"Mess David Williamson,
Chosen of twenty,
Ran up the pu'pit stair,
And sang Killiecrankie,"
chanted a siren, whose profession might be guessed by her appearance. A
tattered caidie, or errand-porter, whom David Deans had jostled in his
attempt to extricate himself from the vicinity of these scorners,
exclaimed in a strong north-country tone, "Ta deil ding out her
Cameronian een--what gies her titles to dunch gentlemans about?"
"Make room for the ruling elder," said yet another; "he comes to see a
precious sister glorify God in the Grassmarket!"
"Whisht; shame's in ye, sirs," said the voice of a man very loudly,
which, as quickly sinking, said in a low but distinct tone, "It's her
father and sister."
All fell back to make way for the sufferers; and all, even the very
rudest and most profligate, were struck with shame and silence. In the
space thus abandoned to them by the mob, Deans stood, holding his
daughter by the hand, and said to her, with a countenance strongly and
sternly expressive of his internal emotion, "Ye hear with your ears, and
ye see with your eyes, where and to whom the backslidings and defections
of professors are ascribed by the scoffers. Not to themselves alone, but
to the kirk of which they are members, and to its blessed and invisible
Head.
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