By Rev. A. MACGILLIVRAY.
J EAN Mackay lived at Armadale, in what is now the parish of Strathy. The death of her first husband, when she was very young, was the means of awakening her; and after a severe conflict she was brought to know the Saviour. When I became acquainted with her, she was an old woman, and I a very young minister; and being a member of my congregation, I had much intercourse with her. One of the first things which struck me was a simple incident, which showed her exquisite tenderness. Calling for her on Monday, I found her seriously ill, and I discovered that she had got ill in church the previous day, in consequence of the crowd and the heat. And on my asking, “Why did you not at once go out?” her answer was: “My dear, had you been an older minister, I would have gone out; but foolish people might have said that I left the church because I disliked something in the sermon, and I thought it a far higher duty to remain in the church, sick as I was, than do what might in the very least injure your usefulness, or even hurt your feelings.”
She was indeed tender-hearted. With a strong masculine understanding, her heart was one of the warmest I ever new. I never new a Christian in whom the warmth of youthful impressions, and the solidity of one long exercised to godliness, were so combined, and combined to the last. At eighty years of age, if you read to her the account of the crucifixion, or her favourite chapter, the fifty-third of Isaiah, the big tears instantly ran down her face, showing the love that was felt within. Christ was to her a living, present person, who was always with her, and with whom she held the closest fellowship. And yet her religion was eminently practical. A young woman, one of my people, who was under deep convictions of sin, called for her. The young woman was married, and had a family. After drawing her out, Jean at last said to her: “I hope you are active in looking after your household.” The poor woman replied: “I am in that state of mind I can attend to nothing.” Upon which Jean said: “That will never do: don’t expect to get peace while you are neglecting duty. I have often been on a harvest day in a state of deep mental suffering, yet there was not a woman on the harvest-field cut down more corn than I did. I felt that whatever came of me, I must not give the world occasion to dishonour Christ, by saying that my religion made me idle and thriftless.” Her confidence in God was that of the little child. She had passed through very severe afflictions, and in describing these to me, she said: “You have heard of my last trial—my two lovely sons both drowned in one night; their bodies are still in the Pentland Firth.” On my remarking that that must have been a fearful trial, she said: “Yes, greatly more fearful than my neighbours had any thought of. I felt it my duty to conceal my feelings, and to make my sufferings known only to my gracious Father; and yet I had my consolations too. The first time I crossed the hill, and saw the Pentland Firth, where my sons were lost, I began to weep bitterly, and to rebel against the providence of God. And then, as if the voice had come from heaven, I heard Him say to me: ‘I gave my Son for thee, and thou grudgeth thy sons to Me.’ The effect was perfect: I was brought in a moment to cheerful submission: I exclaimed with joy, ‘O Lord, not my will, but Thine be done.'” I never knew almost any one who seemed so much to make God’s will her rule in everything. One evening she sent for me, and on my arrival I found her dangerously ill, and suffering excruciating pain. In those days, being more than twenty miles from the nearest medical aid, I had to prescribe for my people, and to supply them with medicine; and though in this case I dreaded the worst, I resolved to make the trial. I brought her the medicine in a cup, and when I asked her to take it, she at once refused. Her words were: “I am more than eighty years of age: during all that time I have never taken medicine of any kind, and I really cannot take it.” I reasoned with her, but she was firm. At last I remembered there was an argument which was almost sure to prevail. I said: “Jean, what is required in the sixth commandment? You know the sixth commandment requireth all lawful endeavours to preserve our own life as well as the life of others.” The effect was instantaneous. She said immediately: “I did not think of that. His will is precious: there must be no disobedience to it: give me the cup.” After holding it in her hands for more than two minutes, evidently engaged in prayer, she turned round to see that there was none in the room but myself, and then she said, with a smile: “I shall tell you something which I would not tell to everyone; but it may do you good, and help to encourage you. It is very likely that this is my last day on earth, and that I am just entering the eternal world; but what you have put into that cup gives me more terror than all the innumerable sins of a long life, for I know that they are all blotted out in the blood of the Lamb.” She recovered from that illness, and lived for years after, her Christian graces shining forth more brightly than ever. She had an intense thirst for the salvation of her fellow-creatures. In her own meek, cheerful, engaging way, she sought to win to Christ all who came in contact with her. A young lady, who was on a visit in the parish, called to take leave of her before returning home. The old woman was at the time, and had been for some years, completely bed-ridden. When about to take leave, the young girl said: “I shall soon be back, and see you again.” Jean’s reply was: “No, my dear—don’t expect to see me again. It is sinful to wish that my life should be prolonged. I long to be home; and, above all, bed-ridden as I am, I am utterly useless.” The lady replied: “Nonsense; you are not useless. How do you know but that beautiful, cheerful religion of yours may be the means of alluring and drawing to Christ young persons like me.” The old woman started up in her bed, her eyes kindled, and she said with deep feeling: “My dear, if I thought that by remaining here I could be the instrument of bringing a single soul to Christ, I’d cheerfully lie here till I withered.” When disabled from active work, she spent much of her time in intercessory prayer. On her telling me that she could never sleep at night—that any sleep she got was during the day, I remarked that she must feel the night very long. Her answer was: “No; I often find it too short. I spend it in prayer for my friends. I begin with my own family; I then leave home, and I pay you a visit, when you are probably sleeping; and I always visit Mr. Munro at Halkirk. I then go to Edinburgh and Glasgow, and I next cross the Atlantic, for I have Christian friends in America; and before I get through all my friends, the night has passed, and the daylight is come.” I cannot describe the circumstances of her death. When I left that country she was still spared; but I have the full assurance that her end was peace, and that she is now before the Throne.—Rev. A. Macgillivray’s Sketches of Religion and Revivals in the North Highlands during last Century.
Sanctity is no enemy to courtesy.—John Trapp.