Another—and another;
Then, blinded with despair, I cried,
‘My mother! Oh, my mother!’
Down from the desk I swiftly sprang,
And reached the vestry door;
Then rent the sable gown in twain,
And cast it on the floor.”
In a rural village in Perthshire, a number of years ago, a tailor’s apprentice, who was fain to thrill the congregation with a display of his vocal powers, failed even more conspicuously than Barebones aforesaid. This individual was allowed a “day,” only after repeated entreaty, the habitual occupant of the “letteran” being dubious about the success of the venture. However, when sanction was at length given, the “Psalms” were early secured from the minister, and elaborate preparations ensued. Sabbath came, and on the last toll of the bell our hero emerged from the Session-house and stepped with jaunty and self-confident air into the desk in front of the pulpit. He was a sight to behold, and not soon to forget. Every hair was in its right place, and shone from the superabundance of scented pomade, and his whole demeanour was that of one who had come forth to conquer, or to die. While the first psalm was being read he kept sounding his pitchfork. As the time for rising drew near a nervous twitching of the mouth and eyes ensued, which was accompanied by sudden paleness of the features. Promptly as the minister sat down, however, he banged to his feet, once more struck the pitchfork on the book-board, once more sounded his doh. Then he raised his book—turned his eyes on the congregation—opened his mouth—and—and—no—not a sound would come. Perceiving the situation, the precentor, who was in his own family pew, opportunely threw his voice into the breach, and led off with the tune which he had previously directed should be sung to the first psalm. At the same moment his young substitute disappeared below the desk, and there he remained throughout all the rest of the service, and until every soul but himself and the beadle had quit the sacred edifice, the precentor having, as each successive psalm was given out, stood in his family pew and led the congregation. But, though baffled for the time being, Willie was not altogether discomfited, and before many months had passed he appealed for an opportunity to “redeem his character,” as he put it. The request was by and by conceded, and he “stack” a second time. Again he essayed to “redeem his character,” and once more the opportunity was afforded. This time it was to be “now or never,” and no effort was to be spared to ensure success. He was himself thoroughly confident, as heretofore, and in marching proudly kirkwards he came up on the village wiseacre of the time, who was stepping leisurely in the same direction.
“Well, Mr. C⸺, I am going to redeem my character to-day,” said Willie.