That same night as James and the soutar were going home together, they were overtaken by an early snowstorm, and losing their way, were in the danger, not a small one, of having to pass the night on the moor. But happily, the farmer’s wife, in whose house was their customary assembly, had, as they were taking their leave, made the soutar a present of some onion bulbs, of a sort for which her garden was famous: exhausted in conflict with the freezing blast, they had lain down, apparently to die before the morning, when the soutar bethought himself of the onions; and obeying their nearer necessity, they ate instead of keeping them to plant; with the result that they were so refreshed, and so heartened for battle with the wind and snow, that at last, in the small hours of the morning, they reached home, weary and nigh frozen.
All through the winter, James accompanied the soutar to his Sunday-school, sometimes on his father’s old gig-horse, but oftener on foot. His father would occasionally go also; and then the men of Stonecross began to go, with the cottar and his wife; so that the little company of them gradually increased to about thirty men and women, and about half as many children. In general, the soutar gave a short opening address; but he always made “the minister” speak; and thus James Blatherwick, while encountering many hidden experiences, went through his apprenticeship to extempore preaching; and, hardly knowing how, grew capable at length of following out a train of thought in his own mind even while he spoke, and that all the surer from the fact that, as it rose, it found immediate utterance; and at the same time it was rendered the more living and potent by the sight of the eager faces of his humble friends fixed upon him, as they drank in, sometimes even anticipated, the things he was saying. He seemed to himself at times almost to see their thoughts taking reality and form to accompany him whither he led them; while the stream of his thought, as it disappeared from his consciousness and memory, seemed to settle in the minds of those who heard him, like seed cast on open soil—some of it, at least, to grow up in resolves, and bring forth fruit. And all the road as the friends returned, now in moonlight, now in darkness and rain, sometimes in wind and snow, they had such things to think of and talk about, that the way never seemed long. Thus dwindled by degrees Blatherwick’s self-reflection and self-seeking, and, growing divinely conscious, he grew at the same time divinely self-oblivious. Once, upon such a home-coming, as his wife was helping him off with his wet boots, he looked up in her face and said—
“To think, Isy, that here am I, a dull, selfish creature, so long desiring only for myself knowledge and influence, now at last grown able to feel in my heart all the way home, that I took every step, one after the other, only by the strength of God in me, caring for me as my own making father!—Ken ye what I’m trying to say, Isy, my dear?”
“I canna be a’thegither certain I un’erstan’,” answered his wife; “but I’ll keep thinkin aboot it, and maybe I’ll come til’t!”
“I can desire no more,” answered James, “for until the Lord lat ye see a thing, hoo can you or I or onybody see the thing that he maun see first! And what is there for us to desire, but to see things as God sees them, and would hae us see them? I used to think the soutar a puir fule body whan he was sayin the vera things I’m tryin to say noo! I saw nae mair what he was efter than that puir collie there at my feet—maybe no half sae muckle, for wha can tell what he mayna be thinkin, wi’ that far awa luik o’ his!”
“Div ye think, Jeames, that ever we’ll be able to see inside thae doggies, and ken what they’re thinkin?”
“I wouldna won’er what we mayna come til; for ye ken Paul says, ‘A’ things are yours, and ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s!’ Wha can tell but the vera herts o’ the doggies may ae day lie bare and open to oor herts, as to the hert o’ Him wi’ whom they and we hae to do! Eh, but the thouchts o’ a doggie maun be a won’erfu’ sicht! And syne to think o’ the thouchts o’ Christ aboot that doggie! We’ll ken them, I daurna weel doobt, some day! I’m surer aboot that nor aboot kennin the thouchts o’ the doggie himsel!”
Another Sunday night, having come home through a terrible storm of thunder and lightning, he said to Isy—
“I hae been feelin, a’ the w’y hame, as gien, afore lang, I micht hae to gie a wider testimony. The apostles and the first Christians, ye see, had to beir testimony to the fac’ that the man that was hangt and dee’d upo the cross, the same was up again oot o’ the grave, and gangin aboot the warl; noo I canna beir testimony to that, for I wasna at that time awaur o’ onything; but I micht weel be called upon to beir testimony to the fac’ that, whaur ance he lay deid and beeried, there he’s come alive at last—that is, i’ the sepulchre o’ my hert! For I hae seen him noo, and ken him noo—the houp o’ glory in my hert and my life! Whatever he said ance, that I believe for ever.”
The talks James Blatherwick and the soutar had together, were now, according to Mr. Robertson, even wonderful. But it was chiefly the soutar that spoke, while James sat and listened in silence. On one occasion, however, James had spoken out freely, and indeed eloquently; and Mr. Robertson, whom the soutar accompanied to his inn that night, had said to him ere they parted—