The Clergyman.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year.
GOLDSMITH’S Deserted Village.
Mrs. Dods’s conviction, that her friend Tyrrel had been murdered by the sanguinary Captain MacTurk remained firm and unshaken; but some researches for the supposed body having been found fruitless, as well as expensive, she began to give up the matter in despair. “She had done her duty”—“she left the matter to them that had a charge anent such things”— and “Providence would bring the mystery to light in his own fitting time”— such were the moralities with which the good dame consoled herself; and, with less obstinacy than Mr. Bindloose had expected, she retained her opinion without changing her banker and man of business.
Perhaps Meg’s acquiescent inactivity in a matter which she had threatened to probe so deeply, was partly owing to the place of poor Tyrrel being supplied in her blue chamber, and in her daily thoughts and cares, by her new guest, Mr. Touchwood; in possessing whom, a deserter as he was from the Well, she obtained, according to her view of the matter, a decided triumph over her rivals. It sometimes required, however, the full force of this reflection, to induce Meg, old and crabbed as she was, to submit to the various caprices and exactions of attention which were displayed by her new lodger. Never any man talked so much as Touchwood, of his habitual indifference to food, and accommodation in travelling; and probably there never was any traveller who gave more trouble in a house of entertainment. He had his own whims about cookery; and when these were contradicted, especially if he felt at the same time a twinge of incipient gout, one would have thought he had taken his lessons in the pastry-shop of Bedreddin Hassan, and was ready to renew the scene of the unhappy cream-tart, which was compounded without pepper. Every now and then he started some new doctrine in culinary matters, which Mrs. Dods deemed a heresy; and then the very house rang with their disputes. Again, his bed must necessarily be made at a certain angle from the pillow to the footposts; and the slightest deviation from this disturbed, he said, his nocturnal rest, and did certainly ruffle his temper. He was equally whimsical about the brushing of his clothes, the arrangement of the furniture in his apartment, and a thousand minuti?, which, in conversation, he seemed totally to contemn.
It may seem singular, but such is the inconsistency of human nature, that a guest of this fanciful and capricious disposition gave much more satisfaction to Mrs. Dods, than her quiet and indifferent friend, Mr. Tyrrel. If her present lodger could blame, he could also applaud; and no artist, conscious of such skill as Mrs. Dods possessed, is indifferent to the praises of such a connoisseur as Mr. Touchwood. The pride of art comforted her for the additional labour; nor was it a matter unworthy of this most honest publican’s consideration, that the guests who give most trouble, are usually those who incur the largest bills, and pay them with the best grace. On this point Touchwood was a jewel of a customer. He never denied himself the gratification of the slightest whim, whatever expense he might himself incur, or whatever trouble he might give to those about him; and all was done under protestation, that the matter in question was the most indifferent thing to him in the world. “What the devil did he care for Burgess’s sauces, he that had eat his kouscousou, spiced with nothing but the sand of the desert? only it was a shame for Mrs. Dods to be without what every decent house, above the rank of an alehouse, ought to be largely provided with.”
In short, he fussed, fretted, commanded, and was obeyed; kept the house in hot water, and yet was so truly good-natured when essential matters were in discussion, that it was impossible to bear him the least ill-will; so that Mrs. Dods, though in a moment of spleen she sometimes wished him at the top of Tintock,E6 always ended by singing forth his praises. She could not, indeed, help suspecting that he was a Nabob, as well from his conversation about foreign parts, as from his freaks of indulgence to himself, and generosity to others — attributes which she understood to be proper to most “Men of Ind.” But although the reader has heard her testify a general dislike to this species of Fortune’s favourites, Mrs. Dods had sense enough to know, that a Nabob living in the neighbourhood, who raises the price of eggs and poultry upon the good housewives around, was very different from a Nabob residing within her own gates, drawing all his supplies from her own larder, and paying, without hesitation or question, whatever bills her conscience permitted her to send in. In short, to come back to the point at which we perhaps might have stopped some time since, landlady and guest were very much pleased with each other.
But Ennui finds entrance into every scene, when the gloss of novelty is over; and the fiend began to seize upon Mr. Touchwood just when he had got all matters to his mind in the Cleikum Inn — had instructed Dame Dods in the mysteries of curry and mullegatawny — drilled the chambermaid into the habit of making his bed at the angle recommended by Sir John Sinclair — and made some progress in instructing the humpbacked postilion in the Arabian mode of grooming. Pamphlets and newspapers, sent from London and from Edinburgh by loads, proved inadequate to rout this invader of Mr. Touchwood’s comfort; and, at last, he bethought himself of company. The natural resource would have been the Well — but the traveller had a holy shivering of awe, which crossed him at the very recollection of Lady Penelope, who had worked him rather hard during his former brief residence; and although Lady Binks’s beauty might have charmed an Asiatic, by the plump graces of its contour, our senior was past the thoughts of a Sultana and a haram. At length a bright idea crossed his mind, and he suddenly demanded of Mrs. Dods, who was pouring out his tea for breakfast, into a large cup of a very particular species of china, of which he had presented her with a service on condition of her rendering him this personal good office — “Pray, Mrs. Dods, what sort of a man is your minister?”
“He’s just a man like other men, Maister Touchwood,” replied Meg; “what sort of a man should he be?”
“A man like other men? — ay — that is to say, he has the usual complement of legs and arms, eyes and ears — But is he a sensible man?”
“No muckle o’ that, sir,” answered Dame Dods; “for if he was drinking this very tea that ye gat doun from London wi’ the mail, he wad mistake it for common bohea.”
“Then he has not all his organs — wants a nose, or the use of one at least,” said Mr. Touchwood; “the tea is right gunpowder — a perfect nosegay.”
“Aweel, that may be,” said the landlady; “but I have gi’en the minister a dram frae my ain best bottle of real Coniac brandy, and may I never stir frae the bit, if he didna commend my whisky when he set down the glass! There is no ane o’ them in the Presbytery but himsell — ay, or in the Synod either — but wad hae kend whisky frae brandy.”
“But what sort of man is he? — Has he learning?” demanded Touchwood.
“Learning? — eneugh o’ that,” answered Meg; “just dung donnart wi’ learning — lets a’ things about the Manse gang whilk gate they will, sae they dinna plague him upon the score. An awfu’ thing it is to see sic an ill-red-up house! — If I had the twa tawpies that sorn upon the honest man ae week under my drilling, I think I wad show them how to sort a lodging!”
“Does he preach well?” asked the guest.
“Oh, weel eneugh, weel eneugh — sometimes he will fling in a lang word or a bit of learning that our farmers and bannet lairds canna sae weel follow — But what of that, as I am aye telling them? — them that pay stipend get aye the mair for their siller.”
“Does he attend to his parish? — Is he kind to the poor?”
“Ower muckle o’ that, Maister Touchwood — I am sure he makes the Word gude, and turns not away from those that ask o’ him — his very pocket is picked by a wheen ne’er-do-weel blackguards, that gae sorning through the country.”
“Sorning through the country, Mrs. Dods? — what would you think if you had seen the Fakirs, the Dervises, the Bonzes, the Imaums, the monks, and the mendicants, that I have seen? — But go on, never mind — Does this minister of yours come much into company?”
“Company? — gae wa’,” replied Meg, “he keeps nae company at a’, neither in his ain house or ony gate else. He comes down in the morning in a lang ragged nightgown, like a potato bogle, and down he sits amang his books; and if they dinna bring him something to eat, the puir demented body has never the heart to cry for aught, and he has been kend to sit for ten hours thegither, black fasting, whilk is a’ mere papistrie, though he does it just out o’ forget.”
“Why, landlady, in that case, your parson is any thing but the ordinary kind of man you described him — Forget his dinner! — the man must be mad — he shall dine with me today — he shall have such a dinner as I’ll be bound he won’t forget in a hurry.”
“Ye’ll maybe find that easier said than dune,” said Mrs. Dods; “the honest man hasna, in a sense, the taste of his mouth — forby, he never dines out of his ain house — that is, when he dines at a’— A drink of milk and a bit of bread serves his turn, or maybe a cauld potato. — It’s a heathenish fashion of him, for as good a man as he is, for surely there is nae Christian man but loves his own bowels.”
“Why, that may be,” answered Touchwood; “but I have known many who took so much care of their own bowels, my good dame, as to have none for any one else. — But come — bustle to the work — get us as good a dinner for two as you can set out — have it ready at three to an instant — get the old hock I had sent me from Cockburn — a bottle of the particular Indian Sherry — and another of your own old claret — fourth bin, you know, Meg. — And stay, he is a priest, and must have port — have all ready, but don’t bring the wine into the sun, as that silly fool Beck did the other day. — I can’t go down to the larder myself, but let us have no blunders.”
“Nae fear, nae fear,” said Meg, with a toss of the head, “I need naebody to look into my larder but mysell, I trow — but it’s an unco order of wine for twa folk, and ane o’ them a minister.”
“Why, you foolish person, is there not the woman up the village that has just brought another fool into the world, and will she not need sack and caudle, if we leave some of our wine?”
“A gude ale-posset wad set her better,” said Meg; “however, if it’s your will, it shall be my pleasure. — But the like of sic a gentleman as yoursell never entered my doors!”
The traveller was gone before she had completed the sentence; and, leaving Meg to bustle and maunder at her leisure, away he marched, with the haste that characterised all his motions when he had any new project in his head, to form an acquaintance with the minister of St. Ronan’s, whom, while he walks down the street to the Manse, we will endeavour to introduce to the reader.
The Rev. Josiah Cargill was the son of a small farmer in the south of Scotland; and a weak constitution, joined to the disposition for study which frequently accompanies infirm health, induced his parents, though at the expense of some sacrifices, to educate him for the ministry. They were the rather led to submit to the privations which were necessary to support this expense, because they conceived, from their family traditions, that he had in his veins some portion of the blood of that celebrated Boanerges of the Covenant, Donald Cargill,E7 who was slain by the persecutors at the town of Queensferry, in the melancholy days of Charles II., merely because, in the plenitude of his sacerdotal power, he had cast out of the church, and delivered over to Satan by a formal excommunication, the King and Royal Family, with all the ministers and courtiers thereunto belonging. But if Josiah was really derived from this uncompromising champion, the heat of the family spirit which he might have inherited was qualified by the sweetness of his own disposition, and the quiet temper of the times in which he had the good fortune to live. He was characterised by all who knew him as a mild, gentle, and studious lover of learning, who, in the quiet prosecution of his own sole object, the acquisition of knowledge, and especially of that connected with his profession, had the utmost indulgence for all whose pursuits were different from his own. His sole relaxations were those of a retiring, mild, and pensive temper, and were limited to a ramble, almost always solitary, among the woods and hills, in praise of which, he was sometimes guilty of a sonnet, but rather because he could not help the attempt, than as proposing to himself the fame or the rewards which attend the successful poet. Indeed, far from seeking to insinuate his fugitive pieces into magazines and newspapers, he blushed at his poetical attempts even while alone, and, in fact, was rarely so indulgent to his vein as to commit them to paper.
From the same maid-like modesty of disposition, our student suppressed a strong natural turn towards drawing, although he was repeatedly complimented upon the few sketches which he made, by some whose judgment was generally admitted. It was, however, this neglected talent, which, like the swift feet of the stag in the fable, was fated to render him a service which he might in vain have expected from his worth and learning.
My Lord Bidmore, a distinguished connoisseur, chanced to be in search of a private tutor for his son and heir, the Honourable Augustus Bidmore, and for this purpose had consulted the Professor of Theology, who passed before him in review several favourite students, any of whom he conceived well suited for the situation; but still his answer to the important and unlooked-for question, “Did the candidate understand drawing?” was answered in the negative. The Professor, indeed, added his opinion, that such an accomplishment w............