I WAS quite a stranger in my new parish when I first made the acquaintance of James Morton, one of the brightest and most original characters it has ever been my fortune to meet. He was then but a boy of sixteen, but, somehow or other, one never thought of him as a boy; there was an indescribable something about him which called up to one’s mind the oft-quoted text from the Book of Wisdom: “He being made perfect in a short time hath fulfilled a long time.”

A little matter of parochial business led me to pay a visit to the House of Glendouglas, and, the weather being fine and the roads in good shape, I set out to make the journey on foot. I had left the main road which led over the Cairn, and was passing along the magnificent beech avenue that formed the approach to the mansion-house, when I came upon a party of two who had taken up their position at a point from which could be obtained an excellent view of the house and its surroundings. In an invalid’s wheel-chair was seated a lad of striking appearance, young and yet having an air of maturity that compelled attention. He was engaged in making a water-color sketch of the scene before him, occasionally making a remark to a tall, sweet-faced woman, who leant over the back of the carriage, and whom I rightly surmised to be his mother. I had noticed her in church at the early Communion service on the previous Sunday, and had been struck by her quiet and unassuming, but reverent, demeanor. Raising my hat, I wished them a good morning.

“I know you are Church folks, and I’m sorry that I have not been able to call upon you as yet; ere long I hope to get over the whole parish. I do not need to tell you who I am, but, may I ask to whom I am speaking?”

The young lad turned his head and respectfully saluted me, blushing as he did (and it was only when the blood mantled into his cheeks that one thought of him as a boy); his mother dropped a courtesy, with a grace that told its own tale, and replied:

“I am Mrs. Morton, sir, and this is my eldest son, Jamie. He is not very strong, but he dearly loves, when it is at all possible, to get out of doors, and do a little sketching.”

Her accent was distinctly Scotch, but I could easily perceive that she was a woman of education and refinement; and, while there was just a breath of pathos in her speech, there was at the same time a note of dignity and independence that warned me to be very guarded in what I had to say.

I glanced at the sketch, and even my dilettante knowledge of the canons of art could tell that here was an undeveloped genius, who only needed a master’s guidance to produce really good work.

“Has your son had any lessons, Mrs. Morton?” I said.

“No, sir, I am sorry to say, we have not been able to arrange for that as yet. My husband died three years ago, and I’ve been so much taken up with providing a home for my little flock, that lessons have been out of the question. My boy has been unable to move about like other bairns, which has not lessened the difficulty. But he’s a very sensible lad, Mr. Gray; he knows that it’s God’s will he should be as he is, and he’s quite content. Some day, no doubt, all will be light.”

It was not what she said, but the manner of saying it, which told me that I was speaking to one whose faith was a real, living principle, and who recognized the loving hand of the Father of Love, even in the heavy affliction laid upon her. I was touched by what I heard, and resolved to take an early opportunity of improving my acquaintance with the artist and his mother. At present, my engagement called for my moving on, so I shook hands warmly with both, and went on my way to the “big house.” As I neared it, and noted the sweet sylvan peacefulness of the surroundings, I could understand the evident pleasure afforded to the young artist by the scene. Here was an excellent specimen of Scottish castellated architecture, with round towers and high-pitched roofs, the white “harled” walls showing up in marked contrast to the lovely green ivy that in many places clung to them, and in the foreground a verdant lawn studded with trees that had seen centuries of growth—one in particular, a copper-colored beech, lending to the picture a bright tint that was very charming. It was easy to understand such a scene appealing to all that was romantic and artistic in the boy’s mind.

On the Sunday following I was delighted to hear the wheels of the invalid-chair passing up the nave of the church just before the commencement of evening service, and still more so to note the keen, intelligent eyes of my young friend looking up into my face as I stood in the pulpit. It is very hard sometimes to explain the cause of one’s confidence; but, somehow or other, I felt I had come into touch with one who would understand me, and who, in his own way, would be a source of encouragement to me. How fully this was realized I only knew when I was called upon to say good-by—for a time—“till the day break and the shadows flee away.”

A day or two afterwards I paid my first visit to Jamie’s home. Mrs. Morton herself opened the door in response to my knock, and ushered me into her modest sitting-room. It was a quaint old-fashioned room, with open rafters black with age. Near the big open fireplace Jamie sat in his easy-chair reading. I was introduced to the other members of the little household, and a chair was given to me in the family circle. At first my artist was shy and did not say much; but when I told him of visits I had paid to the National Gallery and the exhibition of the Royal Scottish Academy, in Edinburgh, his eyes sparkled again, and he could not help exclaiming:

“I wonder, mother, if I’ll ever be able to gang and see them. My! that would be grand.”

My eye happening to light on a beautiful old corner cupboard, through the glass door of which I could see a fine tea set of china, decorated with grotesque dragons in a lovely shade of green, I remarked on the uncommon character of the design. Jamie seemed pleased with my notice of them, and said:

“I suppose thae draigons are intended to represent the deevil. Is it no funny, sir, what queer notions fowk hae o’ Auld Nick? I aften read Burns’ Address to the Deil’; an’ Dr. Gerrard, that was here afore you, lent me a copy o’ ‘Faust.’ Syne, Milton has his idea o’ Satan in ‘Paradise Lost,’ and Scott has a heap to say on demonology in the Waverley novels. I’ve thocht a lot aboot it, and my opinion is that he has a’ sorts o’ gifts an’ graces, or else he wouldna be able to get fowk to pay ony attention to him. I think the deevil, if he has ony shape ava, is a handsome chield. What do you think?”

I tried to explain my ideas on the subject and quoted the passage from St. Paul, which speaks of Satan as among men in the guise of an angel of light. We chatted away cosily for a considerable time, Mrs. Morton putting the closure on the subject by saying that she would give us a cup of afternoon tea, which would speedily exorcise the demon from the old china. Many a chat did we have afterwards on similar subjects, and many a delicious cup of tea did we have out of the cups with the green dragons upon them.

Not long after this Mr. Prior, an English artist, came to stay for a time in my parish; a mutual friend brought the two artists together, and the elder assumed a brotherly tutelage of the younger. Inaccuracies in drawing were corrected, and much valuable instruction was given in technical detail. Jamie was grateful for the help given him; but he never became an imitator of the style of his friend. In spite of much that would be termed crude, there was a bold dash about his own work, which was far more in keeping with the rugged character of the landscapes that he tried to reproduce. He had imbibed, with all the fervor of his poetic temperament, the spirit that breathed in the hills and dales of his own land; his firs were Scotch firs; his streams were not gentle English brooks, but brawling Scotch “burns,” leaping over granite boulders; his clumps of fern and braesides of heather made one recall Aytoun’s “Killie-crankie” in the “Burial-march of Dundee.” It was very amusing to hear Jamie criticise his friend’s work. He could be very sarcastic when he liked, but there was no sting in his sarcasm.

“They mak’ fine pictures for a young lady’s scrap-book, or for Christmas cairds to send doon to England, whawr the fowk want a’ thing dune in their ain wye, but, losh me, there’s nae Scotsman wad ever tak’ them for pictures o’ this country. He’s ower particular aboot getting ilka blade of grass o’ the richt shape. Ye can lay them doon on the table an’ look at them through a magnifyin’ gless, and they’ll look rael bonnie; but hang them upon the wa’, and they dinna gie ye ony idea o’ the hale thing as ye see’t in nature.”

There was a great deal of truth in what Jamie said, and there was not a grain of bumptiousness in him when he said it. He was not satisfied with his own work, and longed for the time to come when he would be able to take a course of study in Edinburgh. At last it came. Through the kindness of friends arrangements were made for his going to the Life School in the National Gallery, and his mother and he set out for the great metropolis, leaving the other children at home in charge of their grandparent. For two seasons he studied hard, and made wonderful progress in spite of the serious difficulties that had to be overcome. Every day a strong man had to take him in his arms and carry him up the long stone stairs leading to the gallery; he was then placed in his chair, from which he could not move unless with his mother’s aid. But he was brim full of enthusiasm, and his patience and perseverance were amply rewarded.

His homecoming was hastened by the sickness of the sister next to him in age. She also had been an invalid for years, and had required a great deal of care. Her weakness, however, had not been without good fruit; her faith was strengthened, and her disposition, naturally sweet and placid, had an added sweetness and calmness, which endeared her to all who knew her. She was endowed with the same artistic taste as her brother, although not in the same degree. During the second winter of Jamie’s absence from home she contracted a severe cold, which developed into pneumonia. Everything that could be done was done, but she had no rallying powers. We sent for Mrs. Morton, who at once returned home, leaving Jamie in Edinburgh in the care of his younger brother. In two days it was evident that she could not, humanly speaking, recover, and I set out for Edinburgh to bring home the two brothers. What a sad journey that was! On the way home I tried to be as cheerful as possible, and to prepare both lads for what I felt to be the inevitable. Very little was said, but it was easy to see that Jamie was deeply moved, and that he realized upon how slender a thread his own life hung. By some misunderstanding on the part of the railway officials there was no order given to stop the train at our station. Here was a dilemma! I alighted at the nearest station at which the train was scheduled to stop, carried my poor boy into the waiting-room, and then set out to procure a closed carriage to convey us over the last seven miles of our weary journey. It was a bitterly cold night, and I was greatly alarmed lest Jamie should catch cold. Not a word of complaint escaped from him, not the least token of impatience, although I could see that his heart was full to bursting. Late at night the carriage drew up at the door; the poor mother came out to greet us; she did not require to speak—the set look of distraction in her face told us the sad news. We were too late by some hours. For a time both Jamie and his mother shrank within themselves, as if they would bar an outsider from the sacred privacy of their grief; true to their Scotch nature, they did not wear their hearts upon their sleeves “for daws to peck at.” But Father Time is a great consoler, and Jamie and I resumed our companionship as of old. My weekly visit to him was eagerly looked forward to by both of us. When I was feeling in the “dumps” Jamie’s quaint drolleries would act like a charm, and restore my wonted cheerfulness. Often when he was out in his wheel-chair he would hear all sorts of humorous things, which he never failed to retail to me in his own inimitable way, not infrequently illustrating the same with a few deft strokes of his pencil. The simple villagers little thought that they were being analyzed, and all their weaknesses and peculiarities cartooned, mentally if not actually, by one of themselves.

“I had a visit frae auld Joseph Shand the day,” he said to me on one occasion. “Naething will suit the puir bodie but I maun paint his picture. I tellt him that I was gey busy juist noo, but I would see what I could do later on. What do you think he said, sir?—‘If I were to come round the nicht, efter I’ve gotten ma supper, you could put on the first coat o’ paint, and syne it would be dry for the second coat the morn’s nicht.’ Poor auld Joseph, he thinks that a portrait is paintit like a barn door. He has been oot o’ sorts lately, so I speired what was the maitter wi’ him. ‘Weel, man,’ he said, ‘I saw the doctor on Monday when he was owerby, an’ he said it was a stomach tribble. Ye see there’s twa kinds o’t; there’s disgeestion an’ indisgeestion, an’ the deil a bit o’ me minds whilk o’ them’s the maitter wi’ me.’”

Another day I found him simply bubbling over with merriment over an encounter he had had with the Free Kirk minister. The minister, in the course of conversation with him, had made some slighting remarks anent the Episcopal Church, as being full of empty forms.

“Man,” said Jamie, pretending not to understand what he meant, “ye’re wrang there; oor kirk has nae empty forms. The ither Sunday nicht we had the maist o’ the young folks frae the Free Kirk there, as weel as oor ain; we’ve nae empty forms noo.”

As I have already said, Jamie was an auld-farrant laddie, bright intellectually and spiritually; brimful of humor, and yet yearning with all the force of his intense nature to see right into the heart of things; content to endure great weakness of body, in the full belief that one day he would leave all his infirmities behind him, and stand without a single flaw in the presence of his Master. It is many years now since he shook off the trammels of earth, but, when I meet him again I shall know him, and shall be glad.