Jacob Michael Reinhold Lenz - "Der Engländer"

Various - "A Book Of German Lyrics"

Richard F. Burton - "The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night, Volume 5"

Ernest Arthur Gardner - "Religion and Art in Ancient Greece"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Kate Carnegie and Those Ministers

I >> Ian Maclaren >> Kate Carnegie and Those Ministers




"It was, in an instant, my hope that this might be God's word by me,
but I knew not it was so till the Evangel opened up on all sides, and I
was led into the outgoings of the eternal love after so moving a
fashion that I dared to think that grace might be effectual even with
me . . . with me.

"God opened my mouth on Sabbath on this text unto my own flock, and the
word was not void. It is little that can be said on sovereign love in
two hours and it may be a few minutes; yet even this may be more than
your people are minded to bear. So I shall pretermit certain notes on
doctrine; for you will doubtless have given much instruction on the
purposes of God, and very likely may be touching on that mystery in
your action sermon."

During the evening the Rabbi was very genial--tasting Sarah's viands
with relish, and comparing her to Rebecca, who made savoury meat,
urging Carmichael to smoke without scruple, and allowing himself to
snuff three times, examining the bookshelves with keen appreciation,
and finally departing with three volumes of modern divinity under his
arm, to reinforce the selection in his room, "lest his eyes should be
held waking in the night watches." He was much overcome by the care
that had been taken for his comfort, and at the door of his room blest
his boy: "May the Lord give you the sleep of His beloved, and
strengthen you to declare all His truth on the morrow." Carmichael sat
by his study fire for a while and went to bed much cheered, nor did he
dream that there was to be a second catastrophe in the Free Kirk of
Drumtochty which would be far sadder than the first, and leave in one
heart life-long regret.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE FEAR OF GOD.

It was the way of the Free Kirk that the assisting minister at the
Sacrament should sit behind the Communion Table during the sermon, and
the congregation, without giving the faintest sign of observation,
could estimate its effect on his face. When Doctor Dowbiggin composed
himself to listen as became a Church leader of substantial build--his
hands folded before him and his eyes fixed on the far window--and was
so arrested by the opening passage of Cunningham's sermon on
Justification by Faith that he visibly started, and afterward sat
sideways with his ears cocked, Drumtochty, while doubtful whether any
Muirtown man could appreciate the subtlety of their minister, had a
higher idea of the Doctor; and when the Free Kirk minister of
Kildrummie--a stout man and given to agricultural pursuits--went fast
asleep under a masterly discussion of the priesthood of Melchisedek,
Drumtochty's opinion of the intellectual condition of Kildrummie was
confirmed beyond argument.

During his ministry of more than twenty years the Rabbi had never
preached at Drumtochty--being fearful that he might injure the minister
who invited him, or might be so restricted in time as to lead astray by
ill-balanced statements--and as the keenest curiosity would never have
induced any man to go from the Glen to worship in another parish, the
Free Kirk minister of Kilbogie was still unjudged in Drumtochty. They
were not sorry to have the opportunity at last, for they had suffered
not a little at the hands of Kilbogie in past years, and the coming
event disturbed the flow of business at Muirtown market.

"Ye 're tae hae the Doctor at laist," Mains said to Netherton--letting
the luck-penny on a transaction in seed-corn stand over--"an' a 'm
jidgin' the time 's no been lost. He's plainer an' easier tae follow
then he wes at the affgo. Ma word"--contemplating the exercise before
the Glen--"but ye 'll aye get eneuch here and there tae cairry hame."
Which shows what a man the Rabbi was, that on the strength of his
possession a parish like Kilbogie could speak after this fashion to
Drumtochty.

"He 'll hae a fair trial, Mains"--Netherton's tone was distinctly
severe--"an' mony a trial he's hed in his day, they say: wes't three
an' twenty kirks he preached in, afore ye took him? But mind ye,
length 's nae standard in Drumtochty; na, na, it's no hoo muckle wind a
man hes, but what like is the stuff that comes. It's bushels doon bye,
but it's wecht up bye."

Any prejudice against the Rabbi, created by the boasting of a foolish
parish not worthy of him, was reduced by his venerable appearance
before the pulpit, and quite dispelled by his unfeigned delight in
Carmichael's conduct of the "preliminaries." Twice he nodded approval
to the reading of the hundredth Psalm, and although he stood with
covered face during the prayer, he emerged full of sympathy. As his
boy read the fifty-third of Isaiah the old man was moved well-nigh to
tears, and on the giving out of the text from the parable of the
Prodigal Son, the Rabbi closed his eyes with great expectation, as one
about to be fed with the finest of the wheat.

Carmichael has kept the sermon unto this day, and as often as he finds
himself growing hard or supercilious, reads it from beginning to end.
It is his hair shirt, to be worn from time to time next his soul for
the wrongness in it and the mischief it did. He cannot understand how
he could have said such things on a Sacrament morning and in the
presence of the Rabbi, but indeed they were inevitable. When two tides
meet there is ever a cruel commotion, and ships are apt to be dashed on
the rocks, and Carmichael's mind was in a "jabble" that day. The new
culture, with its wider views of God and man, was fighting with the
robust Calvinism in which every Scot is saturated, and the result was
neither peace nor charity. Personally the lad was kindly and
good-natured, intellectually he had become arrogant, intolerant, acrid,
flinging out at old-fashioned views, giving quite unnecessary
challenges, arguing with imaginary antagonists. It has ever seemed to
me, although I suppose that history is against me, that if it be laid
on any one to advocate a new view that will startle people, he ought of
all men to be conciliatory and persuasive; but Carmichael was, at least
in this time of fermentation, very exasperating and pugnacious, and so
he drove the Rabbi to the only hard action of his life, wherein the old
man suffered most, and which may be said to have led to his death.

Carmichael, like the Rabbi, had intended to preach that morning on the
love of God, and thought he was doing so with some power. What he did
was to take the Fatherhood of God and use it as a stick to beat
Pharisees with, and under Pharisees he let it be seen that he included
every person who still believed in the inflexible action of the moral
laws and the austere majesty of God. Many good things he no doubt
said, but each had an edge, and it cut deeply into people of the old
school. Had he seen the Rabbi, it would not have been possible for him
to continue, but he only was conscious of Lachlan Campbell, with whom
he had then a feud, and who, he imagined, had come to criticise him.
So he went on his rasping way that Sacrament morning, as when one
harrows the spring earth with iron teeth, exciting himself with every
sentence to fresh crudities of thought and extravagances of opposition.
But it only flashed on him that he had spoken foolishly when he came
down from the pulpit, and found the Rabbi a shrunken figure in his
chair before the Holy Table.

Discerning people, like Elspeth Macfadyen, saw the whole tragedy from
beginning to end, and felt the pity of it keenly. For a while the
Rabbi waited with fond confidence--for was not he to hear the
best-loved of his boys--and he caught eagerly at a gracious expression,
as if it had fallen from one of the fathers. Anything in the line of
faith would have pleased the Rabbi that day, who was as a little child
and full of charity, in spite of his fierce doctrines. By-and-by the
light died away from his eyes as when a cloud comes over the face of
the sun and the Glen grows cold and dreary. He opened his eyes and was
amazed--looking at the people and questioning them what had happened to
their minister. Suddenly he flushed as a person struck by a friend,
and then, as one blow followed another, he covered his face with both
hands, sinking lower and lower in his chair, till even that decorous
people were almost shaken in their attention.

When Carmichael gave him the cup in the Sacrament the Rabbi's hand
shook and he spilled some drops of the wine upon his beard, which all
that day showed like blood on the silvery whiteness. Afterwards he
spake in his turn to the communicants, and distinguished the true
people of God from the multitude--to whom he held out no hope--by so
many and stringent marks, that Donald Menzies refused the Sacrament
with a lamentable groan. And when the Sacrament was over and the time
came for Carmichael to shake hands with the assisting minister in the
vestry, the Rabbi had vanished, and he had no speech with him till they
went through the garden together--very bleak it seemed in the winter
dusk--unto the sermon that closed the services of the day.

"God's hand is heavy in anger on us both this day, John," and
Carmichael was arrested by the awe and sorrow in the Rabbi's voice,
"else . . . you had not spoken as you did this forenoon, nor would
necessity be laid on me to speak . . . as I must this night.

"His ways are all goodness and truth, but they are oftentimes
encompassed with darkness, and the burden He has laid on me is . . .
almost more than I can bear; it will be heavy for you also.

"You will drink the wine of astonishment this night, and it will be
strange if you do not . . . turn from the hand that pours it out, but
you will not refuse the truth or . . . hate the preacher," and at the
vestry door the Rabbi looked wistfully at Carmichael.

During the interval the lad had been ill at ease, suspecting from the
Rabbi's manner at the Table, and the solemnity of his address, that he
disapproved of the action sermon, but he did not for a moment imagine
that the situation was serious. It is one of the disabilities of
good-natured and emotional people, without much deepness of earth, to
belittle the convictions and resolutions of strong natures, and to
suppose that they can be talked away by a few pleasant, coaxing words.

The Rabbi had often yielded to Carmichael and his other boys in the
ordinary affairs of life--in meat and drink and clothing, even unto the
continuance of his snuffing. He had been most manageable and
pliable--as a child in their hands--and so Carmichael was quite
confident that he could make matters right with the old man about a
question of doctrine as easily as about the duty of a midday meal.
Certain bright and superficial people will only learn by some solitary
experience that faith is reserved in friendship, and that the most
heroic souls are those which count all things loss--even the smile of
those they love--for the eternal. For a moment Carmichael was shaken
as if a new Rabbi were before him; then he remembered the study of
Kilbogie and all things that had happened therein, and his spirits rose.

"How dare you suggest such wickedness, Rabbi, that any of us should
ever criticise or complain of anything you say? Whatever you give us
will be right, and do us good, and in the evening you will tell me all
I said wrong."

Saunderson looked at Carmichael for ten seconds as one who has not been
understood, and sighed. Then he went down the kirk after the beadle,
and the people marked how he walked like a man who was afraid he might
fall, and, turning a corner, he supported himself on the end of a pew.
As he crept up the pulpit stairs Elspeth gave James a look, and,
although well accustomed to the slowness of his understanding, was
amazed that he did not catch the point. Even a man might have seen
that this was not the same minister that came in to the Sacrament with
hope in his very step.

"A 'm no here tae say 'that a' kent what wes comin''"--Elspeth, like
all experts, was strictly truthful--"for the like o' that wes never
heard in Drumtochty, and noo that Doctor Saunderson is awa, will never
be heard again in Scotland. A' jaloused that vials wud be opened an'
a' wesna wrang, but ma certes"--and that remarkable woman left you to
understand that no words in human speech could even hint at the
contents of the vials.

When the Rabbi gave out his text, "Vessels of wrath," in a low,
awestruck voice, Carmichael began to be afraid, but after a little he
chid himself for foolishness. During half an hour the Rabbi traced the
doctrine of the Divine Sovereignty through Holy Scripture with a
characteristic wealth of allusion to Fathers ancient and reforming, and
once or twice he paused as if he would have taken up certain matters at
greater length, but restrained himself, simply asserting the Pauline
character of St. Augustine's thinking, and exposing the looseness of
Clement of Alexandria with a wave of the hand as one hurrying on to his
destination.

"Dear old Rabbi"--Carmichael congratulated himself in his pew--"what
need he have made so many apologies for his subject? He is going to
enjoy himself, and he is sure to say something beautiful before he is
done." But he was distinctly conscious all the same of a wish that the
Rabbi were done and all . . . well, uncertainty over. For there was a
note of anxiety, almost of horror, in the Rabbi's voice, and he had not
let the Fathers go so lightly unless under severe constraint. What was
it? Surely he would not attack their minister in face of his
people. . . . The Rabbi do that, who was in all his ways a gentleman?
Yet . . . and then the Rabbi abruptly quitted historical exposition and
announced that he would speak on four heads. Carmichael, from his
corner behind the curtains, saw the old man twice open his mouth as if
to speak, and when at last he began he was quivering visibly, and he
had grasped the outer corners of the desk with such intensity that the
tassels which hung therefrom--one of the minor glories of the Free
Kirk--were held in the palm of his hand, the long red tags escaping
from between his white wasted fingers. A pulpit lamp came between
Carmichael and the Rabbi's face, but he could see the straining hand,
which did not relax till it was lifted in the last awful appeal, and
the white and red had a gruesome fascination. It seemed as if one had
clutched a cluster of full, rich, tender grapes and was pressing them
in an agony till their life ran out in streams of blood, and dripped
upon the heads of the choir sitting beneath, in their fresh, hopeful
youth. And it also came to Carmichael with pathetic conviction even
then that every one was about to suffer, but the Rabbi more than them
all together. While the preacher was strengthening his heart for the
work before him, Carmichael's eye was attracted by the landscape that
he could see through the opposite window. The ground sloped upwards
from the kirk to a pine-wood that fringed the great moor, and it was
covered with snow on which the moon was beginning to shed her faint,
weird light. Within, the light from the upright lamps was falling on
the ruddy, contented faces of men and women and little children, but
without it was one cold, merciless whiteness, like unto the justice of
God, with black shadows of judgment.

"This is the message which I have to deliver unto you in the name of
the Lord, and even as Jonah was sent to Nineveh after a strange
discipline with a word of mercy, so am I constrained against my will to
carry a word of searching and trembling.

"First"--and between the heads the Rabbi paused as one whose breath had
failed him--"every man belongs absolutely to God by his creation.

"Second. The purpose of God about each man precedes his creation.

"Third. Some are destined to Salvation, and some to Damnation.

"Fourth"--here the hard breathing became a sob--"each man's lot is unto
the glory of God."

It was not only skilled theologians like Lachlan Campbell and Burnbrae,
but even mere amateurs, who understood that they were that night to be
conducted to the farthest limit of Calvinism, and that whoever fell
behind through the hardness of the way, their guide would not flinch.

As the Rabbi gave the people a brief space wherein to grasp his heads
in their significance, Carmichael remembered a vivid incident in the
Presbytery of Muirtown, when an English evangelist had addressed that
reverend and austere court with exhilarating confidence--explaining the
extreme simplicity of the Christian faith, and showing how a minister
ought to preach. Various good men were delighted, and asked many
questions of the evangelist--who had kept a baby-linen shop for twenty
years, and was unspoiled by the slightest trace of theology--but the
Rabbi arose and demolished his "teaching," convicting him of heresy at
every turn, till there was not left one stone upon another.

"But surely fear belongs to the Old Testament dispensation," said the
unabashed little man to the Rabbi afterwards. "'Rejoice,' you know, my
friend, 'and again I say rejoice.'"

"If it be the will of God that such a man as I should ever stand on the
sea of glass mingled with fire, then this tongue will be lifted with
the best, but so long as my feet are still in the fearful pit it
becometh me to bow my head."

"Then you don't believe in assurance?" but already the evangelist was
quailing before the Rabbi.

"Verily there is no man that hath not heard of that precious gift, and
none who does not covet it greatly, but there be two degrees of
assurance"--here the Rabbi looked sternly at the happy, rotund little
figure--"and it is with the first you must begin, and what you need to
get is assurance of your damnation."

One of the boys read an account of this incident--thinly veiled--in a
reported address of the evangelist, in which the Rabbi--being, as it
was inferred, beaten in scriptural argument--was very penitent and
begged his teacher's pardon with streaming tears. What really happened
was different, and so absolutely conclusive that Doctor Dowbiggin gave
it as his opinion "that a valuable lesson had been read to unauthorised
teachers of religion."

Carmichael recognised the same note in the sermon and saw another man
than he knew, as the Rabbi, in a low voice, without heat or
declamation, with frequent pauses and laboured breathing, as of one
toiling up a hill, argued the absolute supremacy of God and the utter
helplessness of man. One hand ever pressed the grapes, but with the
other the old man wiped the perspiration that rolled in beads down his
face. A painful stillness fell on the people as they felt themselves
caught in the meshes of this inexorable net and dragged ever nearer to
the abyss. Carmichael, who had been leaning forward in his place, tore
himself away from the preacher with an effort, and moved where he could
see the congregation. Campbell was drinking in every word as one for
the first time in his life perfectly satisfied. Menzies was huddled
into a heap in the top of his pew as one justly blasted by the anger of
the Eternal. Men were white beneath the tan, and it was evident that
some of the women would soon fall a-weeping. Children had crept close
to their mothers under a vague sense of danger, and a girl in the choir
watched the preacher with dilated eyeballs, like an animal fascinated
by terror.

"It is as a sword piercing the heart to receive this truth, but it is a
truth and must be believed. There are hundreds of thousands in the
past who were born and lived and died and were damned for the glory of
God. There are hundreds of thousands in this day who have been born
and are living and shall die and be damned for the glory of God. There
are hundreds of thousands in the future who shall be born and shall
live and shall die and shall be damned for the glory of God. All
according to the will of God, and none dare say nay nor change the
purpose of the Eternal." For some time the oil in the lamps had been
failing--since the Rabbi had been speaking for nigh two hours--and as
he came to an end of this passage the light began to flicker and die.
First a lamp at the end of Burnbrae's pew went out and then another in
the front. The preacher made as though he would have spoken, but was
silent, and the congregation watched four lamps sink into darkness at
intervals of half a minute. There only remained the two pulpit lamps,
and in their light the people saw the Rabbi lift his right hand for the
first time.

"Shall . . . not . . . the . . . Judge . . . of all the earth . . .
do . . . right?" The two lamps went out together and a great sigh rose
from the people. At the back of the kirk a child wailed and somewhere
in the front a woman's voice--it was never proved to be Elspeth
Macfadyen--said audibly, "God have mercy upon us." The Rabbi had sunk
back into the seat and buried his face in his hands, and through the
window over his head the moonlight was pouring into the church like
unto the far-off radiance from the White Throne.

When Carmichael led the Rabbi into the manse he could feel the old man
trembling from head to foot, and he would touch neither meat nor drink,
nor would he speak for a space.

"Are you there, John?"--and he put out his hand to Carmichael, who had
placed him in the big study chair, and was sitting beside him in
silence.

"I dare not withdraw nor change any word that I spake in the name of
the Lord this day, but . . . it is my infirmity . . . I wish I had
never been born."

"It was awful," said Carmichael, and the Rabbi's head again fell on his
breast.

"John,"--and Saunderson looked up,--"I would give ten thousand worlds
to stand in the shoes of that good man who conveyed me from Kilbogie
yesterday, and with whom I had very pleasant fellowship concerning the
patience of the saints.

"It becometh not any human being to judge his neighbour, but it seemed
to me from many signs that he was within the election of God, and even
as we spoke of Polycarp and the martyrs who have overcome by the blood
of the Lamb, it came unto me with much power, 'Lo, here is one beside
you whose name is written in the Lamb's Book of Life, and who shall
enter through the gates into the city;' and grace was given me to
rejoice in his joy, but I . . ."--and Carmichael could have wept for
the despair in the Rabbi's voice.

"Dear Rabbi!"--for once the confidence of youth was smitten at the
sight of a spiritual conflict beyond its depth--"you are surely . . .
depreciating yourself . . . Burnbrae is a good man, but compared with
you . . . is not this like to the depression of Elijah?" Carmichael
knew, however, he was not fit for such work, and had better have held
his peace.

"It may be that I understand the letter of Holy Scripture better than
some of God's children, although I be but a babe even in this poor
knowledge, but such gifts are only as the small dust of the balance.
He will have mercy on whom He will have mercy.

"John," said the Rabbi suddenly, and with strong feeling, "was it your
thought this night as I declared the sovereignty of God that I judged
myself of the elect, and was speaking as one himself hidden for ever in
the secret place of God?"

"I . . . did not know," stammered Carmichael, whose utter horror at the
unrelenting sermon had only been tempered by his love for the preacher.

"You did me wrong, John, for then had I not dared to speak at all after
that fashion; it is not for a vessel of mercy filled unto overflowing
with the love of God to exalt himself above the vessels . . . for whom
there is no mercy. But he may plead with them who are in like case
with himself to . . . acknowledge the Divine Justice."

Then the pathos of the situation overcame Carmichael, and he went over
to the bookcase and leant his head against certain volumes, because
they were weighty and would not yield. Next day he noticed that one of
them was a Latin Calvin that had travelled over Europe in learned
company, and the other a battered copy of Jonathan Edwards that had
come from the house of an Ayrshire farmer.

"Forgive me that I have troubled you with the concerns of my soul,
John"--the Rabbi could only stand with an effort--"they ought to be
between a man and his God. There is another work laid to my hand for
which there is no power in me now. During the night I shall ask
whether the cup may not pass from me, but if not, the will of God be
done."

Carmichael slept but little, and every time he woke the thought was
heavy upon him that on the other side of a narrow wall the holiest man
he knew was wrestling in darkness of soul, and that he had added to the
bitterness of the agony.

[Illustration: Wrestling in darkness of soul.]




CHAPTER XX.

THE WOUNDS OF A FRIEND.

Winter has certain mornings which redeem weeks of misconduct, when the
hoar frost during the night has re-silvered every branch and braced the
snow upon the ground, and the sun rises in ruddy strength and drives
out of sight every cloud and mist, and moves all day through an expanse
of unbroken blue, and is reflected from the dazzling whiteness of the
earth as from a mirror. Such a sight calls a man from sleep with
authority, and makes his blood tingle, and puts new heart in him, and
banishes the troubles of the night. Other mornings winter joins in the
conspiracy of principalities and powers to daunt and crush the human
soul. No sun is to be seen, and the grey atmosphere casts down the
heart, the wind moans and whistles in fitful gusts, the black clouds
hang low in threatening masses, now and again a flake of snow drifts in
the wind. A storm is near at hand, not the thunder-shower of summer,
with warm rain and the kindly sun in ambush, but dark and blinding
snow, through which even a gamekeeper cannot see six yards, and in
which weary travellers lie down to rest and die.

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