The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner

James Hogg

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2014
• ISBN:
  9780486782751
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Classiques

In this gripping tale of murder, madness, and demonic possession, the son of a radical Calvinist minister takes off on a crime spree in eighteenth-century Scotland. Robert Wringhim attributes his misdeeds to the influence of a sinister companion, Gil-Martin — but it remains to be seen whether Gil-Martin really exists. Published anonymously in 1824, this ahead-of-its-time novel offers a haunting exploration of religious fanaticism and the power of evil.
Scottish poet and novelist James Hogg (1770–1835) overcame his lowly birth and lack of education to become one of the most admired writers of his day. His writings fell into obscurity after his death until their rediscovery in the 1940s by André Gide and other critics. The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner is Hogg's best-known and most highly acclaimed work.

PRIVATE MEMOIRS AND CONFESSIONS OF A SINNER

MY LIFE HAS been a life of trouble and turmoil; of change and vicissitude; of anger and exultation; of sorrow and of vengeance. My sorrows have all been for a slighted gospel, and my vengeance has been wreaked on its adversaries. Therefore, in the might of heaven I will sit down and write: I will let the wicked of this world know what I have done in the faith of the promises, and justification by grace, that they may read and tremble, and bless their gods of silver and of gold, that the minister of heaven was removed from their sphere before their blood was mingled with their sacrifices.

I was born an outcast in the world, in which I was destined to act so conspicuous a part. My mother was a burning and a shining light, in the community of Scottish worthies, and in the days of her virginity had suffered much in the persecution of the saints. But it so pleased heaven, that, as a trial of her faith, she was married to one of the wicked; a man all over spotted with the leprosy of sin. As well might they have conjoined fire and water together, in hopes that they would consort and amalgamate, as purity and corruption: She fled from his embraces the first night after their marriage, and from that time forth, his iniquities so galled her upright heart, that she quitted his society altogether, keeping her own apartments in the same house with him.

I was the second son of this unhappy marriage, and, long ere ever I was born, my father according to the flesh disclaimed all relation or connection with me, and all interest in me, save what the law compelled him to take, which was to grant me a scanty maintenance; and had it not been for a faithful minister of the gospel, my mother’s early instructor, I should have remained an outcast from the church visible. He took pity on me, admitting me not only into that, but into the bosom of his own household and ministry also, and to him am I indebted, under Heaven, for the high conceptions and glorious discernment between good and evil, right and wrong, which I attained even at an early age. It was he who directed my studies aright, both in the learning of the ancient fathers, and the doctrines of the reformed church, and designed me for his assistant and successor in the holy office. I missed no opportunity of perfecting myself particularly in all the minute points of theology in which my reverend father and mother took great delight; but at length I acquired so much skill, that I astonished my teachers, and made them gaze at one another. I remember that it was the custom, in my patron’s house, to ask the questions of the Single Catechism round every Sabbath night. He asked the first, my mother the second, and so on, every one saying the question asked, and then asking the next. It fell to my mother to ask Effectual Calling at me. I said the answer with propriety and emphasis. “Now, madam,” added I, “my question to you is, What is Ineffectual Calling?”

“Ineffectual Calling? There is no such thing, Robert,” said she. “But there is, madam,” said I; “and that answer proves how much you say these fundamental precepts by rote, and without any consideration. Ineffectual Calling is, the outward call of the gospel without any effect on the hearts of unregenerated and impenitent sinners. Have not all these the same calls, warnings, doctrines, and reproofs, that we have? and is not this Ineffectual Calling? Has not Ardinferry the same? Has not Patrick M’Lure the same? Has not the Laird of Dalcastle and his reprobate heir the same? And will any tell me, that this is not Ineffectual Calling?”

“What a wonderful boy he is!” said my mother.

“I’m feared he turn out to be a conceited gowk,” said old Barnet, the minister’s man.

“No,” said my pastor, and father, (as I shall henceforth denominate him), “No, Barnet, he is a wonderful boy; and no marvel, for I have prayed for these talents to be bestowed on him from his infancy: and do you think that Heaven would refuse a prayer so disinterested? No, it is impossible. But my dread is, madam,” continued he, turning to my mother, “that he is yet in the bond of iniquity.”

“God forbid!” said my mother.

“I have struggled with the Almighty long and hard,” continued he; “but have as yet had no certain token of acceptance in his behalf. I have indeed fought a hard fight, but have been repulsed by him who hath seldom refused my request; although I cited his own words against him, and endeavoured to hold him at his promise, he hath so many turnings in the supremacy of his power, that I have been rejected. How dreadful is it to think of our darling being still without the pale of the covenant! But I have vowed a vow, and in that there is hope.”

My heart quaked with terror, when I thought of being still living in a state of reprobation, subjected to the awful issues of death, judgment, and eternal misery, by the slightest accident or casualty, and I set about the duty of prayer myself with the utmost earnestness. I prayed three times every day, and seven times on the Sabbath; but the more frequently and fervently that I prayed, I sinned still the more. About this time, and for a long period afterwards, amounting to several years, I lived in a hopeless and deplorable state of mind; for I said to myself, “If my name is not written in the book of life from all eternity, it is in vain for me to presume that either vows or prayers of mine, or those of all mankind combined, can ever procure its insertion now.” I had come under many vows, most solemnly taken, every one of which I had broken; and I saw with the intensity of juvenile grief, that there was no hope for me. I went on sinning every hour, and all the while most strenuously warring against sin, and repenting of every one transgression, as soon after the commission of it as I got leisure to think. But, O, what a wretched state this unregenerated state is, in which every effort after righteousness only aggravates our offences! I found it vanity to contend; for after communing with my heart, the conclusion was as follows: “If I could repent me of all my sins, and shed tears of blood for them, still have I not a load of original transgression pressing on me, that is enough to crush me to the lowest hell. I may be angry with my first parents for having sinned, but how I shall repent me of their sin, is beyond what I am able to comprehend.”

Still, in those days of depravity and corruption, I had some of those principles implanted in my mind, which were afterward, to spring up with such amazing fertility among the heroes of the faith and the promises. In particular, I felt great indignation against all the wicked of this world and often wished for the means of ridding it of such a noxious burden. I liked John Barnet, my reverend father’s serving-man, extremely ill; but, from a supposition that he might be one of the justified, I refrained from doing him any injury. He gave always his word against me, and when we were by ourselves, in the barn or the fields, he rated me with such severity for my faults, that my heart could brook it no longer. He discovered some notorious lies that I had framed, and taxed me with them in such a manner that I could in nowise get off. My cheek burnt with offence, rather than shame; and he, thinking he had got the mastery of me, exulted over me most unmercifully, telling me I was a selfish and conceited blackguard, who made great pretences towards religious devotion to cloak a disposition tainted with deceit, and that it would not much astonish him if I brought myself to the gallows.

I gathered some courage from his over-severity, and answered him as follows: “Who made thee a judge of the actions or dispositions of the Almighty’s creatures—thou who art a worm, and no man in his sight? How it befits thee to deal out judgments and anathemas! Hath he not made one vessel to honour, and another to dishonour, as in the case with myself and thee? Hath he not builded his stories in the heavens, and laid the foundations thereof in the earth, and how can a being like thee judge between good and evil, that are both subjected to the workings of his hand; or of the opposing principles in the soul of man, correcting, modifying, and refining one another?”

I said this with that strong display of fervour for which I was remarkable at my years, and expected old Barnet to be utterly confounded; but he only shook his head, and, with the most provoking grin, said, “There he goes! sickan sublime and ridiculous sophistry I never heard come out of another mouth but ane. There needs nae aiths to be sworn afore the session wha is your father, young good-man. I ne’er, for my part, saw a son sae like a dad, sin’ my een first opened.” With that he went away, saying, with an ill-natured wince, “You made to honour and me to dishonour! Dirty bowkail thing that thou be’st!”

“I will have the old rascal on the hip for this, if I live,” thought I. So I went and asked my mother if John was a righteous man? She could not tell, but supposed he was, and therefore I got no encouragement from her. I went next to my reverend father, and inquired his opinion, expecting as little from that quarter. He knew the elect as it were by instinct, and could have told you of all those in his own, and some neighbouring parishes, who were born within the boundaries of the covenant of promise, and who were not.

“I keep a good deal in company with your servant, old Barnet, father,” said I.

“You do, boy; you do, I see,” said he.

“I wish I may not keep too much in his company,” said I, “not knowing what kind of society I am in—is John a good man, father?”

“Why, boy, he is but so, so. A morally good man John is, but very little of the leaven of true righteousness, which is faith, within. I am afraid old Barnet, with all his stock of morality, will be a castaway.”

My heart was greatly cheered by this remark; and I sighed very deeply, and hung my head to one side. The worthy father observed me, and inquired the cause, when I answered as follows: “How dreadful the thought, that I have been going daily in company and fellowship with one, whose name is written on the red-letter side of the book of life; whose body and soul have been, from all eternity, consigned over to everlasting destruction, and to whom the blood of the atonement can never, never reach! Father, this is an awful thing, and beyond my comprehension.”

“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 admixture, 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 a morally good man, and may yet get a cast of grace.”

“I always thought him a good man till to-day,” 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.”

“Ey, it’s a tolerable day, sir.”

“Are you thankful in your 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 wrang.”

“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’ servant-man, 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 any one that I was the boy Robert’s natural father?”

“Hout na, sir! Ha—ha—ha! Aih, fie, na, sir! I durstna 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 any one, 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 of consanguinity. They depend much on the thoughts and affections of the mother; and, it is probable, that the mother of this boy, being deserted by her worthless husband, having turned her thoughts on me, as likely to be her protector, may have caused this striking resemblance.”

“Ay, it may be, sir. I coudna say.”

“I have known a lady, John, who was delivered of a blackamoor child, merely from the circumstance of having got a start by the sudden entrance of her negro servant, and not being able to forget him for several hours.”

“It may be, sir; but I ken this—an’ I had been the laird, I wadna hae ta’en that story in.”

“So, then, John, you positively think, from a casual likeness, that this boy is my son?”

“Man’s thoughts are vanity, sir; they come unasked, an’ gang away without a dismissal, an’ he canna’ help them. I’m neither gaun to say that I think he’s your son, nor that I think he’s no your son: sae ye needna pose me nae mair about it.”

“Hear then my determination, John: If you do not promise to me, in faith and honour, that you never will say, or insinuate such a thing again in your life, as that that boy is my natural son, I will take the keys of the church from you, and dismiss you from my service.”

John pulled out the keys, and dashed them on the gravel at the reverend minister’s feet. “There are the keys o’ your kirk, sir! I hae never had muckle mense o’ them sin’ ye entered the door o’t. I hae carried them this three an’ thretty year, but they hae aye been like to burn a hole i’ my pouch sin’ ever they were turned for your admittance. Tak them again, an’ gie them to wha you will, and muckle gude may he get o’ them. Auld John may dee a beggar in a hay barn, or at the back of a dike, but he sall aye be master o’ his ain thoughts, an’ gie them vent or no, as he likes.”

He left the manse that day, and I rejoiced in the riddance; for I disdained to be kept so much under, by one who was in the bond of iniquity, and of whom there seemed no hope, as he rejoiced in his frowardness, and refused to submit to that faithful teacher, his master.

It was about this time that my reverend father preached a sermon, one sentence of which affected me most disagreeably: It was to the purport, that every unrepented sin was productive of a new sin with each breath that a man drew; and every one of these new sins added to the catalogue in the same manner. I was utterly confounded at the multitude of my transgressions; for I was sensible that there were great numbers of sins of which I had never been able thoroughly to repent, and these momentary ones, by a moderate calculation, had, I saw, long ago, amounted to a hundred and fifty thousand in the minute, and I saw no end to the series of repentances to which I had subjected myself. A life-time was nothing to enable me to accomplish the sum, and then being, for any thing I was certain of, in my state of nature, and the grace of repentance withheld from me—what was I to do, or what was to become of me? In the meantime, I went on sinning without measure; but I was still more troubled about the multitude than the magnitude of my transgressions, and the small minute ones puzzled me more than those that were more heinous, as the latter had generally some good effects in the way of punishing wicked men, froward boys, and deceitful women; and I rejoiced, even then in my early youth, at being used as a scourge in the hand of the Lord; another Jehu, a Cyrus, or a Nebuchadnezzar.

On the whole, I remember that I got into great confusion relating to my sins and repentances, and knew neither where to begin nor how to proceed, and often had great fears that I was wholly without Christ, and that I would find God a consuming fire to me. I could not help running into new sins continually; but then I was mercifully dealt with, for I was often made to repent of them most heartily, by reason of bodily chastisements received on these delinquencies being discovered. I was particularly prone to lying, and I cannot but admire the mercy that has freely forgiven me all these juvenile sins. Now that I know them all to be blotted out, and that I am an accepted person, I may the more freely confess them: the truth is, that one lie always paved the way for another, from hour to hour, from day to day, and from year to year; so that I found myself constantly involved in a labyrinth of deceit, from which it was impossible to extricate myself. If I knew a person to be a godly one, I could almost have kissed his feet; but against the carnal portion of mankind, I set my face con...