Michael McGrath, Postmaster | Page 8

some
searching in McFarquhar's heart and had brought him under "deep
conviction," as he said himself. And McFarquhar had great faith that
the minister would do the same for Ould Michael and was indignant
when I expressed my doubts.
"Man aliou" (alive), he cried, "he will make his fery bones to quake."
"I don't know that that will help him much," I replied. But McFarquhar

only looked at me and shook his head pityingly.
On Saturday, sure enough, McFarquhar arrived with the minister, and a
service for the day following was duly announced. We took care that
Ould Michael should be in fit condition to be profited by the Rev. John
Macleod's discourse. The service was held in the blacksmith's shop, the
largest building available. The minister was a big, dark man with a
massive head and a great, rolling voice which he used with tremendous
effect in all the parts of his service. The psalm he sang mostly alone,
which appeared to trouble him not at all. The scripture lesson he read
with a rhythmic, solemn cadence that may have broken every rule of
elocution, but was nevertheless most impressive. His prayer, during
which McFarquhar stood, while all the rest sat, was a most
extraordinary production. In a most leisurely fashion it pursued its
course through a whole system of theology, with careful explanation at
critical places, lest there should be any mistaking of his position. Then
it proceeded to deal with all classes and condition of men, from the
Queen downward. As to McFarquhar, it was easy to see from his face
that the prayer was only another proof that the minister had "the gift,"
but to the others, who had never had McFarquhar's privilege, it was
only a marvelous, though impressive performance. Before he closed,
however, he remembered the people before him and, in simple, strong,
heart-reaching words, he prayed for their salvation.
"Why, in Heaven's name," I said afterwards to McFarquhar, "didn't he
begin his prayer where he ended? Does he think the Almighty isn't
posted in theology?" But McFarquhar would only reply: "Ay, it was
grand? He has the gift!"
The sermon was, as McFarquhar said, "terrible powerful." The text I
forget, but it gave the opportunity for an elaborate proof of the
universal depravity of the race and of their consequent condemnation.
He had no great difficulty in establishing the first position to the
satisfaction of his audience, and the effect produced was
correspondingly slight; but when he came to describe the meaning and
the consequences of condemnation, he grew terrible, indeed. His
pictures were lurid in the extreme. No man before him but was greatly

stirred up. Some began to move uneasily in their seats; some tried to
assume indifference; some were openly enraged; but none shared
McFarquhar's visible and solemn delight. Ould Michael's face showed
nothing; but, after all was over, in answer to McFarquhar's enthusiastic
exclamation he finally grunted out:
"A great sermon, is it? P'raps it was and p'raps it wasn't. It took him a
long time to tell a man what he knew before."
"And what might that be?" asked McFarquhar.
"That he was goin' fast to the Divil."
This McFarquhar could not deny and so he fell into disappointed
silence. He began to fear that the minister might possibly fail with Ould
Michael, after all. I frankly acknowledged the same fear and tried to
make him see that for men like Ould Michael, and the rest, preaching of
that kind could do little good. With this position McFarquhar warmly
disagreed, but as the week went by he had to confess that on Ould
Michael the minister had no effect at all, for he kept out of his way and
demoted himself to Paddy Dougan as far as we would allow him.
Then McFarquhar began to despair and to realize how desperate is the
business of saving a man fairly on the way to destruction. But help
came to us--"a mysterious dispensation of Providence," McFarquhar
called it. It happened on the Queen's birthday, when Grand Bend, in
excess of loyal fervor, was doing its best to get speedily and utterly
drunk. In other days Ould Michael had gloried beyond all in the display
of loyal spirit; but to-day he sat, dark and scowling, in Paddy Dougan's
barroom. McFarquhar and I were standing outside the door keeping an
eye, but not too apparently, upon Ould Michael's drinking.
A big German from the tie-camps, who had lived some years across the
border, and not to his advantage, was holding forth in favor of liberty
and against all tyrannous governments. As Paddy's whisky began to tell
the German became specially abusive against Great Britain and the
Queen. Protests came from all sides, till, losing his temper, the German
gave utterance to a foul slander