After that, for the first time, William asked his wife to kneel down, and he would pray before they retired to rest. Poor fellow! he was sincere as ever man was, and never after till the day of his death did he omit this “exercise,” which once on a day was universal in every family whose head was a member of the church, and I have known it continued by the widow when her head was taken away. But on this the first night when the smith tried to utter aloud the thoughts of his heart, he could only say, “Our Father—!” There he stopped. Something seemed to seize him, and to stop his utterance. Did he only know how much was in these words, he possibly might have said more. As it was, the thoughts of the father on earth so mingled, he knew not how, with those of the Father in heaven, that he could not speak. But he continued on his knees, and spoke there to God as he had never spoken before. Jeanie did the same.
After a while they both rose, and Jeanie said, “Thank ye, Willie. It’s a beautifu’ beginning, and it wull, I’m sure, hae a braw ending.”
“It’s cauld iron, Jeanie woman,” said the smith, “but it wull melt and come a’ richt.”
The day of the funeral was a day of beauty and sunshine. A few fellow-tradesmen and neighbours assembled in the house, dressed in their Sunday’s best, though it was visible in one or two that the best was the worse of the wear. The last thing a Scotch workman will part with, even to keep his family in food, is his Sunday clothes; and the last duty he will fail to perform, is following the body of a neighbour or acquaintance to the grave. All were dressed with crape on their hats, and had weepers on their coats—the Corporal wore, besides, a medal on his. The smith, according to custom, sat near the door, and shook each man by the hand as he pointed to a seat. Not a word, of course, was spoken.
When all who were expected had assembled, the Doctor, who occupied a chair near the table on which the Bible lay, opened the Book, and after reading a portion of it without any comment, he prayed with a fervour and suitableness which touched every heart. This is our only Scotch burial service. The little coffin was then brought out, and was easily carried. The Corporal was the first to step forward, and saluting the smith by putting his hand to his hat, soldier fashion, he begged to have the honour of assisting. Slowly the small procession advanced towards the churchyard, about half a mile off; and angels beheld that wondrous sight, a child’s funeral—wondrous as a symbol of sin and of redemption; of the insignificance of a human being as a mere creature, and of his magnificence as belonging to Christ Jesus.
As they reached the grave, the birds were singing, and a flood of light steeped in glory a neighbouring range of hill; while overhead, the sky had only one small, snow-white cloud reposing in peace on its azure blue.
When the sexton had finished the grave and smoothed it with his spade, William quietly seized it, saying, “Gie me the shool, John, and I’ll gie him the last clap mysel’,” and he went over again the green turf carefully with gentle beats, and removed with his hand the small stones and gravel which roughened its surface. Those who stood very near, had they been narrowly watching him, which they had too much feeling to do, might have observed the smith give a peculiar, tender pressure and clap on the grave with his hand, as on a child’s breast, ere he returned the spade, and with a careless air said, “Here, John, thank ye; it’s a’ richt noo.” Then lifting up his hat, and looking round, added, “Thank ye, freens, for your trouble in coming.” And so they left “wee Davie” more precious and more enduring than the everlasting hills!
* * * * *
Several years after this, Dr. M‘Gavin, then a very old man, as he sat at his study fire, was conversing with a young preacher, who seemed to think that nothing could be accomplished of much value for the advancement of Christ’s kingdom, unless by some great “effort,” or “movement,” or “large committee,” which would carry everything at once by a coup de main. The Doctor quietly remarked, “My young friend, when you have lived as long in the ministry as I have done, you will learn how true it is, that ‘God fulfils Himself in many ways,’ He is in the still, small voice, and often, too, when He is neither in the earthquake nor in the hurricane. One of the most valuable elders I ever had—and whose admirable wife and daughters and well-doing, prosperous sons are still members of my church, and much attached friends—told me on his dying bed that, under God, he owed his chief good to the death of his first child, the circumstance which accidentally made me acquainted with him. On the last evening of his life, when enumerating the many things which had been blessed for his good, he said to me, ‘But under God it was my wee Davie that did it a’!’”