CHAPTER X.
DAVID WHAMMOND'S LEGACY.
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EEL, efter the turn things had ta'en in last chapter, I made up my mind that nae time should be lost in gettin' Willie Warstle a Question Book. Efter catchin' me by the cauf o' the leg wi' a string, in mistake for a young lass, I wis left in mortal fear o' what he might be up to next, if his moral edication wis langer negleckit; but I made a mistake at the ootset. The book I bought him contained the "Confession of Faith," as weel as the "Larger and Shorter Catechism." Hooever, I can tell ye I wis doonricht weel pleased wi' the progress the callant made, and the answers he gave me showed a wonnerfu' grip o' memory, as weel as intelligence; in fact I could see he wis interestit i' the book.
Ae day he startled me wi' a question he speir'd.
"Do you believe," says he, "John Smallwares, the pipemaker, can forgive sins?"
I wis perfect dumfooner't, for I couldna see what the laddie had in his head. John Smallwares was, nae doot, an elder i' the kirk, but, to tell ye the truth, he wisna greatly thocht o' as a Christian man, havin' failed in business an' paid five shillings i' the pound by wye o' composition.
"Hoot, toot," quoth I, "what puts sic fancies into yer heid?"
“ Oh, but do you believe it ? ” says he.
“ No,” says I; “ that’s a doonricht Popish doctrine. What gars ye speir sic a daft-like question? Ye’ll no’ fin’ that i’ the Question Book.”
“ No,” says he ; “ but it’s in the Confession of Faith. Listen. Ye’ll get it in the 30th chapter: ‘To these officers’—meaning John Smallwares and other elders—‘the keys of the kingdom of heaven are committed, by virtue whereof they have power, respectively, to retain and remit sins.’ ”
The laddie stoppit, and lookit earnestly in my face for a reply, while I took the book frae his han’, put on my glesses an’ examined at the passage for mysel’. It wis a gey puzzlin’ statement, I alloo, but surely it could be explained awa’, or the meenisters wudna bide by it.
“ Willie,’’ quoth I, “ ye maunna fash yer thoom wi the Confession o’ Faith the noo; it’s ower deep for young callantslike you. When ye’ve maistered the Shorter Catechism, and win into the Divinity Hall, ye ’ll understand it better. Meantime keep by the Shorter Catechism and lea’ the Confession o’ Faith alane.”
Weel, just as I wis thinkin’ aboot the maitter next day, my servant-wumman cam’ in and put a letter in my hand wi’ a broad black margin. It announced the death, the day before, o’ David Whammond, my auld Sabbath schule teacher. David wis a heddlemaker to trade, a plain, earnest man, who gathered aboot him a lairge class o’ young women in the schuleroom, in Shuttle Street, no’ far frae Mr. Whangy’s tanyard. David Whammond and Janies Reid, the gingham weaver, aye gaedto the class thegither. David did the speaking maistly, while his frien’ led the singin’. It wis nae uncommon thing, hooever, for James Reid to stop David in his remarks, and put in either
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the occasion—these remarks were never ill ta’en. I mind to this day a gey droll interruption that took place ae nicht in the middle o’ David Whammond’s address. The subject wis, I think, the Origin o’ Evil. The speaker leant ower his desk in real earnest, and James Reid sat i’ the precentor’s seat wi’ his head cuist on ae side as if waitin’ for something to pick a quarrel wi’.
“Did ye niver think o’t, my dear young lassocks,” says David, laying aside his glesses, “ did ye niver think it wis a curious thing that the serpent should have come to the woman —a puir, helpless, unoffensive woman ? But he kent fine what he wis daein’—he wis cunnin’ enough for that. My dear young lassocks, if the serpent had come to Adam, dae ye ken what Adam wud hae dune ? He wud hae chappit aff his heid wi’ a spade.”
“ Noo, David Whammond, I wonner to hear ye,” says James Reid; “ man I wonner to hear ye! I never like to accept onything ye canna prove. Hoo dae ye ken they had spades in Adam’s time ? ”
“ Do you think, James Reid,” quoth David, lookin’ doon wi’ great dignity, “ do ye think the Lord wis gaun to let Adam delve the yaird o’ Eden wi’ his fingers ? ”
It’s funny hoo this should come into my heid at sic a solemn time, but the interruption wis real droll.
So puir David Whammond has won awa’. His wis a faithfu’ life, an’ he had been spared to work out his guid twal ’oors i’ the vineyaird. It wud hae been an unchristian thing to vex. I gaed awa’ doon to his dochter’s to see his remains, and I must alloo it wis as bonny a corp as ever I saw. Weel, as I wis cornin’ awa’ his dochter took me into the wee room where he keepit his books, and she tak’s doon ane that had been weel read and weel thoom’t. “Here,” quoth she, “ here is a book he greatly prized himsel’. This is a book he understood better than mony a minister. Ane o’ his last requests wis that you should get it, for, he said, there never wis onybody in his class could answer the questions like you.”
I took the book and opened it, wi’ tears in my een, as ye may jaloose. It wis carefully interleaved, and bore written notes in a clear, roun’ han.’ When the mist cleared frae my een I saw it wis the “Confession of Faith and the Larger and Shorter Catechism’,’ bound in ane.
“Weel,” thinks I, “wis there ever a more providential bequest? It wis maist as wonnerfu’ as when my cousin, Jen Spreull, dee’t an’ left me the Trongate property.” Willie Warstle had puzzled me sair wi’ his questions, and my heart had nearly sunk within me; but the path o’ duty wis noo clear. My auld maister, David Whammond, had wrestled wi’ a’ the kittle points for a lifetime, and I wis sure that in his notes everything wud be made plain. I left the hoose o’ my deceased benefactor greatly strengthened, feeling that I had been providentially armed for the difficult task that lay before me.