“My dear,” said my Uncle Drummond, kindly, “you are a good lassie 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 God.”
“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.