell, always at it?” and Bell’s “Yes, sir” followed him, for he generally walked on. But on this occasion he stood for a few seconds, long enough for Bell to look at him inquiringly, then to wonder whether to speak or not. At length Mr. Barrie said, with something like an introductory sigh:

“Well, Bell, planting the early potatoes, I see. How will you look if we have to flit soon and leave the crop to some other body?”

“Flit!” said Bell; “flit! What d’ye mean, sir? We’ll flit nane;” and forgetting her usual good manners, she added, “Ye havena gotten a call to ony ither kirk that I’ve heard o’, or to ony o’ the big town kirks, have ye, sir?”

“No, not exactly that, Bell; but we may have to leave the manse for all that. But if we have, we will leave the garden in such a state as to be a credit to us.” Then collecting himself, and observing her perplexed face, he made a passing remark on the weather, and had moved towards the manse, too confused to be able to reply to Bell’s practical question, which cut him to the quick, simple as it was, “What for did ye no’ speak about that before I cut the pitaties, sir?”

COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.

The question was not asked in Bell’s usual respectful tone, and although she saw that Mr. Barrie had got into the house, she kept looking at the closed door as if it should answer her; then slowly surveyed the garden, the mould of which had been enriched by her industry. She rested her eye first on what she had already planted, next on what she intended to plant; wistfully on the rows that were already above the ground, and that had an hour before been her pride; then looked again at the manse door with an expression of bewilderment. She took the hamper which contained the seed-potatoes in the one hand, still holding the dibble in the other, and walked dreamily round the parts of the garden that were planted. The pace was very unlike her everyday one; it was slow, heavy, interrupted. Every few steps she looked around her solemnly, until she reached the top of the garden, when, as if some forgotten engagement had flashed across her mind, she walked briskly to the outhouse, laid down her perplexing seed-potatoes, locked the door, and tidied herself more quickly and more carelessly than usual. Putting on her shawl and a knitted worsted black cap or “mutch” with a crimson border (for she wore a bonnet only on Sundays), something like a hood (it had a name, which I now forget), she went to Mrs. Barrie to inquire if she needed anything from the village,—that being Bell’s way of asking whether she could get out for a short time.

“Nothing, Bell,” said Mrs. Barrie, “nothing at all that I remember of; and I am anxious to have as little as possible in the house at present.”

This added to Bell’s confusion and quickened her step. She made straight for the village. I happened to be at the door at the time, and, struck with the smartness with which she was walking, I apprehended that there might be something wrong at the manse, and had taken a step or two towards her. While yet about two yards distant she asked quickly, “Hoo’s the garden doing, Mr. Martin?”

“Just middlin’, Bell; but come round and see it.”

As we went she further asked, “Have ye gotten your early taties in yet?”

“No,” said I; “my garden is far behind this year. I have been trying to get that house ready for the Whitsunday term. Ye’ll see that we’re putting a better house on the Knowe Park? It’s a nice stance. The old cottage was done, so we’re putting up a good plain house; but the plasterers have dilly-dallied; they’re a provoking set.”

We were now in the garden. Bell’s first remark was, “This is no’ like you, Mr. Martin; but, however, I want to ask ye a secret” (so Bell put it). “Can you tell me if Mr. Barrie’s gotten a call, or if he’s likely to get a call, to ony other kirk?”

“Not that I know or have heard of.”

Then she told me very circumstantially what Mr. Barrie had said, and what Mrs. Barrie had said, and ended by asking, “What can you mak’ o’ what he said about the taties?”

BELL’S VIEW OF THE CASE.

I tried to explain that it was possible that many inisters would leave the Church of Scotland on account of something the Government had done.

“What!” said Bell firmly; “that cannot be—that’s no’ possible. The Government wadna daur to meddle wi’ Mr. Barrie. There may be as gude ministers, but there’s nane better. Let them try to put out Mr. Barrie, and they would see a bonnie stramash,—that they would. Leave the manse! Na; thae covenantin’ times are a’ past. Just let Government try’t.”

I said that it was not at all likely that force would be required, as I believed that if the Government persisted in doing what the ministers thought wrong, the ministers would leave the Church quietly rather than submit to have their rights and those of the Christian Church interfered with.

“There’s nae Government will ever gang against gude ministers, at ony rate against Mr. Barrie; they’re the best friends the Government has,” said Bell. Then looking at it in her particular light, she added, “Will ony ither body, Government or no Government, get the peas and cabbage and taties out o’ our garden?” for Bell was an active partner.

“I hope not,” said I, “but it’s not very unlikely.”

“If I thocht that, I would neither plant nor sow anither dreel—that I would not; and if you’ll take the early taties I’ve cut, I’ll sell ye them. They’re a grand kind, the auld early Dons,—grand growers, lots at every shaw, and gude eaters,—nothing to beat them for size and quality.”

I agreed to take Bell’s seed-potatoes, which partly pacified her; but she came back on, “It’s no’ possible! Leave the manse—na!” until I said that the Knowe Park garden would need to be put right at once, that it was very good soil, that I would be happy to buy all her spare plants and seeds, and that she should still keep the manse garden right, as there was no saying what might happen.

Bell gave a qualified assent to this proposal: “She would see; but she maun awa’ hame. She would need to take something up with her;” the something was a bunch of spunks (bits of thin split wood, very dry, about six inches long, tipped with sulphur, used for lighting candles and lamps, unknown now that lucifer matches are so common) and a few pounds of salt.

Mr. Barrie looked in on me shortly after Bell had left, and after a little general talk he quietly remarked that the house—villa, he termed it—was getting on, and that it looked a nice place. “Was I going to build on the east side of the Knowe Park? Had I any tenant in view? What would be the rent? Would it be ready by Whitsunday—and dry?”

THE SHADOWS DEEPEN.

His manner and precision evinced something more than mere friendly interest, and following as they did so much in the train of Bell’s visit, I concluded that he would “come out” if the Government did not yield. It had been evident for some time that his sympathies were with what was then called the “Evangelical” party, although that name was by him considered unfair to the other side, and he preferred calling it the protesting party; but he had taken no prominent part in the public discussions, and was scrupulously careful about introducing ecclesiastical politics into his pulpit ministrations. “The good seed is the Word of God,” he would often say; “and as ordained to minister to the souls of my parishioners, I try to preach it faithfully, fully, and practically, avoiding controversy of all kinds, political, ecclesiastical, theological, or dogmatic. The only way to do real good, even in opposing error or bigotry, is to preach the truth in love.”

April had passed; May had covered the earth with beauty, and blossom, and promise. Never did the manse look so well, or its surroundings more delightful, than on the evening before Mr. Barrie left for the General Assembly in Edinburgh. I made an errand to the manse, ostensibly to ask him to procure a certain book for me when in town, but really to see if I could pick up an inkling of his mind on the Church controversy, and to offer to be of any service in my power.

Mrs. Barrie and he were sauntering in the garden. He was grave, and as they stopped opposite some familiar flower, both seemed sad. Bell (a most unusual thing for her) was stealthily eyeing them from the kitchen window, having turned up the corner of the little green-striped dimity under-screen. When she saw me, she signalled me to meet her at the back of the manse by jerking her thumb in that direction, and added a slight trembling motion of her clenched hand, to express further that she wanted me to do so without Mr. and Mrs. Barrie’s knowing it. When I reached the back court, there she was, and she at once took speech in hand.

THE TOWN CLERK OF EPHESUS.

“Whatever’s gaun to happen, Mr. Martin? The minister has been bundle-bundlin’ in the study for twa or three days. Mrs. Barrie has been clearin’ oot auld corners, or rather searchin’ into them, for there’s no’ much to clear out that’s either useless or lumbery. Is’t possible we maun leave? It’s no’ possible. I’ve a gude mind to speak to Mr. Barrie mysel’. Sir John was here last night, and I heard him say as he gaed through the lobby, ‘For all our sakes, for your own sake, for your family’s sake, for the sake of the Church of our fathers, for His sake who wishes all His people to be one, think over the matter again before you make a schism in His body. Carry out the good doctrine you preached the other day when lecturing on the town clerk of Ephesus, that we ‘ought to be quiet, and do nothing rashly.’ Mr. Barrie only said, ‘Thank you, Sir John;’ but as he was coming ‘ben’ the lobby from seeing Sir John away, I took the liberty o’ saying, ‘Sir John’s a clever man, a sensible man, and he’s aye been our friend. So, sir, excuse me for saying that I hope you will’—but I got no further; I saw the tear was in Mr. Barrie’s e’e, and that fairly upset me.” Then she added, “Will ye no’ speak till him, Mr. Martin, seriously and firmly? Leave the manse, and the kirk, and the garden!—I wadna leave them if I was him, unless they sent a regiment of dragoons.”

I said I would try. “Na,” said she, “ye maun baith try’t and do’t too. He’s gaun to Edinburgh the morn to the Assembly, and they say he’ll settle whether to leave the Kirk or bide in’t before he comes back here again.”

Leaving Bell, I came to the front of the manse, and stood for a little admiring the scene. The evening sun was about to set behind the western hills. Nature was in her summer mantle of beauty and verdure,—the garden smiling at my feet; the fields beyond, green, loamy, and rich; the stream glistering and murmuring in the valley; the distant hills lighted up with the evening glow; the clouds red, golden, and grey, massed or straggling over the glorious sky. I felt with Bell that to leave such a place was no easy matter, and as I had given little attention to the Church controversy, I was at a loss what to say. Mr. and Mrs. Barrie observed me, and came forward. After a quiet greeting, I said, “This is a lovely scene. I find myself quoting from Marmion, ‘Who would not fight for such a land?’”

I had given the quotation strongly; it startled Mr. Barrie. He said softly and dreamily, as if speaking to himself, “Without were fightings, within were fears;” then looking me steadily in the face he said, “I go to Edinburgh to-morrow,—a most eventful journey for me and mine. In all probability I will return disjoined from the Established Church of Scotland, and no longer minister of the parish of Blinkbonny. Excuse me, Mr. Martin, for feeling perplexed and anxious.”

BELL’S SUMMING UP.

Bell had by this time become a listener, having crept forward very quietly. She looked at me with an imploring face to speak out. I tried to say something, but Mr. Barrie’s look was so calm and overpowering, that I could only get out “that I dared not presume to advise in the matter; that several of his people would follow him if he did find it his duty to come out; and that the Lord would provide.”

This was too much or rather too little for Bell, so she joined the colloquy, addressing herself, however, to me. “Maybe He will, if there’s a real need-be; but what sense or religion either can there be in leaving a kirk and manse provided for us already, and where He has countenanced us and given us peace and prosperity, for a chance o’ anither or maybe nane at a’? I would see anither door opened first; as Sir John said yestreen about the clerk o’ the toun o’ Ephesus, we should do nothing rashly. Think on Mrs. Barrie an’ the bairns, and the garden and the dumb craiturs, and,” looking at the churchyard, she added softly, “wee Nellie.”

Bell had joined the party suddenly, and the above sentence was finished by her almost in a breath. It made Mr. Barrie wince. Mrs. Barrie saw this, and at once left us; she got Bell to follow her, by saying that doubtless Mr. Martin had business with Mr. Barrie. Mrs. Barrie did her best to soothe Bell by agreeing with her: “Yes, Bell, it will be a severe trial to leave the manse.”

“And a terrible risk, too,” said Bell. “Oh, mem, try and dinna let the maister do’t, at least no’ as suddenly as he speaks of.”

“I leave Mr. Barrie entirely to the guidance of his own conscience in the matter. If he goes, I go.”

“So will we a’, I fancy.”

“Well, Bell,” said Mrs. Barrie thoughtfully, “we may not be able to keep a servant. If we are, and you are willing to go with us, you will be an immense help to us all.”

Bell and Daisy. (Page 70).

BELL’S PARISH.

This overwhelmed Bell. Leaving the manse was bad, but leaving the family was terrible; such a thing had never entered her mind. Luckily the cow “Daisy” began to low impatiently, which relieved Mrs. Barrie of present embarrassment. Bell methodically started for her milking-pail, muttering, “The very coo’s no’ hersel’ the nicht, naether am I; I’m behint time wi’ Daisy, and kye should be milkit regular,”—which Bell set about with more than her ordinary vigour, all the time speaking away to Daisy about leaving the manse, and stiffly arguing the matter with the cow. The cow did not seem quite to understand her; she usually did, and answered Bell with her meek eye and stolid face; but Bell’s manner to-night was abrupt and excited, and Daisy had probably more difficulty in comprehending the matter; so she wagged one ear quickly, made sundry short, impatient shakes of her head, and stared intently at Bell, but not with the usual signs of intelligent concert. Daisy couldn’t make it out; neither, alas! could Bell.

I did not go into the manse, although Mr. Barrie asked me. I excused myself on the ground of his requiring all the time at his disposal to prepare for to-morrow’s journey, but said that many along with myself would wait anxiously for the decision he might make, and I asked him to give me as early intimation of it as he conveniently could, assuring him that I would be most happy to be of any service in my power. He thanked me, and putting his arm in mine walked slowly down the garden. As we passed between its healthy crops and trim flower-beds, he said:

“This is Bell’s parish, and well tended it is. I’m very sorry for Bell; it must be a severe trial to her—worthy, honest, laborious Bell!”

We halted at the little wicket gate at the bottom of the garden. There was a sad look on Mr. Barrie’s face as he turned round and looked at the pleasantly situated, snug manse. Memory seemed busy unfolding her roll of bygone days. It had been the home of his happy married life, the birthplace of his children. Then he looked at the church: it had been the scene of his labours, the joy of his heart, the place of his ministry to the flock he loved. Then he looked at the churchyard: there was one little spot specially dear, but many others hallowed in his mind by associations of the kind and good who lay there. So absorbed was he by the reflections awakened by the scene, that he seemed unconscious of my presence, and as his eye travelled from object to object, he spoke sadly and to himself, “Yes, beautiful for situation.—Thou excellest them all.—Olive plants.—Where prayer was wont to be made.—Watch-tower.—Pleasure in her stones.—With Christ; far better.—We shall not all sleep.” Then, as if awaking from a dream, he said, “Excuse me, Mr. Martin; the old Adam is too strong for young Melanchthon. Every human consideration urges me to remain in the Church of Scotland. I would exhaust every possible means for the sake of all concerned to avert a disruption, but I cannot, I dare not submit to see her rights infringed or her prerogatives violated; it would be treason to my Master. And bitter, bitter as the alternative is, I will act as my conscience impels me (and I have given the subject the devout consideration it demands), and leave all, although I freely confess it is a sore trial of my faith. I fear as I enter into the cloud. I must walk by faith, not by sight.”

THE EVE OF BATTLE.

There was a nobility, a display of true valour in his attitude, tone, and expression that awed me. The fire of his words kindled a flame in my heart, which grew in intensity as he proceeded. When he had finished he seemed as if he had been transfigured; his sadness was gone; he looked like a knight challenging a field of foemen. I could only grasp his hand and stumble out, “The battle is the Lord’s; be of good courage, and let us behave ourselves valiantly for our people and for the cities of our God, and the Lord do that which is good in His sight.”

He returned the grasp very warmly, and said, “Exactly; that text must be our motto. I thank you for it. But I am detaining you. I will let you know the result whenever declared; possibly I may be your tenant at Knowe Park.” He said this with a pleasant smile; and as we said good-night, I added, “Knowe Park will be made as comfortable as I can make it, although, had I expected such a tenant, I would have made it better.”

“It’s perhaps as much as we’ll can afford,” said he cheerfully half-way up the garden. “Good night again.”

As I walked homeward I met Sir John M^cLelland. I knew him as a gentleman of the neighbourhood, and had been in the habit of saluting him respectfully, but had rarely spoken to him; I was therefore surprised when he said, “I called at the house, Mr. Martin, but learning you were at the manse, I came to meet you. Have you a spare half-hour? I wish to see you particularly.”

“I am quite at your service, Sir John.”

“Then take a quiet turn down the road;” which we did. Sir John then began:

SIR JOHN M^cLELLAND’S OPINIONS.

“Mr. Martin, I want a long talk with you about Mr. Barrie. I know that you are very intimate with him. I need not tell you that I esteem him very highly. As a minister he has few equals, that we all feel; he is, besides, a gentleman in every sense of the word—a scholar, a man of culture, quite an acquisition to the district. Then Mrs. Barrie is a most delightful creature,—I do not know a more thorough lady than she is; and they have a very nice family—very nice children indeed—good-looking;—so they may well be, considering their parents—the handsomest couple in the parish, I may say in the county. But that is by the bye. Well, the party in the Church of Scotland that call themselves the ‘Evangelicals,’ as if they were the only true preachers of the gospel,—a most unwarrantable and impertinent name for any party to assume, or rather to adopt, for they parade it so offensively that it betrays their former orphanage, and they strut about in the plumes they have stuck on themselves, calling their opponents ‘Moderates,’ as if that were a term of contempt. It would be more consistent if they’d let their moderation be known to all men;—but that is by the bye. Well, these schismatics and agitators—‘Evangelicals,’ if you like—have raised a hue-and-cry about the Church in danger, and trampling on the rights of the Christian people, and have pestered not only the church courts, but the courts of law and the Government of the country, by their pertinacious intermeddling with time-honoured institutions and the rights of proprietors. And so determined and malignant are the leaders of this movement, that they have dug out one or two exceptional cases (you know the exception proves the rule), and dragged them through the law courts, where they got ignominiously beaten, because justice was administered impartially. This has raised the ‘odium theologicum,’ the most unreasonable and insatiable of all passions; and instead of acting as law-abiding subjects and as peacemakers, they are determined, if Government, forsooth, will not yield to them, to break up the Church of Scotland if they can! The law has been clearly laid down by the judges of the land, but they demand to be allowed to be a law to themselves.”

HEAVY HITTING.

Here Sir John looked very indignant, then went on in a calmer tone: “What I cannot understand is, that ministers above all others should object to their own rights being protected. The principal uproar has been about some ministers who were appointed to parishes, but the people would not receive them, and even the presbytery refused to ordain them. Now, especially in the Church of Scotland, every student before he is licensed to preach the gospel has had a complete college education, and several years’ training in the divinity halls, and has undergone successfully very searching examinations conducted by eminent professors, and has, moreover, under presbyterial superintendence gone at least creditably through trials for licence, which included sermons on texts assigned to him. Could anything further be desired as a safeguard against unfit men being allowed to be ministers? It is from such that the patron, who is generally the largest proprietor in the parish, and has therefore the greatest interest in it, must make a selection and present a minister to a vacant parish church, not unfrequently to the church in which he worships. Well, these ‘Evangelicals’—ministers themselves, remember—wish it to be in the power of the members of a church (and you know what a mixture the membership is, of all sorts and conditions—good and indifferent, not to say bad) to reject the minister appointed by the patron,—a minister trained as I explained before,—and possibly from whim, or spleen, or spite at the patron, to object to his settlement, which can only be done by objecting to his preaching; and to prove their case, I grieve to say, they do not scruple at condemning his services as unedifying, or uninteresting, or unintelligible (very likely to them), or even unsound,—set them up for judges!—and do all in their power to blast the minister’s prospects. Does it not strike you, Mr. Martin, as something very strange that ministers should desire to commit themselves to such tribunals in preference to the existing ones?”

I was at a loss what to say and how to get out of the difficulty, when Sir John began again with great animation: “What they aim at seems to be a sort of preaching competition, where the man who has the knack of tickling the ears, or wheedling the affections, or flattering the vanities of a congregation, would certainly outweigh the man of more solid parts. The result would be that young ministers would prepare one or two taking sermons, and thereby secure parishes; and what ought to be a congregation of devout worshippers would become a congregation of critics; and some fussy nobody, by dint of sheer impertinence, would set himself—ay, even herself—up as ‘grieved at the prospect of the incalculable injury to be done to the highest interests of the parish,’ and with a long face say ‘she felt it her duty, her bounden duty, her painful duty,’ and stuff of that sort. Dissenting churches have oftener split on the election of preachers than any other thing, and bitter and disgraceful results have followed. In such cases votes are counted, not weighed. I know of a little insignificant ‘bodie,’—his neighbours called him ‘Little Gab,’—a creature who was in misery through his indolence and his intermeddling with other folk’s affairs to the neglect of his own. He was a Dissenter, and at the meetings for choosing a minister in the chapel he went to, he chattered and moved and objected and protested, and was so often on his feet with his ‘Moderator, I move,’ ‘Moderator, I object,’ ‘Moderator, by the forms of procedure, page, etc.,’ that he provoked a smart word from one of their best men every way—in education, position, and judgment. This set the bodie fairly up, and although he richly deserved more than he got, he spoke so glibly that he saddled the church with a minister of whom the late Dr. Hunter, on hearing his first sermon after his ordination—generally a man’s best—said to a friend as they came out of the church, ‘Ye’ll get that ane to bury.’ But that is by the bye.”

LITTLE GAB.

As Sir John now looked to me to say something, I merely added, “That was like the doctor. I think I know the church you refer to; Little Gab was a waspish bodie.”

He at once resumed: “I am surprised that a man of good sense and sound judgment like Mr. Barrie should be misled by the noisy demagogues—many of them otherwise good men, but on this subject perfect fanatics. I spoke to him on the subject the other night, but made no impression. Have you remonstrated with him? Did he say anything on the subject to you to-night?”

I told him what had passed at the manse. When he heard of Mr. Barrie’s firm resolve, he said very excitedly: “It’s utter folly—it’s sheer madness—it’s social suicide, bringing ruin on his family for a mere phantom of excited sentimentality! Let them stay in the Church and use constitutional means to reform abuses, if any exist. The Church of Scotland has had an honoured past, and must have a glorious future. They vowed to maintain and defend her; they are trying to divide and weaken her. Can they not wait patiently until events are ripe? Progress in a complicated body such as a church is gradual, and should be deliberate. The leaders of this movement are principally men who have risen to ecclesiastical eminence by their popular gifts. Not a few of them fought bitterly against the Dissenters in the Voluntary controversy (which, by the bye, seems shelved for good and all; the pace was too quick to last), and now they urge their brethren to secede if their absurd demands are not immediately conceded. I much doubt if the noisiest now will be the first to come out. If they do, I would not wonder to see them the first to rush back again, and change their ‘Retract! no, not a hair’s-breadth!’ into a breakneck stampede, in which they will crush past their deluded followers, and whine pitifully for pardon and place. The State has treated them well, too well, and is entitled to have its conditions fulfilled. They want the pay and the place, but kick at the terms—wish these all one-sided; and when the law steps in with quiet dignity and strict justice to protect the rights of proprietors, ministers, and people alike, and to insist on these being administered according to express statute, the men who vowed to abide by the law either set it at nought, or demand its subservience to their revolutionary ideas. They wish liberty without control, privileges without conditions, and power to exercise despotism without appeal. And because they cannot get it,—because they should not get it,—because, having respect to the welfare alike of Church and State, they must not get it, they keep crying out about tyranny and treason, and ‘spiritual independence,’ and what not.”

Sir John paused for a little, and I thought he had finished, but something seemed to strike him, and he at it again:

VIALS OF WRATH.

“By the bye, these folks call themselves the Non-Intrusion party. Was ever name so outrageously violated? Is a proprietor an intruder on his own estate? Only a desperate poacher would say yes. Is a man an intruder in his own house? None but a burglar would think so. Is a mother an intruder in her own nursery? Only a vile and cruel nurse, caught in the act of ill-treating the children, would have the audacity to conceive of such a monstrous anomaly. Yet these intruding non-intrusionists say to the State that fostered them and supports them, and that only wishes to have its fundamental principles respected, like the poacher, ‘Be off! you have no right here;’ like the burglar, ‘I want this, and will have it by hook or by crook’—crook should be put first; and like the nurse, ‘Get out of this nursery! you have no business here. I’ll do what I like, and if you oppose me I’ll take the children away from you.’ I may be carried away by the strong convictions that force themselves on me as I consider the whole proceedings, the wily, oily sophisms of these non-intrusionists; but excuse me, Mr. Martin, for saying that they should take Judas for their patron, and Herod the king—any of the Herods they like—for their foster-brother.”

Sir John seemed to feel that he had gone too far, and excused himself for being so bitter. He was a confirmed Tory, and began about “vote-voting, everything was vote-voting now-a-days since that Reform Bill had passed. Give some men a vote in Kirk or State, and they became self-conceited, consequential creatures. The more they are canvassed, the more unbearable they get. But that is by the bye. I presume you are a Whig, Mr. Martin, so we’ll not meddle politics to-night. Then you really think Mr. Barrie will ‘come out’?”

“I’m sure of it, Sir John. Mr. Walker of Middlemoor and he start for Edinburgh early to-morrow morning.”

SIR JOHN’S VERDICT.

“Mr. Walker!” said Sir John; “he’s a quiet, peaceable man; he’ll not be led away by any Will-o’-the-wisp. He’ll smoke over it, and think over it, and come back parish minister of Middlemoor as heretofore. I’m glad that Mr. Walker is going with Mr. Barrie; he’ll give him the common-sense, considerate view of the question—especially the home view, the family and fireside interest, which seems entirely ignored. Should a secession take place, there will be a sad awakening when too late to the meaning of these words: ‘If any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith and is worse than an infidel,’—worse than an infidel—worse!” Then, after a pause of a few seconds, he said, “I’m sorry, very sorry for Mr. Barrie; if it were possible to be angry with such a man, I feel angry—certainly at his conduct, or rather his intentions. But I’m glad Mr. Walker goes with him. I am member of Assembly for a royal burgh, and intend going in the day after to-morrow; I’ll set Mr. Walker on Mr. Barrie.” Then looking at his watch, he said, “It’s getting late; do you think it would be of any use for me to see Mr. Barrie to-night? The fact is, I cannot rest over this matter—it’s too—too—too dreadful altogether.”

I hinted as politely as I could that I thought nothing would shake Mr. Barrie’s resolve. Sir John said “he feared as much, but he would see Mr. Walker and other friends, and try to save Mr. Barrie from”—here he hesitated, repeating, “from—from—well, I cannot get a better word—ruin to himself and his family—certain ruin.” He shook hands frankly with me, hoped he had not kept me too long, and promised to let me know how matters went; and as he said good night, he looked towards the manse and said, “I cannot get Mr. Barrie and his family out of my head,” then started homewards.

Late as it was, I went to see the new house and garden at Knowe Park. I had urged on the tradesmen, and it was all but finished and drying nicely. The garden had received special attention. Except immediately around the new house, it had not been interfered with; and as it was stocked with good fruit-trees and bushes in the days of the old house, these only required trimming and pruning. Bell’s cut potatoes and spare plants were further forward than those in the manse garden. When I got home it took a long time to tell Agnes the events of the night. Both of us were puzzled as to whether Mr. Barrie or Sir John was right—we rather inclined to Sir John’s notion of patience and prudence; and whilst we admired Mr. Barrie’s noble resolution, we, especially Agnes, spoke of “whatever was to become of Mrs. Barrie and the dear bairns?” and did not see through it at all.