CHAPTER III--A DIRGIE



In the course of the summer following the baptism, of which I have
rehearsed the particulars in the foregoing chapter, Bailie
Mucklehose happened to die, and as he was a man long and well
respected, he had a great funeral. All the rooms in his house were
filled with company; and it so fell out that, in the confusion,
there was neither minister nor elder to give the blessing sent into
that wherein I was, by which, when Mr Shavings the wright, with his
men, came in with the service of bread and wine as usual, there was
a demur, and one after another of those present was asked to say
grace; but none of them being exercised in public prayer, all
declined, when Mr Shavings said to me, "Mr Pawkie, I hope ye'll no
refuse."

I had seen in the process, that not a few of the declinations were
more out of the awkward shame of blateness, than any inherent
modesty of nature, or diffidence of talent; so, without making a
phrase about the matter, I said the grace, and in such a manner that
I could see it made an impression. Mr Shavings was at that time
deacon of the wrights, and being well pleased with my conduct on
this occasion, when he, the same night, met the craft, he spoke of
it in a commendable manner; and as I understood thereafter, it was
thought by them that the council could not do better than make
choice of me to the vacancy. In short, not to spin out the thread
of my narration beyond necessity, let it here suffice to be known,