The sermon that day was peculiar. The minister of the parish was a young man; one of those quiet, modest, humble young men, who are, as their friends think, born to be neglected in this world. He was a shrewd, sensible young fellow, however, who, if put to it, could have astonished his “friends” not a little. He was brimful of “Scotch” theology; but, strange to say, he refrained from bringing that fact prominently before his flock, insomuch that some of the wiser among them held the opinion, that, although he was an excellent, worthy young man, he was, if any thing, a little commonplace—in fact, “he never seemed to have any diffeeculties in his discoorses: an’ if he had, he aye got ower them by sayin’ plump oot that they were mysteries he did na pretend to unravel!”
Any one with half an eye might have seen that the young clergyman was immeasurably above his flock intellectually. A few of them, among whom was our friend McAllister, perceived this, and appreciated their minister. The most of them, good souls, thought him worthy, but weak.
Feeling that he had been appointed to preach the gospel, this youth resolved to “make himself all things to all men, in order that he might gain some.” He therefore aimed at preaching Christ crucified, and kept much of his own light in the background, bringing it out only in occasional flashes, which were calculated to illuminate, but not dazzle, the minds of his people. He remembered the remark of that old woman, who, when asked what she thought of a new minister, said, “Hoot! I think naethin’ o’ him ava’; I understand every word he says,” and he resolved rather to be thought nothing of at all than pander to the contemptible craving of those who fancy that they are drinking deep draughts of wisdom when they read or hear words that are incomprehensible, but which sound profoundly philosophical.
But we might have spared our readers all this, for the young minister did not preach that day. He was unwell, and a friend had agreed to preach for him. The friend was an old man, with bent form and silvery hair, who, having spent a long life in preaching the gospel, had been compelled, by increasing age, to retire from active service. Yet, like a true warrior, he could, when occasion required, buckle on his Christian armour, and fight stoutly, as of old, for his beloved Master and for the salvation of human souls.
His eye was dim and his voice was weak, and it brought tears to the eyes of the sympathetic among the people to see the old man lose his place and unconsciously repeat his sentences. But not a shadow of disrespect mingled with their feelings. There was no mistaking the glow of love and the kindly fire which flushed the pale face when salvation was the theme. When he mentioned the name of Jesus, and urged sinners to flee from the wrath to come, the people felt the truth of that word, “God’s strength is perfected in man’s weakness.”
The Sudberrys felt very happy that day on returning home. They overtook old Moggy, stumping along through mud and water, with tears bedewing her cheeks.
“Why, Moggy, you are all wet!” said Fred, hastening towards her.
“Ay, I fell into a dub as I cam out o’ the kirk. But, ech! sirs, I’ve heard blessed words this day.”
The Sudberrys spent that evening in their usual way. They went to a particular spot, which Lucy had named the Sunny Knoll, and there learned hymns off by heart, which were repeated at night, and commented on by Mr Sudberry. After supper they all got into what is called “a talk.” It were presumptuous to attempt to explain what that means. Everyone knows what it is. Many people know, also, that “a talk” can be got up when people are in the right spirit, on any subject, and that the subject of all others most difficult to get up this “talk” upon, is religion. Mr Sudberry knew this; he felt much inclined at one time that night to talk about fishing, but he laid strong constraint on himself; and gave the conversation a turn in the right direction. The result was “a talk”—a hearty, free, enthusiastic communing on the Saviour, the soul, and eternal things, which kept them up late and sent them happy to bed—happier than they had yet been all that season.