“Oh,” said Norman, “that’s the valet of the shadow of death.”
When Norman, not yet great, began his ministry in the Ayrshire parish of Loudoun, among his parishioners were some rather notable freethinkers, whose views the young divine, with the energy and earnestness characteristic of him, thought it proper to assail and denounce. Naturally this caused a good deal of commotion and excitement in what had hitherto been rather a sleepy parish. One of his elders, who thought his minister’s zeal outran his discretion, one day thus addressed him—“Mr. Macleod, hoo is it we ne’er heard o’ unbelievers hereaboot till ye cam’ among us?” “John,” said the ready minister, “saw ye ever a wasp’s bike?” “Hoot aye, aften.” “Weel, lat them be, and they’ll lat you be; but put your stick through the heart of it, and it’ll be anither story.”
No minister was ever more beloved by his people than was Dr. Macleod by the inhabitants of the Barony parish. There is a story which reveals this with rare effect, and which the great Norman himself told with much gusto. A dissenting minister in the district had been asked to come to a house in the High Street, and pray with a man who was thought to be at the point of death. He knew by the name and address given that the people were not connected with his congregation. Still, he went off at once as desired. When he had read and prayed—having previously noted how tidy everything looked about the room, and being puzzled by the thought of a family of such respectable appearance having no church connection—he turned to the wife and mother of the household, and asked if they were not connected with any Christian body in the city?
“Ou, ay,” she replied, “we’re members o’ the Barony.”
“You are members of the Barony! Then why didn’t you call in Dr. Macleod to pray with your husband, instead of sending for me?”
“Ca’ in the great Dr. Norman Macleod?” skirled the matron, with uplifted hands. “The man’s surely daft. Dinna ye ken it’s a dangerous case o’ typhus?”
Norman Macleod, Anthony Trollope, the novelist, and John Burns of Castle Wemyss, were great friends, and went together once on a tour in the Highlands. On arriving at an inn late at night they had supper, and then told stories, and laughed without stint half the night through. In the morning an old gentleman, who slept in a bedroom above them, complained to the landlord that he had not been able to sleep on account of the noise from the party below; and added that he regretted that such men should “take more than was good for them.”
“Well,” replied the landlord, “I am bound to say there was a good deal of loud talking and laughing; but they had nothing stronger than tea and herrings.”
“Bless me,” rejoined the old gentleman, “if that is so, what would Dr. Macleod and Mr. Burns be after dinner!”