Scenes and legends of the north of Scotland

by Hugh Miller

The young chaplain looked as if he could have sunk into the ground, and was silent.

“Can it be true,” resumed the maiden, “that you have left us in our distress, and gone over to the prelates?”

Dallas stammered out an apology, and reminded her that Christianity, not Presbyterianism, formed the basis of their friendship. “The Church,” he said, “had too long paid an overweening regard to mere forms; it was now full time to look to essentials. What mattered it whether men went to heaven under the jurisdiction of a Presbyterian or of an Episcopalian Church?” He passed rapidly over the arguments of Sir John.

“You are deceived, my dear friend,” said Mary. “Look at these cottages that glitter to the setting sun on the hill-side. Eighty years ago their inmates were the slaves of gross superstition—creatures who feared and worshipped they knew not what; and, with no discipline of purity connected with their uncertain beliefs, they could, like mere machines, be set in motion, either for good or ill, at the will of their capricious masters. These cottages, Dallas, are now inhabited by thinking men; there are Bibles in even the humblest of them—in even yonder hovel where the old widow lives—and these Bibles are read and understood. We may hear even now the notes of the evening psalm! Wist ye how the change was wrought? or what it was that converted mere animal men into rational creatures? Was it not that very Church which you have, alas! so rashly forsaken, and now denounce as intolerant? A strange intolerance, surely, that delivers men from the influence of their grosser nature, and delights to arm its vassals with a power before which all tyranny must eventually be overthrown. Be not deceived, Dallas! Men sometimes suffer themselves to be misled by theories of a perfect but impossible freedom—impossible, because unsuited to the low natures and darkened minds of those on whom they would bestow it—and then submit in despair to the quiet of a paralysing despotism, because they cannot realize what they have so fondly imagined. Know ye not that none but the wise and the good can be truly free—that the vile and the ignorant are necessarily slaves under whatever form of government they may chance to live? See you not that the deprecated sway of the Scottish Church has been in truth but a paternal tutelage—that her children were feeble in mind, and rude and untoward, when she first laid the hand of her discipline upon them—and that she has now well-nigh trained them up to be men? And think you that these, our poor countrymen, already occupy that place which He who died for them has willed they should attain to? or that the many, no longer a brute herd, but moral and thoughtful, and with the Bible in their hands, are to remain the willing, unresisting slaves of the few? No, Dallas! when men increase in goodness and knowledge, there must be also an onward progress towards civil liberty; and the political bias which you denounce as unfavourable to religion, is merely the onward groping of this principle. A strange intolerance, surely, that has already broken the fetters of the bondsman; they still clank about him, but being what he now is—intelligent and conscientious—they must inevitably drop off, let his master fret as he may, and leave him a freeman.”

There was a pause, during which Dallas doggedly fixed his eyes on the ground. “I have viewed the subject,” he at length said, “with different eyes. And of this I am sure, there are in the Episcopal Church truly excellent men who cannot exist without doing good.”

“But look round you,” said Mary, “and say whether the great bulk of those who are now watching as on tiptoe to swell its ranks, are of the class you describe? Can you shut your eyes to the fact, that there is a winnowing process going on in the one Church, and that the chaff and dust are falling into the other? But, Dallas,” she said, laying her hand on her breast, “I can no longer dispute with you; and ’twould be unavailing if I could, for it is not argument but strength that you want—strength to resist the influence of a more powerful but less honest mind than your own. There is assuredly a time of trouble coming; but I feel, Dallas, that your escape from it cannot be more certain than mine.”

Dallas, who had hitherto avoided her glance, now regarded her with an expression of solicitude and alarm. She was thin—much thinner than usual—and her cheeks were crimsoned by a flush of deadly beauty. The anger which she had excited—for she had convinced him of his error, despite of his determination not to be convinced, and he was necessarily angry—vanished in a moment. He grasped her hand, and bursting into tears, “O Mary!” he exclaimed, “I am a weak, worthless thing—pity me—pray for me; but no, it were vain, it were vain; I am lost, and for ever!”

The maiden was deeply affected, and strove to console him. “Retrace your steps,” she said, “in the might of Him whose strength is perfected in weakness, and all shall yet be well. My poor brother has mourned for your defection as he would have done for your death; but he loves you still, and deeply regrets that an unfortunate quarrel should have estranged you from him. Come and see him as usual; he has a keen temper, but need I tell you that he has an affectionate heart? And I did not think, Dallas, that you could have so soon forgotten myself; but come, that I may have my revenge.”

The friends parted, and at this time neither of them thought they had parted for ever. But so it was. Facile and wavering as nature had formed the young chaplain, he yet indulged in a pride that, conscious of weakness, would fain solace itself with at least an outside show of strength and consistency; and he could not forget that he had now chosen his side. Weeks and months passed, and the day arrived on which, at the instance of the Bishop of Ross, the nonconforming minister of Cromarty was to be ejected from his parish.

It was early in December. There had been a severe and still increasing snow-storm for the two previous days; the earth was deeply covered; and a strong biting gale from the north-east was now drifting the snow half-way up the side-walls of the manse. The distant hills rose like so many shrouded spectres over the dark and melancholy sea—their heads enveloped in broken wreaths of livid cloud; nature lay dead; and the very firmament, blackened with tempest, seemed a huge burial vault. The wind shrieked and wailed like an unhappy spirit among the turrets and chimneys of the old castle. Dallas undid the covering of the shot-hole that looked down on the manse, and then hastily shutting it, flung himself on his bed, where he lay with his face folded in the bedclothes. Ere he had risen, the shades of evening, deepened by a furious snow-shower, had set in. He again unbolted the shot-hole and looked out. The flakes flew so thickly that they obscured every nearer object, and wholly concealed the more remote: even the manse had disappeared; but there was a faint gleam of light flickering in that direction through the shower; and as the air cleared, the chaplain could see that it proceeded from two lighted candles placed in one of the windows. Dreading he knew not what, he descended the turret stair, and on entering the hall found one of the domestics, an elderly woman, preparing to quit it. “This,” he said, addressing her, “is surely no night for going abroad, Martha?” “Ah, no!” replied the woman, “but I am going to the manse; there is distress there. Mary Anderson died this morning, and it will be a thin lykewake.” “Mary Anderson! thin lykewake!” said Dallas, repeating her words as if unconscious of their meaning: “I’ll go with you.” And, as if moved by some impulse merely mechanical, he followed the woman.