He told her that it was not an easy matter to meet every case. “For instance,” said he, “I was calling a fortnight ago on a man; he said he was in great distress, both of mind and body, ‘just real ill—just real, real ill, every way, temporally and spiritually—a’ wrang, body and the ither way; an’ to add to my troubles, my landlord—the sweep o’er there—has warned me out o’ his house, for altho’ I aye paid him his rent, plack an’ farthin’, when I was weel, I’ve fa’en behind this half-year, an’ I’m just fair despairin’, just awfu’ bad.’ I advised him to cast all his cares, of every kind, temporal and spiritual, cares of mind, cares of body, cares of estate, on his Maker, and ask His guidance.”
“IT’S AN ILL WIND.”
“I have just now returned from visiting him, and to-day I found him in grand spirits, although not, in my opinion, so much improved in health as to account for his being so very cheerful. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘how do you feel to-day?’ ‘Eh, sir!’ said he, ‘yon was a grand advice ye gied me a fortnight ago, just an awfu’ grand advice. When you went out I just did as you told me: I cast a’ my care o’ a’ kinds, baith for this world an’ the next, a’ my care about mysel’ an’ fam’ly, indeed a’thing, where ye tell’d me;’ and, he added, with a very hearty voice, jerking his thumb in the direction of his landlord’s house, ‘eh, man! the sweep’s deid; he’ll no’ bother me again. So, ye see, it’s a grand thing to tak’ gude advice; an’ hasna’ Providence been kind, kind?’”
I can recall a visit I paid to a widow shortly after her husband’s death. He was a well-informed, active, abstemious man, but had a very violent temper, and was more easily put into a towering passion than any man I ever knew. On the slightest provocation, often on none, he would say the snellest [most biting], sharpest things. He was a fireside theologian, well read in the old divines, and an extreme Calvinist, for he came of a Cameronian stock, and was a Pharisee of the Pharisees as touching every jot and tittle of church law and form.
I knew the household well, and whenever I appeared, Mrs. Gray welcomed me. She was a quiet, industrious body, and had been to him a good wife under very difficult circumstances. She had got through with her work amongst her cows for the night, but had still on the rough worsted apron of nappy homespun wool, called a “brat.” She told me familiarly to take a chair, and sat down herself in an old high-backed arm-chair, which stood close to the chimney cheek. There were two or three cushions on it, highest at the back: it looked an uncomfortable seat, but it enabled her to rest her feet on the floor, so that her posture was half leaning backwards and half sitting. She filled her pipe, for smoking was not unknown amongst the women-folks round Blinkbonny, but instead of lighting it by a spunk, she pushed it into the “ribs” of the kitchen fire, and left it there for a second or two. Whilst she was preparing for her favourite “weakness,” I referred to her late husband as mildly as I could, speaking of his infirmity of temper as now no more to him, as it really had been a source of “great tribulation.”
THE SPEERIT OF MEEKNESS.
She withdrew the pipe from the fire, and put it in her mouth. Some burning sparks were now and again falling from it on to her brat, but this did not seem to annoy her, she “dichtit” [wiped] them quietly down her sloping figure, and said after a few “draws,” “‘Deed ay, it just shows ye”—here she took a few more draws in silence—“that the grace o’ God will bide wi’ a man that nae ither body can bide wi’,”—another silent draw or two,—“for I haena the slichtest doubt but that Tammas is in heaven;” some strong draws followed, as the profuse smoke testified,—“but he was ill to thole [put up with] here. I had my ain adaes [to do] wi’ him, for he was just a very passionate man; but ae part o’ the white robe he has on noo will be the speerit o’ meekness.”
An elder in one of the Blinkbonny churches was a very reserved, silent man, almost afraid to hear the sound of his own voice. He was an undertaker, and was on one occasion employed at a funeral. The company had met, but the minister did not turn up,—a very unusual thing, for clergymen are most attentive on such occasions.—(His absence was caused by the breaking down of a gig when he was on the way.) The father of the dead child whispered quietly into the undertaker’s ear:
“Just pit up a prayer yersel’, Mr. Sommerville, if you please.”