“While we are in the world, we must mix with the inhabitants thereof,” said he; “and the stains which adhere to us by reason of this mixture, which is unavoidable, shall all be washed away. It is our duty, however, to shun the society of wicked men as much as possible, lest we partake of their sins, and become sharers with them in punishment. John, however, is morally a good man, and may yet get a cast of grace.”
“I always thought him a good man till today,” said I, “when he threw out some reflections on your character, so horrible that I quake to think of the wickedness and malevolence of his heart. He was rating me very impertinently for some supposed fault, which had no being save in his own jealous brain, when I attempted to reason him out of his belief in the spirit of calm Christian argument. But how do you think he answered me? He did so, sir, by twisting his mouth at me, and remarking that such sublime and ridiculous sophistry never came out of another mouth but one (meaning yours) and that no oath before a kirk session was necessary to prove who was my dad, for that he had never seen a son so like a father as I was like mine.”
“He durst not for his soul’s salvation, and for his daily bread, which he values much more, say such a word, boy; therefore, take care what you assert,” said my reverend father.
“He said these very words, and will not deny them, sir,” said I.
My reverend father turned about in great wrath and indignation, and went away in search of John, but I kept out of the way, and listened at a back window; for John was dressing the plot of ground behind the house; and I hope it was no sin in me that I did rejoice in the dialogue which took place, it being the victory of righteousness over error.
“Well, John, this is a fine day for your delving work.”
“Ay, it’s a tolerable day, sir.”
“Are you thankful in heart, John, for such temporal mercies as these?”
“Aw doubt we’re a’ ower little thankfu’, sir, baith for temporal an’ speeritual mercies; but it isna aye the maist thankfu’ heart that maks the greatest fraze wi’ the tongue.”
“I hope there is nothing personal under that remark, John?”
“Gin the bannet fits ony body’s head, they’re unco welcome to it, sir, for me.”
“John, I do not approve of these innuendoes. You have an arch malicious manner of vending your aphorisms, which the men of the world are too apt to read the wrong way, for your dark hints are sure to have one very bad meaning.”
“Hout na, sir, it’s only bad folks that think sae. They find ma bits o’ gibes come hame to their hearts wi’ a kind o’ yerk, an’ that gars them wince.”
“That saying is ten times worse than the other, John; it is a manifest insult: it is just telling me to my face that you think me a bad man.”
“A body canna help his thoughts, sir.”
“No, but a man’s thoughts are generally formed from observation. Now I should like to know, even from the mouth of a misbeliever, what part of my conduct warrants such a conclusion.”
“Nae particular pairt, sir; I draw a’ my conclusions frae the haill o’ a man’s character, an’ I’m no that aften far wrong.”
“Well, John, and what sort of general character do you suppose mine to be?”
“Yours is a Scripture character, sir, an’ I’ll prove it.”
“I hope so, John. Well, which of the Scripture characters do you think approximates nearest to my own?”
“Guess, sir, guess; I wish to lead a proof.”
“Why, if it be an Old Testament character, I hope it is Melchizedek, for at all events you cannot deny there is one point of resemblance: I, like him, am a preacher of righteousness. If it be a New Testament character, I suppose you mean the Apostle of the Gentiles, of whom I am an unworthy representative.”
“Na, na, sir, better nor that still, an’ fer closer is the resemblance. When ye bring me to the point, I maun speak. Ye are the just Pharisee, sir, that gaed up wi’ the poor publican to pray in the Temple; an’ ye’re acting the very same pairt at this time, an’ saying i’ your heart, ‘God, I thank thee that I am not as other men are, an’ in nae way like this poor misbelieving unregenerate sinner, John Barnet.’ ”
“I hope I may say so indeed.”
“There now! I tauld you how it was! But, d’ye hear, maister. Here stands the poor sinner, John Barnet, your beadle an’ servantman, wha wadna change chances wi’ you in the neist world, nor consciences in this, for ten times a’ that you possess—your justification by faith an’ awthegither.”
“You are extremely audacious and impertinent, John; but the language of reprobation cannot affect me: I came only to ask you one question, which I desire you to answer candidly. Did you ever say to anyone that I was the boy Robert’s natural father?”
“Hout na, sir! Ha-ha-ha! Aih, fie, na, sir! I durst-na say that for my life. I doubt the black stool, an’ the sack gown, or maybe the juggs wad hae been my portion had I said sic a thing as that. Hout, hout! Fie, fie! Unco-like doings thae for a Melchizedek or a Saint Paul!”
“John, you are a profane old man, and I desire that you will not presume to break your jests on me. Tell me, dare you say, or dare you think, that I am the natural father of that boy?”
“Ye canna hinder me to think whatever I like, sir, nor can I hinder mysel.”
“But did you ever say to anyone that he resembled me, and fathered himself well enough?”
“I hae said mony a time that he resembled you, sir. Naebody can mistake that.”
“But, John, there are many natural reasons for such likenesses, besides that
