MRS. WILLIAM M’KENZIE, BALCHLADDICH, STOER.
WE consider it expedient to insert a short tribute to the memory of Mrs. M’Kenzie, who died two years before her daughter, Kate, who was noticed in last issue. She was an exemplary Christian and was about eighty-four years old at the time of her death. She was brought under concern under the ministry of the late Rev. Mr. Ross, Stoer, who was faithful as well to the souls of his hearers as to his God. One day the following words which
fell from the lips of Christ’s servant with great solemnity, viz., “The trembling, which seizes the soul at death, shall continue through eternity,” were irresistible, and the impression which the words made upon her mind was such that she beheld this prospect confronting herself for ever as a lost sinner before God. This awakening ultimately issued in the change from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God. The Scripture, so far as we could learn, which proved the means, by the Holy Spirit, of effecting this change was, “He sent his word, and healed them, and delivered them from their destructions.”
She was confined to bed for a number of years before her death, and through bodily ailments and those dispensations of Divine Providence to which we referred before, she was kept low, poor and dependent on the Lord. The Most High seemed pleased to place in her cup bitter herbs which made the world bitter, and the prospects of a heavenly rest sweet. To her indeed were the words of the Psalmist applicable: “I am poor and needy, yet the Lord thinketh upon me.” M. M.
DONALD M’LEOD, CLASHMORE, STOER.
DONALD, familiarly known as “Domhnuil beag na Clash,” was another branch in the congregation which the Lord was pleased to remove. There are now three years since our friend died, and we regret the lateness of the date at which we are now recording a little concerning him. He appears to have been brought to the knowledge of the Lord when he was young; in fact, he was but a young man when he died—only thirty-five years. Donald was not what we might call mentally robust; but one often felt the savour of grace when in his company, and also when listening to him in spiritual exercises. Of him it might be said he was “diligent in business; fervent in spirit; serving the Lord.” Satan was giving Donald but very little rest. He knew what these words mean: “They mount to heaven, then to the depths they do go down again.” When passing through soul trials he would be a pitiful creature; but the Lord was giving him relief as He deemed beneficial to him. The liberty of the Lord’s presence which he betimes enjoyed was reflected in his countenance. His delight was in the law of the Lord and the means of grace. When his own soul was enlarged in these means they would be like a feast to his soul. He was a sweet precentor, and his leading of the congregational praise was solemn as well as inspiring. We often felt savour and unction accompanying the public praise of the sanctuary as Donald threw his whole inward being into this precious part of the service. He was greatly missed by us all, and his removal marked a great blank in the congregation. M. M.
THERE are but few who love to reprove, fewer who reprove in love, and fewest of all who love to be reproved.
The Story of a Young Puritan in the Seventeenth Century.
THE following striking and instructive story is told by the Rev. John Gillies, D.D., in his “Historical Collections” (pp. 102-4). It originally appeared in a book, entitled “Turner’s Remarkable Providences.” The wonderful ways of God in providence and grace are touchingly illustrated:—
The hatred of some at serious religion, under the name of Puritanism, in those days, appears from the following passage in Turner’s Remarkable Providences, Part I., ch. 18:—Old Mr. Studly was a lawyer in Kent, of about £400 a year. He was a great enemy to the power of religion, and a hater of those that were then called Puritans. His son, in his youth, seemed to follow in the same steps till the Lord, that had separated him from the womb, called him home, which was as follows:—The young man was at London, and being drunk in some company, and going in the night towards his lodgings, fell into a cellar, and in the fall was seized with horror, and thought he fell into hell at that time. It pleased God he took little harm by the fall, but lay there some hours in a drunken drowse. His body being heated with what he drank, and his soul awakened, he thought he was actually in hell. After that he was come to himself, and was got home into Kent, he fell into melancholy, betook himself to read and study the Scriptures and to much prayer, which at length his father perceived, and, fearing he would turn Puritan, was troubled and dealt roughly with him, and made him dress his horses, which he humbly and willingly submitted to. And when, at that time, his father perceived he sat up late at night reading his Bible, he denied him candle-light, but, being allowed a fire in his chamber, he told Mr. Knight that he was wont to lie along and read by the fire light, and said that, while he was dressing his father’s horses in his frock, and in that time of reading by the fire, he had those comforts from the Lord and joys that he had scarce experienced since.
His father, seeing these means ineffectual, resolved to send him to France, that, by the airiness of that country, his melancholy temper might be cured. He went, and, being at his own disposal, by the Lord’s guiding him, he placed himself in the house of a godly Protestant minister, and, between them, after they were acquainted (and such is the cognition of saving grace in divers subjects, that a little time will serve for Christians to be acquainted) there grew a great endearment. Great progress he made in speaking the language, and his father expecting an account from the gentleman with whom he sojourned of his proficiency in speaking French, he sent it to him, but soon after, he had orders to return home. And the father directing it, or he entreating it, the landlord, with whom he had sojourned, came into England with him, and both were made very welcome at his father’s house,
he not knowing that he was a minister. At last the father took the French gentleman and his son at prayers together, and was angry, paid him what was due to him, and sent him away.
Then his father, having an interest in a person of honour, a great lady at Whitehall, and his son, by his now past education, accomplished for such an employ, prevailed with that lady to take his son for her gentleman, to wait upon her in her coach. He thought, by a Court life, to drive away his melancholy (as he called his son’s seriousness in religion). The lady had many servants, some given to swearing and rudeness, whom this young gentleman would take upon him to reprove with such prudence and gravity, that sin fell down before him. And if any of the servants had been ill employed and heard him coming, they would say, “Let us cease or begone; Mr. Studly is coming.” After a year’s time, his father waits upon the lady to enquire of his son’s carriage. She answered as it was, that she was glad that she had seen his son’s face, he had wrought a mighty reformation in her family. She, that had formerly been troubled with unruly servants, by his prudent carriage was now as quiet in her house as if she had lived in a private family in the country. After this the father stormed, “What! will he make Puritans in Whitehall?” told the lady that was no situation for him, and he would take him with him, which to her trouble he did.
When he had him at home in Kent, as his last refuge, he thought of marrying him, and, to that end, found out a match which he thought fit for his ends to stifle that work of religion in his son. He bade him one night put on his clothes in the morning, and ordered his servant to make ready their horses in the morning, and himself to wait on them. When they were riding on the way, he bade the man ride before, and spake to his son to this purpose. “Son, you have been matter of great grief to me, and, having used much means to reclaim you from this way you are in to no purpose, I have one more remedy to apply in which if you comply, I shall settle my estate upon you, otherwise you shall never inherit a groat of it. I am riding to such a gentleman’s house, to whose daughter I intend to marry you.” The son said little, knowing that family to be profane, but went with his father who before had made way there. They were entertained nobly; he had a sight of the young lady, a great beauty, and the young man fell much in love with her. When they had taken their leaves, on their way home, his father asked him, “What he thought of her?” He answered, “No man living but must be taken with such a one, but he feared she would not like him.” The father was glad it had taken, and bid him take no care for that. The wooing was not long, for at three weeks’ end they both came to London to buy things for the wedding. The father had charged that, in the time of wooing in that gentleman’s house, there should be no swearing nor debauchery, lest his son should be discouraged. Wedding clothes were bought, and the
day came in which the young couple were married. At the wedding dinner, at her father’s house, the mask was taken off; they fell to drinking healths, and swearing among their cups, and, amongst others, the bride swore an oath. At which the bridegroom, as a man amazed, took occasion to rise from the table, stepped forth, and went to the stable and took a horse. None observing—all within were busy—he mounted and rode away, not knowing what to do. He bewailed himself as undone and deservedly, for that he had been so taken in love, and the business was so hurried on in design, he said he had at that time restrained prayer and slackened his communion with God, when, as in that grand affair of his life, he ought to have been doubly and trebly serious, and so might thank himself that he was utterly undone.
He sometimes thought of riding quite away. At last, being among the woods, he led his horse into a solitary place, tied him to a tree, in his distress, and betook himself to his prayers and tears, in which he spent the afternoon. The providence of God had altered his argument of prayer, which was now for the conversion of his new married wife, or he was undone. This he pressed with prayers and tears a great part of the afternoon, and did not rise from prayer without good hope of being heard. At the bride-house was hurry enough, horse and man (after they missed the bridegroom) sent every way. No news of him! He was wrestling as Jacob once at Peniel. In the evening he returned home, and, enquiring where his bride was, went up to her and found her in her chamber pensive enough. She asked him, “If he had done well to expose her to scorn and derision all the day.” He entreated her to sit down upon a couch there by him, and he would give her an account of his doing what he had then done, and tell her the story of his whole life and what the Lord, through grace, had done for him. He went over the story here above-mentioned, with many beautiful particulars (no question here omitted) not without great affection and tears, the flood-gates of which had been opened in the wood, and ever and anon, in the discourse, would say, “Through grace, God did so and so for me.” When he had told her his story over (and, by the way, this was the Apostle Paul’s method by which many were converted, to tell over the story of his conversion), she asked him what he meant by that word, so often used in the relation of his life, “through grace,” so ignorantly had she been educated, and asked him if he thought there were no grace in God for her, who was so wretched a stranger to God. “Yes, my dear,” said he, “there is grace for thee, and that I have been praying for this day in the wood, and God hath heard my prayer and seen my tears, and let us now go together to Him about it.” Then did they kneel down by the couch-side, and he prayed, and such weeping and supplication there was on both sides, that, when they were called down to supper, they had hardly eyes to see with, so swelled were they with weeping. At supper, the bride’s father, according to custom, swore. The bride
immediately said, “Father, I beseech you, swear not,” at which the bridegroom’s father, in a great rage, rose from table. “What (says he), is the devil in him? has he made his wife a Puritan already,” and swore bitterly that he would rather set fire, with his own hands, to the four corners of his well-built house than ever he should enjoy it. And accordingly he acted, made his will, gave his son, when he should die, ten pounds to cut off his claim, and gave the estate to some others, of whom Dr. Reeves was one, and, not long after, died. Dr. Reeves sent for the gentleman, paid him his ten pounds, told him he had been a rebellious son and disoblige his father, and might thank himself. He received the ten pounds and meekly departed.
His wife—the match was so huddled up—had no portion promised, at least that he knew of, who relied on his father, so that she was also deserted by her friends, and, having two hundred pounds in her own hand that had been given her by a grandmother, with that they took and stocked a farm in Sussex, where Mr. Knight has often been, and seen her, who had been highly bred, in her red waistcoat, milking the cows, and she was now become the great comforter of her husband, and exceedingly cheerful. “God,” says she, “hath had mercy on me, and any painstaking is pleasant to me.” There they lived some years with much comfort, and had the blessing of marriage, divers children. After some three years he was met in Kent, on the road, by one of the tenants on the estate, and saluted by the name of landlord. “Alas!” said he, “I am none of your landlord.” “Yes, you are,” said he, “I know more than you do of the settlement. Your father, though a cunning lawyer, with all his wit, could not alienate the estate from you, whom he had made joint-purchaser. Myself and some other tenants know it and have refused to pay any money to Dr. Reeves. I have sixteen pounds ready for you in my hands, which I will pay to your acquittance, and that will serve you to wage law with them.” He was amazed at this wonderful providence, received the money, sued for his estate, and, in a term or two, recovered it. “He that loseth his life for my sake and the gospel’s shall find it.”
His blessed wife, in the midst of blessings, enjoying a loving husband, divers fine children, and a plentiful estate, in the midst of these outward blessings, fell into a way of questioning the truth of her grace, because of outward prosperity. This was her sin, without doubt, for which Mr. Knight rebuked her, but it was a severe rebuke that the Lord gave her for her unthankfulness. A fine boy, about three years old, fell into a kettle of scalding wort, and was taken out by his mother and died. This she looked on as the Lord’s discipline for her unthankfulness, and was instructed. “This relation was sent me,” says Mr. Turner, “by the Rev. Mr. Singleton, now living in Hogsdon Square, near the city of London, and he received it from Mr. Knight, who was intimately acquainted with Mr. Studly, as was hinted before.”
Daibhidh Ros.
(AIR A CHRIOCHNACHADH.)
THA bliadhnaichean bho’n chaidh na tha dol roimhe so mu dhéidhinn Dhàibhidh Ros a sgiobhadh agus cha b’ e nach robh déidh againn air crioch a chur air bu choireach nach robh e air a chriochnachadh gu ruige so. Ach tha seann-fhacal ag radh: “Ruididh each mall muillion,” agus tha sinn an dòchas gu’n toir an Cruithear dhuinn comas air an oidheirp so air cliù Dhàibhidh Rois a chur an céill mar a b’athne dhuinn e na làithean deireannach air an talamh. Dh’ainmich sinn roimhe gu’n d’ailnich fradharc a shuilean nàdurrach e bliadhnaichean roimhe ‘bhàs. Ach ged do dh’ailnich na lochran a bha ‘na cheann, cha do dh’ailnich an solus a chuir an Spiorad Naomha ‘na anam. Mar bu teinne a bha e dol air a chrìch, ‘s ann bu shoilleir a bha e fàs ann am beatha na diadhachd. Cha robh latha no oidche nach b’ann air Criosda agus air an dachaoidh shiorruidh a bhiodh e smuaineachadh agus a labhairt, agus bha e soilleir do neach ‘sam bith gun robh ‘churam ma aobhar Dhé a fàs gu laitheil. Bha ministeirean na h-eaglais a cuir cùram air, “air eagal” mar a threireadh e fhéin, “gu’n deanadh an t-aon eucorach an toirt a thaobh bho bhi leantuin agus a dion aobhair Dhé air an talamh.” Cha bhiodh e onorach do chuimhne Dhàibhidh a nis a chumail air ais an ni a thuirt e ruinn aig an àm ‘san d’fhàg cuid do ministeirean an stéidh airson an robh na diadhairean a cathachadh ann an làithean an ath-leasachaidh. Bha sinn a’ falbh còmhla gu coinneamh cheasnachaidh ann an Ach-a-Bhàthaich, agus air an rathad thionndaidh e agus thuirt e, “Gu de ur beachd air a mhuinntir a dh’fhàg sinn?” d’an d’thug sinn am freagrath so. “Cha toigh leinn mòran a radh mu’n déidhinn.” Fhreagair Dàibhidh, “Tha mi creidsinn sin. Ach cha’n urrainn sinn gun a bhi smuaineachadh mu’n ghniomh a rinn iad. Bha mis’ am shuidhe aig an teine anns an tigh againn fhéin bho chionn oidhche no dhà agus thainig earainn do dh’fhocail an Tighearn thugam. ‘S e so i, ‘An ti a bhriseas callaid, teumaidh nathair e’ (Eccles. x. 8). Do bhrigh mo dhoille cha b’urrainn domhs’ fhaicinn c’ait an robh e sgiobhta, ach fhuaradh dhomh e. ‘S ann ann an coimhcheangail ris a’ mhuinntir a dh’fhàg sinn a thainig na briathran sin thugamsa, agus thug iad mi gu bhi smuaineachadh gu de a’ challaid a bhris iad. Bhris iad aonachd na h-eaglais ‘s an robh iad gun aobhar; bhris iad na bòidean fo’n deachaidh iad; agus is e mo bheachdsa, ma tha cuid a’ Chruithear unnta-san, gu’n teum nathair coguis chiontach iad mu’n teid iad bharr an t-saoghail so, ‘s mar a th’eil, och is och, ‘s ann dhoibh féin is dorr’ e—bithidh iad air an teumadh ‘s an t-siorruidheadh! ‘S ged a rachainnsa a Dhuneidinn no do dh’ àite ‘sam bith eile ‘sam beil neach aca, bu docha leam a dhòl a dh’éisdeachd aoin dhe’n fheadhainn nach do ghabh an ceum a ghabh sinne, na dhòl a dh’éisdeachd neach
aca.” Cha b’urrainn duine d’am b’athne e a chuir as a leth gu robb e obann ’na chainnt; cha tigeadh e a mach ach le ni air an d’fhior-bheachd-smuainich e, agus dh’fhoillsich e gu là a bhàis gu robb a cheangal ri firinn Dhé na bu diongmhalta na ri créutair a bha fo’n ghréin aig fheabhas.
Cha d’thainig trioblaid thròm ’sam bith ’na chàidreamh roimhe ’bhàs, ach bha’n duine o’n leth a muigh a fàilneachadh, mar a theireadh e fhéin. “Tha an Cruithear bàigheil rium—tha e cumail nam port fosgaite. Ach mar a tha e toirt air falbh mo neart, tha e toirt air falbh mo chàil airson lòn do’n chorpa.” B’abhaist dhuinne a bhi dol d’a amharc dà uair ’san là nuair a chaill e a chomais air tighinn do thigh Dhé. ’S ann an còmhnuidh le inntinn a beachd-smuaineachadh air focail Dhé a gheibheamaid e. Bha caileag bheag a bhuneadh do’n teaghlaich ’san robb e air an toireadh e bhi seinn nuair a bhiodh càch air falbh ann am meadhon. An ceithir-latha-deug mu dheireadh a bha e air an talamh, bha e da rireadh na theagascg a bhi laimh ris, an còmhnuidh anns an ùrnuigh lefadach mòr gu bhi dhachaidh, ag eìgheachd daonnan, “A ghaol, nach tig thu!” An drasda ’sa rithisd theireadh e, “Bheil sibh a sin?” Nuair a fhireagraist “Tha,” theireadh e, “am faca sibh aonan ’riamh a chaidh a chumail cho fad’ a’ feitheamh a’ phuirt riumsa?” Chaidh a radh ris air uair, “Cha’n fhad,” a Dhàibhidh, gus am faigh sibhse dhachaidh,” d’an tug e ’freagrath so, “Och is och, ’s mòr m’ eagail. Ach bha ’n Ti uasal gu math dhomhsa ré mo là, agus tha mi ’n dòchas nach tréig e nise mi.” Nuair a thigeadh neach a steach ris a’ robb ’bheag a’ cheangail aige, ’s a rachadh innse dha gu robb ’neach sin a lathair, theireadh e, “Bha là ann anns an robb mòran ann ris an robb tuilleadh ceangail agam, ach a nise ’s math leam an fheadhainn ris an lugha a robb agam a’ cheangail ’s an là sin a choinneachadh.”
Dh’ainmicheadh e féin briathran anns a’ chaibdeil a bu mbath leis a léughadh dha, agus gu tric dh’ innseadh e an leabhar agus àireamh na caibdeil. Air là àraidh, air dhuinn dol a steach do’n t-seomar, ghlaodh e, “Bheil sibh an sin?” Agus nuair a thuirt sinn gu robb, thainig e ’mach leis na briathran so, “Tha teagascg mòr ri ’m aghaidh nam biodh solus agam. Gheibh sibh na briathran a tha ri ’m aghaidh anns an Taisbeanadh agus an ceathramh rann.” Thuig sinn gu ’m be ’chéud chaibdeil do leabhair an Taisbeanadh a bha e ’ciallachadh, agus do bhrigh mailead a chlaisneachd air a chluas bu teinne dhuinn, chuir sin dhinn ar brògan, agus air a chùlaobh anns an leabaoidh léugh sinn na briathran sin da. Nuair a thainig sinn a dh’ ionnsuidh nam briathran ann an deireadh a’ chuigheamh ruinn. “Dhàsan a ghràdhaich sin agus a dh’ ionnlaid sinn o ar peacaidhean ann a fhuil féin,” chuir e suas a dhà làmh is dheàlraich aghaidh, agus thòisich e ri teagascg, agus ’s e ar beachd-ne gu ’m bu mbath do’n luchd-teagaig is àirde gu ’m biodh an sealladh aca air glòir pearsa Chriosda agus air an obair a chriochnaich e a bha aig an
laoch diadhaidh a bh’ ann sin air dhruin a cuir cath ris a bhàs, ach dha’n robh am bàs gun ghath tre chreidimh air ceannard na slàinte a chaidh a dheanamh foirfe tre fhulangas. Bho’n àm sin a mach gus na dhealaich anam ri’chorp, bha e ann an eileamaid iongantach. Bha na naoimh a chaidh dhachaidh ‘na aire-san còmhla ris, agus ‘s ann a bha e féin mar gu’m biodh an t-anam air dealachadh ri’chorp, agus a réir a chleachdaidh a bho ann an Cataimh, agus a bha Dàibhidh fhein gu tric air a cheann, bha e ‘gairm muinntir a dh’ ùrnuigh gus am biodh an giùlan air a thogail air falbh. “Aonghais Ghré a bha’n Luirg,” thuirte, “theid thusa an ceann na h-ùrnuigh,” agus an nuair nach d’fhuair e freagradh, thuirte, “‘Bheil e sin?” Nuair a chaidh a radh nach robh, fheadair e fhèin. “Thainig a’ chrioch cho aithghearr’s nach d’fhuair muinntir fios air.”
Lean e anns an t-suideachaidh néamhaidh sin sin gus na dh’fhuasgail an Ti a tha riaghladh gu gràsmhor anam bho’n phàilliun chrè. ‘So mar a chriocheach Dàibhidh Ros, “an gill’ uasal” mar a theireadh Aonglas Moraidh, a charaidh, mu dhéidhinn, a thurs air an talamh. Ann a bhi toirt an iomradh so gu ‘chrioch cha n’eil e tuilleadh ‘s a chòir dhuiinn a radh: Bu mhàiseach ‘na ghùis e, bu ghlic, naomha ‘na chòmradh e, bu chùbraidh ‘na ghluasadh e, ag amharc suas ri Mac Dhé. Bu mhath do’n eaglais na cuirtibhsa gun togadh an Tighearna suas fathasd muinntir ris am b’urrainn sinn amharc airson stiùradh ar cèum air slighe na firinn gu crìch ar cuairt anns an t-saoghal gun oilbheim do dhoine, gun chiùradh do dh’fhocal Dhé, mar a bha Daibhidh ‘na là na smachd do na peacaich, ‘s na mhisneachd do chaoraich an tréud, na bhlàs do na h-uain, na fhear-iomain faicilleach do’n spreidh a bha tròm le h-àil. Gheibheadh an t-uain a dheoch bhainne, ‘s gheibheadh na caoraich an ciobhair air raointibh an fhocal a tighinn glan a mach as a bhéul—a chlann ghaoil siribh òg e mar a rinn Dàibhidh ‘na bhalach ‘s e ag iomain nan tréud. Thug am focal “co leis thu?” buaidh air anam a bha mairionn, ‘s gu déireadh a bheatha cha d’fhug e air scanal. ‘S nam biodh oigridh na dùthcha ‘measg a robh e car tamuil a cuir meas air an fhocal, do dheanadh e ‘n glanadh bho ghalairean bréun a’ pheacaich ‘s a’ ghrùideachd, ‘tha dlùth dhuiinn a leanadh, ‘s a bheir peanas mu dheireadh mur faigh sinn ar glanadh bho chiont’ is bho shalachaireachd anns an tobair ‘chaidh fhosgladh ann am pearsa Mhic Dhé.
‘S iomadh là a bha sinn sona maillle ri Dàibidh ‘s ri Aonghas agus a nis, bho’n dh’fhalbh iad, tha ar ‘n aignidh a’ triall ‘nan déigh. Ma chaomhnas an Cruithear beò sinn, ‘s e ar dùil clù Dhàibhidh agus Aonghas a chuir cuideachd ann an leabhar na’n tigeadh an saoghal gu nitheigin do chlos nach ‘eil air aig an àm so. Ged nach ‘eil mise ‘gam mheas fhéin comasach na airidh air cantanas agus deanadas nan daoine sin aithris, b’airidh iadsan gu’m biodh iomradh agus cuimhne mhath a chaoidh air a chumail orra.
E. M’Q.
Australian Obituary.
MR. ARCHIBALD MACDONALD, GRAFTON, CLARENCE RIVER,
NEW SOUTH WALES.
THE death, on 23rd October, 1918, of Mr. Archibald MacDonald, Duke Street, Grafton, Clarence River, New South Wales, has removed from that district a well-known and highly respected man. His demise is universally regretted. The deceased was a native of Skye, and loved his native isle. He revered the memory of Rev. Roderick MacLeod, Snizort, and the worthy Christians of by-gone days. He was wedded to sound doctrine, and attached to ministers who faithfully proclaimed the whole counsel of God. He was a staunch constitutionalist. Mr. MacDonald was, for many years, in Greenock, in the office of Provost Campbell, who held him in high esteem. He was a useful and diligent member of the late Free Gaelic Church, Greenock, and the Rev. John MacRae (MacRath Mor) had great respect for him.
About thirty-five years ago the state of his health compelled him to go to Australia. He settled in Grafton, and was appointed Secretary of the Clarence and North Coast Farmers’ Association, and subsequently Manager and Secretary of the Co-operative Bread Co. of Grafton. For years he acted as Secretary and Treasurer of the Brushgrove-Grafton Free Presbyterian congregation, and took a special and active interest in the work of the congregation. At times he conducted the services in Grafton; and was mindful of visiting the sick and afflicted in the neighbourhood. It was on his recommendation that the faithful and pious Rev. John Finlayson, Coigach, Ross-shire, a native of Skye, went to Brushgrove.
When the writer of this sketch was in Australia, Mr. MacDonald attended to all the arrangements for the Sabbath services held in Grafton in connection with our Mission. On several occasions, in his home at Grafton, I was his guest, and enjoyed his company. He was very clever and well informed, and possessed a strong vein of humour, in addition to being no mean poet. He was a most interesting conversationalist in both Gaelic and English. Acquainted with a number of the leading old orthodox ministers of the Highlands of Scotland, and being possessed of a very retentive memory, he could reproduce many of their choice sayings. He was knit in soul to two Free Presbyterian friends in Portree, Mr. Neil Mackinnon, merchant, and Mr. Duncan Campbell, fishcurer, and often referred to the pleasure and profit he had enjoyed at home in their Christian fellowship. He had a strong desire to come to Scotland to visit them, but the huge world War came on, and the proposed visit had to be abandoned till peace came. Before peace came, he was called away to the land of eternal peace.
We miss Mr. Archibald MacDonald. We had a faint hope we might again meet him in the Valley of Baca, but that is now forever
gone. “Be still, and know that I am God.” We convey our sincere sympathy to the sorrowing widow and other relatives, and commend them to God, and to the word of His grace, which is able to build them up, and give them an inheritance among them that are sanctified. D. M’K.
Diary of the Rev. James Calder,
MINISTER OF CROY, INVERNESS-SHIRE. BORN, 1712; DIED, 1775.
Edited from the Original MSS., with Illustrative Notes,
BY THE LATE REV. WM. TAYLOR, M.A., STIRLING.
(Continued from page 356.)
THIS, then, was a year of transition. The great tide of awakening and conversion work has attained its most rapid flow, and is henceforth to be less marked; but the waters do not cease to rise. We go back to give a few extracts:—
“January 3rd.—Conference this morning with two persons craving access to attend our fellowship-meeting—one of them very young, yet very serious, and sweetly exercised to godliness—which was one of the sweetest New-Year’s gifts I could possibly receive, and which I would take to be an earnest and the first-fruits of a rich harvest of souls this year. . . . In a little hut which I visited to-day I met with a precious young jewel deeply exercised, and longing and crying out for Christ, and who seemed to be really in the very crisis of the new birth; brought this young pleasant person along with me for a mile or two, who wept incessantly all the way, and from whom I expect a pleasant visit soon. This was another New-Year’s gift which gave me unspeakable joy!
“March 7th.—. . . Blessed be the Lord that there is ground to hope that this year will be happy in the conversion of souls in this quarter, as it has been already in the singular comfort and establishment of some real and eminent converts. May heaven and earth praise Him for this! Amen.
“April 7th.—. . . [After describing an unexpected meeting with his sons on their way home from the university, while he is engaged in parochial work, he adds]—Thus I always meet with the Lord’s mercies most remarkably when I keep close to Him in the way of duty.
“May 10th.—Yesternight, after labouring to make up peace betwixt my two kind neighbours and heritors, it pleased a gracious God to diffuse through my heart a more than ordinary sense of His own blessed peace and love, the pleasing savour of which I felt sweet and fresh on my mind this morning.
“15th.—Still I am encouraged more and more to wait on the Lord in every emergency; still I have it to say, amid all my languors and all my formality (for which I desire to be humbled), that it is good for me that I draw nigh unto God. Blessed for ever be His name! Amen and Amen!
“July 11th.—Afternoon visited that prisoner of hope, James M’Queen’s wife, confined to her bed for many long years. The Lord is doing her good! I dare not pass by her house, be my hurry ever so great. Great and wonderful was the freedom and enlargement I had in praying with and for this worthy patient this day, and many times before now. After riding a mile or two further, in my way home met accidentally with a pleasant lively Christian, living in a lonely moor, who had received a glorious outgate from soul trouble, thirteen years ago, by a sermon I had preached at Ardclach, on the Monday of the sacrament there, from these words: ‘I was brought low, and he helped me.’ Since that time this worthy person has been growing in grace and holiness, and is now an established Christian. Glory to the Lord for this fruit and seal of my ministry! Amen. . . . Met accidentally with a pleasant young creature under the deepest and most promising exercise of soul, with whom I discoursed for a short time, and who is likely to turn out a great and shining Christian, though as yet somewhat in the dark. [He describes several other happy meetings with Christians, and mentions several pastoral labours.]—This was the busiest and most fatiguing day to this poor body, but the sweetest and the happiest day I have had of a long time. May heaven and earth praise my adorable Lord and Master, for I cannot. Amen! Amen!
“September 9th.—Passed this day very agreeably with the Lord’s servants and people who stayed here. O how sweet will heaven be, when the communion of saints on earth is so pleasing and comfortable! Lord, prepare for that blessed place and society! Amen.
“November 10th.—Had a new specimen—an afflicting one—of my old peevishness of temper; but I trust that it has got a new wound that it shall not soon recover—I hope in God never recover. Amen.
“December 18th, 5 o’clock at eve [after a ‘day of retirement’]—My most gracious and merciful God was pleased to afford me this day, for His name’s sake, much of His wonted and benign presence and the powerful breathings of His blessed Spirit in the several parts of this day’s exercise and work in confession, contrition, humiliation, and the pleadings of faith on the blessed promises with respect to the several things that were tabled before the great and merciful Hearer of prayer. Of new I set my seal to it that He is a prayer-hearing God, and that for me it is good that I draw near to God; and if any of my children after my departure shall happen to cast their eyes on these cursory memorandums, I charge them in the name of the Lord to follow the example of their father in these sacred and blessed retirements when there is a call in Providence—and these calls will be very frequent. I call them blessed retirements, for they have been most remarkably blessed to me for many years. On these occasions I got everything from the Lord that my heart desired—
my evidences cleared, my doubts resolved, my fears silenced, my corruptions mortified, and many sweet promises with respect to my mother the Church of Scotland, with respect to my brethren and friends! Amen.”
The diary for next year, 1767, is lost. We suspect it was important—marking still more clearly the transition-stage from the period of numerous awakenings and conversions to a period of remarkable confirmation and sanctification.