‘In Scotland’s altar serviceAll churches must unite.’
‘In Scotland’s altar serviceAll churches must unite.’
‘In Scotland’s altar serviceAll churches must unite.’
“That’s ane o’ Bishop Coxe’s ‘Christian Ballads,’ and it’s gaun to come true yet.”
“Is he no an American bishop, Uncle William?”
“Aye, thae words o’ his express the loving gratitude of the great American church to the poor disestablished Scottish church for her gift of an apostolic ministry and an apostolic form of worship. The Scottish Episcopal church has a noble history, and although so long as there was a Stuart left many of her members were true to the old family, they are now most loyal subjects of the Hanover dynasty. They are doing a grand work for God and the church, and if they will only ‘bide their time in patience’ God will bring unity and order out of the trials and disorders of the past.”
We sat long by the ingle nook, and the old man glowed with enthusiasm as he gave me just the information I craved.
I was gradually gaining an insight into the cause of religious division in Scotland, and the more I heard about the “Gentle Persuasion” the more was I drawn to admire their constancy and devotion.
IAM sitting on a seat by the roadside at Bendochy in Manitoba, enjoying to the full a glorious August day. Over head the sky is a great vault of blue, without the speck of a cloud in it; in front of me the Assiniboine is making its way round the beautiful wooded bend, which seems from my seat as it were an island in one of our Scottish lakes; the woods around me are alive with the chirp of grasshoppers and the song of birds; a pert little squirrel is eyeing me very suspiciously from a hole in an old tree. The peacefulness is most comforting. It is a veritable paradise.
I am thinking of the days of “Auld Lang Syne,” and wondering if there are any still to the fore of the friends and acquaintances, who had a share in helping or hindering me, when I came to the “parting of the ways.”
The mosquitoes are getting a little troublesome, so you will excuse me while I gather some leaves and grass, and light a smudge.
There now, that’s all right. I’ll see if I can call to memory some of the “characters” in the old village of long ago. Of course, the ministers come first. There were four kirks in Glenconan.
The established Presbyterian church stood in its ancient burial-ground on the north side of the square, quite close to the old house in which Dean Skinner wrote “Tullochgorum”. The first minister I remember was the Reverend Dr. Ogg, whose smile and kindly words were like a benediction to us children. He died when I was twelve, and was succeeded by a man of an altogetherdifferent type. Before he came to us he had been Assistant in a large city parish, and, as we thought, rather gave himself airs on that account. It’s true, there were few country ministers more popular with the gentlefolks; no one was more welcome at a garden party, and, he was a first-class tennis player. He had taken his B.D. degree, and was generally supposed to be of a scholarly turn; but, insofar as turning his learning to practical account was concerned, results were meagre. When I was about fifteen years of age, I saw a good deal of a Mr. Cowie, a man of beautiful life and wide reading. He was an elder of the Parish church, but had distinct leanings towards Plymouth Brethrenism. My converse with him raised the question of the Baptism of Infants; and, for a time I was at loss to know just what to believe. I went to Mr. Greig, the parish minister, and laid my difficulties before him. So far from helping, he hindered me. He did not understand the eagerness of my countrymen for the acquisition of knowledge; he treated me as a forward child, who was inquiring into things entirely beyond his grasp. He was too busy to go into the matter then, and told me to go home and forget about it. I asked for bread, and he gave me a stone. My father and mother were members of his church; but, they did not lay down any hard and fast law to me, so long as I went to church.
For some time I wavered in my leanings. Our home was near to both the Free and United Presbyterian Churches. Occasionally I attended the last named, mainly because I liked to hear Mr. Haldane, the U.P. minister, commenting on the Scripture lessons, as he read. One could not fail to be instructed. He was a dear old man, and was beloved by everybody. His quiet, unobtrusive, saintly life was one long uplifting sermon. You could not be in his company withoutappreciating the rays of happiness and kindliness that were all the time going forth from him. No one would have classed him as an eloquent preacher, in the ordinary acceptation of the term; but, he possessed a gentle persuasiveness, that had a wonderful influence on his little flock.
For several years I most frequently attended the Free Church, of which I became a communicant at the age of sixteen. The minister, the Reverend William Manson, had taken a brilliant degree in classics at the University of Aberdeen—and he had been equally proficient in Oriental languages—during his course at the Theological Hall.
While possessed of great goodness of heart, he was by most thought to be an ambitious man. I knew him well, and it always seemed to me that it was not ambition as it is usually understood, but rather a consciousness of his own intellectual power and ripe scholarship, and a feeling that these were not finding their complete development in the quiet, old world village, where his lot was cast. I have often thought, too, that the General Assembly of his church did not know what they cast away, when they chose a “Higher Critic”, in preference to him, for one of the Divinity Professorships. It was under his fostering care that I was first led to interest myself in religion as “the way of life,” and I shall always retain the deepest gratitude for his wholesome influence on my young life. He had, however, a certain dignity and aloofness, that kept me from daring to intrude into the inner circle of his friendship.
There were several things that came into my life about this period, and compelled me to relinquish, for a time at least, the strong desire which I had for a college education. I resolved to learn a trade, by means of which I hoped to earn my living, and put by a little towardscollege expenses. I was indentured as an apprentice carpenter, and three very happy years I spent at the “bench”. I never was a good tradesman, but I learnt enough to enable me in after years to erect, partly with my own hands, a mission church on the Red River.
Mr. Manson took notice of the fact that I seldom participated in the ploys of the other village lads; and, when he found out that I was making a brave effort to prepare myself for college, he constituted himself my private tutor. For nearly two years I studied under his direction, and made such progress that I was able to qualify for the post of Junior English Master in a small English Grammar School.
I used to think that my inability to enter college was something of a calamity, but, when I look back upon those days in the perspective, I am firmly convinced that I was being guided and controlled in all this by one wiser than I. There were many things besides classics and mathematics which I ought to know before I made the plunge into academical life.
Undoubtedly the experience through which I passed gave me an outlook on life, which has been of inestimable value.
Now and then I made my way across the river to the “Chapel”, as the Episcopal Church was called by the villagers; I learned to follow the services in the Book of Common Prayer; but the prejudices against a prearranged form of worship were hard to uproot, and my Scottish soul revolted at the English accent of the clergyman. Nothing is more repellent to my countrymen than to think of their being dominated by the “Sassenach”; and, nothing has contributed more to the success of the Scottish Episcopal Church than the ministration of clergy of Scottish birth and lineage. My old friend, Mr. Lindsay, was sometimes very caustic in hiscriticism of a certain young English cleric, who was in charge of a country living at no great distance from us. “Poor laddie,” he would say, “he seems to think oor sturdy Scotch folk are as illiterate as the working men he had in his last English curacy. The time has lang gane by, when oor folks were sae under the thraldom o’ priest and laird that they couldna ca’ their souls their ain. Nae man has a greater respect for the church and the minister than oor folks hae; but, whatever is presented to them maun appeal to their reason and common sense, or they’ll hae nane o’t. There’s nae a man in his congregation that canna tell him why he is an Episcopalian. He needna think he can drive his folk as he would a herd o’ stirks.”
Mr. Lindsay was always delighted to help me, when I asked his assistance, but, when he saw me impatient to find a way out of my quandary, he would say, “Mind the auld Latin motto—‘Festina lente’. Just you tak’ your time, and get a clear grasp o’ things before you set aside the faith o’ your fathers.” I have no doubt but that I was saved from many misgivings and serious misunderstandings, by giving heed to the wise counsel.
I never got to be well acquainted with the rector of the Episcopal Church, very much to my regret; but, perhaps it was just as well that I should “dree my ain weird.”
It was about this time that Mr. Lindsay introduced me to Bishop Wordsworth’s “Theophilus Anglicanus”, which gave me a full explanation of the genesis, and development, and organization of the Church of Christ. He also lent me Palmer’s Treatise on the Church, which I found very useful, but not altogether satisfactory to my way of thinking.
I was very unwilling to say anything of my religious difficulties to my own family; and so, when the time came for me to begin my work in England, I left home to all outward appearances happy and contented, but in reality groping after truth, tossing to and fro on a sea of uncertainty and seeming contradiction.
IHAVE always looked upon the River Tweed as my Rubicon.
While life in the dear old home-land had for me much that was sweet and attractive, it had yet been a “cribb’d, cabin’d, confin’d” life; my idea of men and things had of necessity been mainly drawn from within the narrow limits of an old world, rural district; in matters of faith and practice my mind had come to be in a state of great unrest, bordering on revolt.
Life on the southern side of the Tweed was broader and more generous; the society into which I was cast had in it elements which could have been born only of a more comprehensive outlook and a greater interchange of thought; religion rested on a more Catholic basis.
I have already told how for some time I had been looking toward the Rubicon; I crossed it when I crossed the Tweed. Not all at once, however. I had been many months in England before I could have said that my emancipation was complete.
Shall I ever forget my first day in my new home? I had arrived in Tynecaster at an early hour on Sunday morning, and being very tired after my long journey I went to bed at once. When I awoke the sun was high in the heavens, and my ears were filled with the most delightful music I had ever heard. I rose, went to my window and drew up the blind. My room overlooked a goodly-sized park, enclosed by high stone walls. Aregiment of soldiers were on parade, and their band was playing a stirring march. I could not understand it; did I not arrive on Sunday morning? I could not possibly have slept for a whole day—and yet, there was a band playing a march.
I dressed hastily and made my way to the common-room, where one solitary man sat reading.
I bade him good-morning, told him who I was (I had seen none of the staff on my arrival), and then, with some shame-facedness, I said:
“Excuse me troubling you, but will you please tell me what day of the week this is?”
My companion looked up in astonishment. He imagined, I think, that I was a little “off” in the upper story, and answered:
“Why, it’s Sunday, old man. What makes you dubious?”
“Well, I heard a band playing a march, that was all.”
“Oh, yes, the ‘Noodles’—the Yeomanry, that is, are up for their annual training, and I suppose you heard the band playing them to church. You’ll get accustomed to these things by and by.”
I said nothing, but thought a good deal.
What would the douce folks in bonnie Glenconan think if they knew I had gone to a land where such doings were permitted! Why, the ministers would denounce it from every pulpit in the district.
When I went into residence at Tynecaster Grammar School, I was but a mere stripling, hardly out of my teens. My knowledge of classics and English was not extensive, but it was thorough, thanks to Mr. Lindsay, and was quite sufficient to warrant me essaying to prepare a class of boys for the local examinations held annuallyby the universities. At first I felt somewhat diffident about giving instruction in the history and contents of the Book of Common Prayer—a necessary subject in the Locals; but ere very long my diffidence had vanished. I made good use in the evenings of the opportunities for study afforded by the Church Institute Library and Reading-room, and I attended the lectures on Church history given in that institution. You can readily understand what a boon such a place was to me.
Tynecaster was near enough to Scotland to prevent my feeling in an alien land, as I had expected. The broad Northumbrian dialect bore a strong resemblance to my own northern tongue, and the ways of the people were in many respects more Scotch than English.
I had to run the gauntlet of the traditional practical jokes that were wont to be perpetrated on teachers who hailed from “the land of cakes”; however, as Mr. Lindsay had prepared me for this, I passed through the ordeal, and was voted, “Not a bad sort of fellow for a Scottie.”
There were lots of Scotch folks in Tynecaster, but very few of these were Churchmen, and so I did not get much from them in the way of sympathy. Scotsmen in England are said to be very clannish, and to stand by one another in fair day and foul; my experience did not bear this out. When I was first introduced as a brother Scot I got the hearty handclasp of fellowship; but, when they came to know that I had leanings towards “the English Kirk,” they seemed all to have become very suddenly short-sighted, for in most cases they failed to recognize me when I met them in the street.
There was, however, one notable exception, an old man from Perthshire, Tom Laidlaw by name, who kept a second-hand bookstall in the Market. Many a happyhalf-holiday did I spend with him, among his literary treasures. Brought up among the descendants of Jacobite non-jurors, he was a staunch, devoted Churchman. I told him one day of the strange attitude taken towards me by these brother Scots and was much amused by his pawky reply.
“Man, Alan, I’m astonished at ye. Do ye no ken hoo the average Scot regards the releegious opinions o’ his neebour? Orthodoxy’smydoxy, an’ heterodoxy’syourdoxy. He’s nae conceited, oh no; he only thinks that his neebour’s views are richt when they agree wi’ his ain.”
We had no school chapel, and so most of the boarders attended the neighboring Church of St. Jude, under the charge of one of the masters. When it was my turn to perform this duty, I was at first delighted with the well-rendered musical service; but when that ceased to have the charm of novelty, I began to long for something to help me in my spiritual life, which I did not get there, either in the services or the sermons. The last named were, as a rule, nice little theological essays, couched in beautiful English, and delivered in the well-modulated tones characteristic of the typical young English cleric. I often wished these highly-respectable, well-bred people in the pews around me could have listened to one of the rugged bursts of whole-souled, impassioned eloquence to which the Glenconan folks were accustomed, Sunday after Sunday, from their saintly and devoted, if somewhat narrow-minded, pastor, in the “Auld Licht Kirk.”
Do not imagine that I was captious, or oven-critical, or discontented; I was simply in that delicate condition when one needs all the spiritual nourishment that can be given, and I was only offered husks. Somehow or other I could not help feeling that a crisis was imminent,and yet I could not have diagnosed the symptoms. Everything around me was commonplace enough; still, crises often spring from the commonplace.
One fine Saturday afternoon in autumn I was searching for fossils in a disused quarry, and I was so absorbed in my work that I was not aware of any one being near me till I heard a familiar voice addressing me:
“Weel, Mr. Gray, and what do ye think you are doin’?”
I turned, and saw Tom Laidlaw’s honest, pawky face looking down upon me from the bank overhead.
“Why, Tom,” I said, “I was just trying my hand at practical geology. But, I’ve had enough for one day; let’s have a rest and a chat.”
A few minutes, and we were seated together on a nice mossy knoll.
“Is it not wonderful, Tom, how one can read the past history of life on the earth from the layers of dead matter buried beneath the surface?”
“Aye, it’s nae doot very wonderful; but, man, there are even mair wonderful testimonies of the past life of the Church that have come doon to us in things that some fowk wad call speeritual fossils. There’s the three Creeds, that tell us of the Apostolic doctrine—the Sacraments, that include the breaking of bread, and presuppose fellowship; and there are the devotions of the Church, enshrined in the grand auld liturgies, and, in these latter days, in our Book of Common Prayer, they are the prayers; truly a wonderful collection of speeritual fossils. The world’s been turned upside doon ower and ower again sin’ the first Christian days; but the teaching of the Apostles—the Apostolic ministry, the Sacraments and sacramental ordinances, and the ‘set form of words’—are just as much in evidence today as they were nineteen hunder years ago. Men hae tried to mak’ new speeritualformations o’ their ain, but they are nae mair like the God-made formations of the one, holy, catholic, Apostolic Church than a plaster o’ Paris replica is like the fossil frond ye unearthed a wee while back oot o’ the auld quarry.”
For some time neither of us spoke. I sat staring vacantly into space, ruminating over what I had heard; Tom was seemingly as much taken up with filling and lighting his pipe as he had been before in giving a theological lecture. He could see that I was giving in, that all my supports were falling to pieces beneath me, and he resolved to complete his work.
“Can ye no see that these things, which have stood all the wear and tear of the ages, must be of the very essence of the Church of Christ? and, if this be so, why should you keep back from throwing in your lot with those who are in possession of them? I honor you, my lad, for respecting the teaching of those who had a claim on your loyalty; but the time has come when you must make a decision according to the dictates of your own conscience, and no one whose opinion is worth anything will do anything but respect you for doing so.”
Again he relapsed into the Doric. “There’s aye been a faithfu’ remnant in auld Scotland—the ‘gentle persuasion’ as ye’ve nae doot heard folks ca’ them, an’ ye’ll be nane the less a true Scot when ye become ane o’ that same company.”
“You, who have all your life been a Churchman, and have received the most careful teaching in Church matters, can have no idea of the struggle that one who has had none of these privileges has to undergo in breaking loose from all the traditions of his family and friends. However, I may tell you that I see my duty clear, and I mean at once to take my stand in defence of the old faith. I shall write to my father and mother, and tell them ofmy purpose, after which I shall put myself in the hands of those who can prepare me for confirmation.”
“Glad am I to hear you say this, Alan. You will nae doot hae mony diffeeculties; but the blessing o’ the Maister will go wi’ ye, and ye need hae nae fear.”
A few weeks after this I received the sacred rite of the laying on of hands from a Bishop of the old Scottish Church.
Many years have passed since then; but I have never ceased to hold in the highest esteem the simple, homely teaching of the old bookseller; and I have never for a moment regretted crossing the Rubicon.
EVEN if a traveller spends but a day or two in Edinburgh, he may see many things that will call forth surprise and admiration. The Castle, the High street, with all its closes and wynds, the ancient palace of Holyrood—indeed the whole of the Old Town—all are full of historic interest. If he has been fortunate enough to enlist the services of one of the authorized city guides, his interest will be greatly intensified, for the old man will reel off, in a dignified but somewhat monotonous voice, a farrago of historical information that will simply appal his auditor; and, should the said auditor attempt, in the evening, to enter in his notebook an account of all he has seen and heard, he will find himself in a state of chaos and will give up the effort in despair.
It is no exaggeration to say that our Scottish capital is one of the most historic cities in the world. It is no wonder that Scotsmen are proud of it. Its natural position is wondrously picturesque; the romantic and legendary lore that hangs, like a Scotch mist, around its ancient courts and archways, is of the most thrilling character; the relics of past grandeur that meet one everywhere are such as to compel investigation and inquiry; in fact, there are so many items of interest crowding in on the visitor’s brain that he feels that he would like to spend a year, instead of a day or two, in the contemplation of them.
“Edina, Scotia’s darling seat,” as Scotia’s peasant-bard affectionately terms it, indeed deserves all that hasbeen said in its praise; but there is another and sadder aspect under which it may be viewed, one that is only realized by those who have spent years of residence there. One might truly go further and say that the seamy side of the Maiden Town is only fully understood by comparatively few of its inhabitants.
Around the base of the great rock on which stands the old fortress of the Scottish kings, and within a very short distance of their ancient palace, there are vast tenements in which thousands of the poor, and miserable, and sinful, are huddled together, seemingly regardless of decency and cleanliness and comfort.
To one of these districts I, Alan Gray, came to work as a lay reader, previous to my ordination. The clergyman of the church to which I was attached was in many respects a man worthy of esteem and regard. A scion of a well-known English family, he maintained all the traditions of his race with dignity and self-respect; he had a beautiful voice and read the services in a manner which could not fail to attract people of culture and refinement; and he was ever ready to give of his wealth to relieve the needy and distressed. The congregation were almost entirely of the moneyed classes; the poor were not encouraged to attend the mother church, but were relegated to the care of a lay assistant, who held evening services in the schoolroom. Occasionally, however, some of the latter might be seen in the gallery of the church, where there were a number of free seats. As a matter of principle, I sat in the gallery when I was not asked to read the Lessons; and almost invariably I chose the same pew, where I had for my neighbor a quiet, douce, middle-aged man, whose horny hands told that he had done many a hard day’s work in his life. On the first occasion of my noticing him, he was listening with great intentness to the sermon. When the preacherwas about to descend from the pulpit, I could hear my companion mutter:
“Imphm, a strong smell o’ brimstone; that’ll be ane o’ his grandfaither’s auld sermons.”
I was amused, but of course showed no sign.
Some weeks afterwards I was again in my accustomed place, and my neighbor was in the same pew. The sermon came to a close and this time I heard the remark:
“High and dry, an’ no a bit o’ noorishment in the whole affair; that’ll be ane oot o’ his daddy’s auld kist.”
Again I was amused; but I was yet to be more startled. This time he spoke even more audibly, and with a good deal of contempt:
“A perfect plash o’ gruel—naething in’t ava—fushionless stuff. That’s ane o’ his ain.”
Naturally I was anxious to know this strange character, and you may be sure I took the first opportunity of making his acquaintance. On my commenting on his strange remarks, he said:
“Weel, ye see, it’s weel kent that the minister has three sets o’ sermons—a boxful o’ his grandfaither’s—ane o’ his faither’s—an’ a wheen o’ his ain that he wrote when he was a curate doon in England. Folk that hae sat lang in the kirk ken what batch the sermon comes frae—it’s easy kennin’ them. He’s ower sair taen up wi’ playin’ gowff nooadays that he has nae time for preparin’ good speeritual meat; it’s cauld hash a’ the time.”
I asked my quaint neighbor to spend an evening with me at my rooms, and there I got from him an account of his own strange and eventful life. He was the illegitimate son of a rakish Scottish peer, who had not given him his name, but had paid for his upbringing and education. Being of a restless disposition, he ran off to sea at the age of eighteen. For years he had led aroving life, draining the cup of worldly pleasure to his very dregs. One day, in a drunken spree, he got his leg broken and was removed to a hospital, where he made the acquaintance of a converted Jew who was trying to do good work among the sailors in that port. During the period of his convalescence he commenced the study of Hebrew to while away the time that hung heavy on his hands, and, under the careful instruction of his Jewish friend, he was soon able to read portions of the Holy Scriptures in the original. After a time he gave up the life of a sailor and settled in Edinburgh, where he attended Hebrew and Syriac lectures at the University. At the present time he was taking the regular arts course, with a view to graduation, and was gaining a somewhat precarious livelihood by giving private lessons in Hebrew to young men who were studying for the ministry.
James Macnicol was certainly a singular character, but I found him true as steel to the Christian life he had adopted, and was anxious to do all he could for the careless and godless around him. He was an expert swimmer, and during the summer, one would find him occupying his evenings in teaching a class of young lads that most useful art. He had the impression that any occupation that would keep the young fellows from going astray was worth trying.
“It’s the only kind of decent amusement that I am acquainted with,” he would say, “and if I do what I can it will always help on the good work a wee bit.”
Surely a most excellent principle, and one that might well be taken as the basis of every Christian’s practice. The Master Himself gave it His warm commendation when He said: “She hath done what she could.”
I was not long in enlisting the kind sympathy of my eccentric friend, and I not only got his sympathy but his warm co-operation. When I commenced holding servicesin the school on Sunday evenings, I was somewhat discouraged to find that my congregation, which generally did not exceed twenty in number, consisted mostly of old women and children; not one of the many young men residing in the district put in an appearance. I spoke to Macnicol about this and asked him what he thought should be done to get in touch with the class referred to.
“Do many of the young men belong to the Episcopal church?” I asked him.
“The feck o’ them dinna belang to ony kirk, Mr. Gray,” he replied. “Maist o’ them have been baptized, I suppose, for it’s wonderfu’ how the careless an’ degraded among the parents have unconsciously retained a belief in the efficacy of Holy Baptism. Wi’ some o’ them, nae doot, it’s degenerated into a kind o’ superstition—still, the belief’s there and what’s wanted is to get baith parents and children to understand a’ that baptism involves. My advice to you wad be to let them see, in some way or ither, that ye take an interest in their lives—in their amusements even. Say naething aboot releegion at first, but just mak’ yersel’ their friend and get in touch with them. Higher things will come later on.”
As the outcome of this chat I set about organizing social evenings, under the then popular title of “Penny Readings.” The rector’s wife gave us an old piano, much the worse for wear, but still capable of being used. Until we were able to purchase a set of teacups, etc., we hired a few dozen from a friendly hardware man. I enlisted the services of some of my fellow collegians who could sing or play a little; simple popular programmes were drawn up; refreshments of very plain character were brought in—and we were ready for the fray. Macnicol invited his swimming class and told them to bring their chums. When the opening night came the performerswere there in force—but the audience, where were they? A few of the Sunday evening congregation occupied the front benches; the young men congregated at the door but hesitated to come in. They were evidently afraid of being preached at. I took the chair, said a few words by way of introduction, and then announced the first item on our little programme. It was only a well-worn college chorus, but we sang it lustily. Songs, readings, recitations, piano selections of popular music, and more choruses followed in order. The old women listened with attention; the children looked as if they were enduring these for the sake of the tea and cakes which were to follow. By and by a toosy head appeared at the door, then another, and another, and before the first half-hour had gone the audience was more than doubled.
“Come in, lads,” I called out, “and take a seat. There’s lots of room.”
In they came, most of them with a sheepish or suspicious air. When anything of an amusing nature was being read or sung their interest quickened; they even applauded in a quiet way.
When our programme was ended I asked Macnicol to say a few words.
“Ye ken me, lads,” he began; “we’ve had lots o’ fun in the water afore noo. But we canna be soomin’ a’ the time, and so oor frien’ Maister Gray has arranged to hae an evenin’s fun in the school ilka week, an’ he wants you a’ to come. We’re goin’ to hae some refreshments noo, so ye can juist hae a crack wi’ ane anither till the young ladies hand roon’ the tea.”
At first they were too shy to take advantage of the opportunity to chat, but ere long the hum of conversation mingled with the clatter of cups and plates.
The ice was broken, and we never again permitted itto freeze up. It took a good many weeks to get in touch with the young men, but quiet, persistent effort won the day.
Before the long winter had come to an end we had introduced popular lectures in simple colloquial phraseology; occasional magic-lantern exhibitions were given; and now and then we spent the evenings in parlor games of various kinds.
Some of the young fellows braved the scorn of their neighbors and came to our Sunday evening services; these brought others, and so the work progressed. We had many who fell away and went back to their old loafing ways—their drinking and gambling and worse—but, in spite of many difficulties, our pioneer work began to tell. Before long I had about a dozen in training for confirmation, and very soon after I had been admitted to the diaconate I presented my class to the rector, who approved of the candidates and presented them to the bishop for the “laying on of hands.”
The nucleus of a mission congregation, thus formed, developed under my successors in the curacy into a large and flourishing church. In the meantime I obtained the desire of my heart, that of being sent to the pastorate of one of the old congregations that had lived on and flourished through the persecutions that followed the Jacobite Rising of 1745.
IDO not suppose that one out of every ten Scotsmen has ever heard of Drumscondie, seeing that it is only a little bit of a place (I call it a village; but the inhabitants thereof dignify it with the appellation of “town”), occupying an obscure corner of what many regard as the most obscure county on the east coast of Scotland. At the present time, it has little about it to attract notice from the busy world around, but this was not always the case. In the days when the stern and masterful Douglases were lords paramount of that part of the country, when——
“Princes and favorites long grew tame,And trembled at the holy nameOf Archibald Bell-the-Cat,”
“Princes and favorites long grew tame,And trembled at the holy nameOf Archibald Bell-the-Cat,”
“Princes and favorites long grew tame,And trembled at the holy nameOf Archibald Bell-the-Cat,”
Drumscondie was a Burgh of Barony, owning allegiance to them; its Baron Baillie, who was their appointee, held his courts there, and executed summary judgment, when the need arose; its chapelry, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, was an appanage of the parish church of St. Michael of Glendouglas, the rector of which held a prebendal stall in the Cathedral of St. Andrews.
In the eighteenth, and in the early days of the nineteenth century, the village was a centre of the domestic hand-loom industry, and boasted of a population of five hundred souls.
By the time that I became its rector, the weaving trade was little more than a memory; but there were still not a few roofless cottages that were pointed out asthe weaving shops of worthies whose names were quoted with unction by the fathers of the village. They must have been a lively lot—these old weavers!
I can recall vividly, as if it were yesterday, a night I spent by the bedside of old David Grant, who soon afterwards passed over to the great majority. My wife had stayed with him during the first watch, and had gone home, leaving her patient sleeping peacefully. I was sitting by the peatfire reading, when a sound from the boxbed caused me to spring to my feet. The old man had got out of bed, and was making his way to the outer door, a stout oaken cudgel in his hand. I sprang forward to intercept him, as I could see he was in a state of delirium; and, should he get outside, it might mean sudden death from exposure. I managed to get in front of him, and was about to push him backwards towards the bed, when he raised the stick, and aimed a blow which would have felled me had it fallen on my head. Closing in upon him I managed, after a struggle, to get him back among the blankets where he lay panting.
“Where were you going, David?” I said.
“Could ye not leave me alane, man? I was gaun doon to Lucky Begg’s to redd the row; there’s a fecht on among the weyvers, and they’ll kill wee Johnnie Chisholm. He can haud his ain, if he gets fair play but there’s aboot half a dizzen o’ them at him. What’ll folk think if I’m no there when there’s sic ongauns?”
When David was well, and able to hold a conversation, he beguiled many an evening for me with his reminiscences of bygone days. It was from him that I got the bulk of my information regarding my own church when I first settled down there.
“Wha can tell you better than me, Maister Gray? I was born here, an’ brocht up here, and, although I’ve been a bit of a rovin’ blade, I’ve spent the maist o’ mydays here. There’s the remains o’ ither three Episcopal kirks here. Ye ken that auld dyke o’ stanes an’ clay; weel, that was the back wa’ o’ the hoose that was used for a kirk when Maister Petrie was the minister in the ’45; but when the Bluidy Cumberland cam’ by on his road to fecht Prince Charlie, he set fire to the auld biggin’, and took Maister Petrie doon to Stanehyve, whaur he put him into the jail, doon aside the harbor. There was ither twa ministers in the jail wi’ him; and what do ye think the Episcopalians did when they wantit to get their bairns baptized? They stood outside the jail window on a bit o’ rock; and ane o’ the men that was a gey strong chield, held up a fisher’s creel wi’ the bairnie in ’t, an’ the minister bapteezed it throw the bars o’ the jail window.
“Weel, efter the awfu’ defeat at Culloden, the Episcopalians had to keep very quiet, for you see their religion wis proscribed. Noo and then Bishop Watson wad come roon’ in his auld gig, and haud a service in some o’ the hooses. But he was watched sae closely by the government folk, that he couldna even cairry his communion vessels except in a secret box below the seat o’ the gig. Ye ken that pewter cup and plate in the press in your vestry; that belanged to Bishop Skinner, the son o’ auld ‘Tullochgorum.’ Mony’s the time that he’s used it here when he would be veesitin’ some o’ his freens.
“Aboot 1790 things were a wee bit quaieter, and they got anither kirk—that’s it biggit on to the gable o’ The Home. I can mind my auld mither takin’ me there to a service when I was a bairn. It had an ootside stane stair that led up to the gallery. We were sittin’ in the gallery, an’ I was putten oot ’cause I let my ball row doon on the heids o’ the folk below.
“Syne, in the year efter Waterloo they biggit the auld kirk that is noo a pairt o’ your parsonage. I helpit todig the foondation o’t. Oh, man, but the Episcopalians were prood when it was biggit! The maist o’ the weyvers cam’ there to worship, aye, an’ they cam’ frae a’ the fishin’ toons alang the coast. Mony a time have I been sent by John Duncan, the beadle, to see if the fishers were near at hand afore he would begin to ring the last bell for the mornin’ service.
“Yer present kirk—oh! it was biggit about twenty years ago. Aye, it’s a rael bonnie kirk; but, for me, I aye likit the auld ane best.”
You can easily understand how deeply interested I was in all this local church history, and how I valued the honor of serving in such historic ground.
Sometimes David’s reminiscences took a distinctly secular turn. He would tell me of the old coaching days, when the four-in-hand, tooled by Archie Hepburn, in scarlet coat and topboots, passed through the village twice a week, and was the only regular event of importance in their quiet lives; how, as soon as the toot of the guard’s horn was heard, every weaver flung down his shuttle and hurried to the Douglas Arms to get the newspapers and hear the news; and how, in Lucky Begg’s bar-parlor, there was keen competition for the honor of entertaining the coachman and guard.
“There was aye plenty o’ hame-brewed ale on coach days,” David would say, “and yet ye hardly ever saw onybody the waur o’t. An’ sic a collyshangie there would be, ilka ane tryin’ to get the news that maist interested him. Peter Wyllie—man, what a cratur he was, aye arguin’ aboot politics;—he was terrible taen up aboot the Reform Bill, and bude to ken the latest news aboot it. Syne there was Jamie Polson—Jamie was an elder, and wis awfu’ keen on the Patronage question, that brocht on the disruption o’ the free kirk in 1843. Mony a wordy war did Archie and him hae aboot that.
“I tell you, Maister Gray, there was some stir in the toon on coach days; and, even when the coach set oot doon the south road to Embro, there was little mair work dune that day.”
Most of the weavers were also crofters, and farmed a few acres of land, enough to provide them with oatmeal for the year, and a winter’s feed for the cows that supplied the family with milk. There was a piece of common land, called the “bogs,” and every crofter had a right to pasture his cow there. A boy collected the cattle by the blasts of a well-battered horn, and, driving them before him to the pastureland, herded them there till noon. The whole band re-formed in procession and retraced their steps to their respective byres, where buxom matrons in “soo-backit mutches,” relieved them of their burden of milk. In the afternoon, the same programme was gone through; and so it went on, through the long sunny days of summer and autumn, and was only discontinued when the snows and frosts of winter made grazing out of the question.
To one who had spent a number of years amid the din and dust, the sins and sorrows of city life, this return to Arcadian simplicity was very welcome.
Seven very happy years I spent there, and many a valuable lesson did I learn from the descendants of the loyal churchmen who had stood by their lawful prince in his hour of need, and had given loving and devoted heed to the godly teaching of their faithful though persecuted pastors. It was in these days I began to realize the full import of Tertullian’s words: “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church and the more we are mowed down the more we grow.” The older generation of churchfolks were churchfolks from stern conviction; they would let nothing stand between them and the Apostolic Faith. I had not been long settled in Drumscondie when I hadan opportunity of noting the soundness of the early training that had been given to those old folks by my predecessors of long ago. Old Sandy Barras, who had been the treasurer of the congregation for over half a century, was nearing his end, and I called to see him. After reading the service for the visitation of the sick, I talked to him for a little, and in the course of conversation, I received this bit of advice:
“Whatever ye do, Mr. Gray, teach the bairns the Collects and the Psalms. When I was young and strong, I thocht that a’ this learnin’ by rote wis juist nonsense—a parrot could do that. But, sir, since God has laid me doon on a bed o’ sickness, and often I’m no able to get a bit o’ sleep the hale nicht through, I’m mair than thankful that I can say the Psalms an’ the Church’s prayers without a book; they’ve been a great comfort to me.”
It was not many days before I was sent for to administer the Holy Communion for the last time to this faithful old Churchman. I shall never forget the scene that greeted me when I entered the room. It was on the Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul, and there had been a celebration in church. We used the old Scotch Communion Office at Drumscondie, which provides for Reservation for the Sick; and so I wended my way through the village, carrying the Communion vessels. All who saw me knew whither I was going, and no one spoke. When I entered the sick chamber I felt as if I were entering a sacred place. Everything was so spotlessly neat and clean; the dying man was slightly raised in bed, and his eager look betokened anticipated joy and peace. A small table, covered with an immaculately white cloth, had on it a bowl of beautiful winter flowers. None in that household knew anything of what is now known as “Catholic” ritual; but they had a grip of the Christian verities that made them instinctively do everything “in decency andorder”; aye, more, they recognized the special presence of the Divine, and no trouble was too great to give expression to the honor which was to be theirs.
Sandy Barras was my first friend in Drumscondie; no one respected my office more than he; and when he gave me his counsel, as he often did, it was never in a dictatorial way, but as an aged servant of God would advise a young brother and seek to keep him from falling into such mistakes as are liable to spring from inexperience.
He was my first, but by no means my only staunch friend in my new charge; of some of the others I may speak another day.
IWAS 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 mydilettanteknowledge 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 faithwas 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 modestsitting-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 haveafterwards 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 wereScotchfirs; his streams were not gentle English brooks, but brawlingScotch“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 bethe 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,” hesaid 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.
IOFTEN look back with longing to the simple rural life we spent in the dear old parsonage at Drumscondie. We rose early, both summer and winter; at eight o’clock breakfast was on the table, at one we had dinner, and at six in the evening we assembled for that delightfully cosy meal yclept High Tea. Then, in the winter, there was a hurry-scurry for a little, while the table was being cleared, the dishes washed and put away, and other domestic duties attended to; after everything was prepared for the morning, the whole of our little household, including Janet Spence, our faithful domestic and friend, gathered around the big open fireplace in the nursery. Mother, daughter and maid took their sewing, knitting or darning, and all listened while I read aloud from one of the old favorite works of fiction, or an ancient ballad from the days of chivalry. George Macdonald’s Alec Forbes and Robert Falconer, Malcolm Marquis of Lossie and Dooble Sanny with his Stradivarius, Miss Mulock’s John Halifax and Phineas Fletcher, Sir James the Rose and Sir Patrick Spens—were very real personages, in whose doings we took the keenest interest.
Many a happy evening did we spend in such delightful company, and much food for thought did we gather for the busy future.
I was reading one evening the Siege of Torquilstone from Scott’s “Ivanhoe,” when an interruption came in the shape of loud knocking at the kitchen door. I ceased reading while Janet went to see what was the matter. Presently the trampling of heavy boots was heard on the stairs, my study door was opened, and then shut, andJanet returned to tell me that three young men wished to see me. On my entering the study, one of the visitors whom I had met once or twice before, came forward, and introduced his companions.
“We’re a deppytation from the Mutual Improvement Society, Maister Gray,” he said, “an’ we’ve come to ask you if you would be so good as gie us a lecture some evenin’ soon.”
“A lecture?” I said, “why, I never gave a lecture in my life. I would gladly be of any service to your Society, but really I fear I am of no use in the way you mention. I don’t know what I could talk to you about.”
There was silence for a moment, and then an idea struck me. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I have for some years been trying, in my leisure time, to find out the origin and history of some of the old Jacobite songs. I could tell you how these songs came into being—what events in the romance of the white cockade called them forth—and, if you like, I would sing some of the songs.”
I could easily see from their faces that this was more than they expected.
“That would be splendid. We’ve never had onything o’ that kind before. We’ll lat a’ body ken aboot it, an’ the hall will be crooded.”
“Don’t say too much about it, boys,” I interposed, “because it is only an experiment.”
We arranged the day and hour, and the deputation departed, much pleased with the result of their visit.
I collected my notes, made a sketch of the Jacobite story from the Revolution of 1689 down to the sad defeat at Culloden, and introduced the most notable of the songs in their proper historical order.
The evening of the lecture arrived, and I proceeded to the place of meeting. The building known as “The Hall,” had at one time been a Free Kirk day school, andwas still to a great extent in the hands of that body. My chairman was an old man, very much esteemed in the neighborhood. In politics he was an ultra-Radical; in religion he was a Congregationalist of a very narrow type. In introducing me he said very little, and that of a vague and general character. It was something new for these folks to hear a parson singing old Scotch songs; some seemed to look upon it with considerable suspicion; others showed their enjoyment and appreciation by attending closely to my remarks, and vociferously applauding my simple rendering of the old ballads. In his closing remarks the chairman expressed the thanks of the audience to me for the trouble I had taken, but said he was quite sure “if the young Pretender were to land on these shores now, the great mass of the people would rise and drive him back again to the ship which had brought him hither.”
I saw I had got into a hornet’s nest, but I made no reply. This, however, was not the end of the matter. Various chats with the young people of the village led to my opening a night school for them, in the Hall, on two evenings weekly, and, in the conducting of this, I took good care that the study of Scottish history had its due share of attention. For two winters this went on. Beyond opening our meetings with prayer, nothing of a religious character was introduced. My class soon included all the young men of the village; and, more out of gratitude to me than from any other cause, the members of my class took to attending our Sunday evening services. What our congregation gained in numbers my Free Kirk neighbor lost, and great was his indignation.
Something must be done to stop the deplorable leakage. Ministers and elders used their influence individually with the young men, sermon after sermonwas preached to show the delinquents the imminent danger they were in spiritually from coquetting with Black Prelacy; but, the results were meagre. The religion of the “Gentle Persuasion,”—that took a real and living interest in their everyday lives, that aimed at making their lives brighter and happier, that laid no ban on innocent and rational pleasures, that took even their recreations under its fostering care—appealed strongly to their common sense; and, not a few who had been fed on the dry husks of an effete Calvinism owed their emancipation from its thraldom, directly or indirectly, to our village night school.
But the Free Kirk Session was not to yield its hold without a further effort. By fair means or foul, my evening school must be stopped.
At the beginning of my third winter, I went to the “Provost” to arrange for the use of the Hall, and was told that the trustees had resolved, contrary to all precedent, to charge me the same fee as they charged any travelling concert company for every night I used it. At first, I was dumbfounded. The charge was prohibitive. I went home in despair, to take counsel with my women-folks. Advice and comfort came, and from a source whence I never expected it.
Janet, who bore no particular good-will to the Frees, came to the rescue.
“Ye needna tribble yersel’ about that poor ablich o’ a minister bodie an’ his elders. There’s plenty o’ room for a’ the laddies in my kitchen. We’ll get some o’ them to gie’s a haund, and we’ll cairry oot the things that wad be in the wye, an’ aifter the class is ower, we can easy pit them a’ back again.”
“But, Janet,” I said, “that’ll mean a lot of work twice every week.”
“Never ye min’ that, we’re nae gaun to hae the good wark stoppit for a wee bit extra wark.”
And so it was arranged. The class was summoned to a meeting in the parsonage kitchen, the new scheme was broached, and every one promised to help. One or two came half an hour earlier on class nights to get things in order; several of them always stayed behind to restore things to their wonted order; and the work went on, with more success than ever. Persecution in a good cause is always productive of good. Even some of the old folks, who at first were suspicious of anything of the nature of innovation, expressed their sympathy in no uncertain language.
Davie Paterson, the postman, on his journey round the Brae side, gave a most amusing account of the whole affair to the Brae dominie, who in turn retailed it to me.
“That free kirk futtrit thocht he was gaun to pit an end to Maister Gray’s nicht schule, but, Lord, man, he got sair begowkit. The parsonage kitchie on a schule nicht is a sicht for sair e’en. I gaed roon ae evenin’ to hae a word wi’ the minister, an’ got a luik in. Muckle Jamie Todd, that used to be either blebbin’ an’ drinkin’ at the inn in the forenichts, or fechtin, was in the neuk, wi’ the meal barrel for a dask, an’ wis learnin’ gigonometry, or lan’ measurin’, or something o’ that kind, an’ he wis that eident that he never saw me. The minister himsel’ had a muckle blackboard set up on the dresser, an’ wis giein’ the lave a lesson in gography. They were a’ as busy as bonnet makkers. Thae Frees may say what they like, the toon folk are maistly a’ wi’ Maister Gray. You would think it was Sunday on the schule nichts—the hale place is as quaiet as pussy. If he’s nae daein’ ony gude, he’s keepin’ a lot o’ them oot o’ mischief.”
But the boycotting brought even better results than these I have indicated. A neighboring laird who had foryears been an ardent follower of Kingsley, and a strong Christian Socialist, came to the front with counsel and material help which ended in our being able to convert our disused church into a hall for classes and social gatherings. We opened it on three nights a week as a reading and recreation room; by and by it was duly enrolled as a school under the South Kensington Science and Art Department; classes in chemistry, physiography and agriculture were commenced and carried on with great success; popular lectures were given on all kinds of useful subjects, and today there are of our young men not a few in various parts of the world whose ability to perform the important work committed to them was largely due, in the first instance, to the narrow-minded policy which caused the Frees to boycott the “Gentle Persuasion.”