TAMMAS BROWN, ex-provost of the ancient burgh of Drumscondie, held a most unique position in the little commonwealth. For many years he had filled the civic chair; his tenure of the office was still proudly remembered, and his opinions quoted, by the burgesses of the “toon.” It was he who bore the cost of restoring the steeple which for over a century had carried the bell that rung the “curfew.” The “auld provost,” as he was called, was a notable man in the community. While he never now interfered openly in civic affairs, he was kept well posted as to all the doings of the “Cooncil,” and it was well known that to attempt any scheme which did not have his approval was to court certain failure.
His successor was a “hairmless, haverin’ bodie,” not overstocked with prudence, and certainly not over-burdened with wisdom; and, had there not been sometimes the unseen influence of Tammas Brown at work, things would not have gone as smoothly as they did.
Speaking of Willie Dundas, the provost in my day, I am reminded of an amusing incident that well illustrated his crass ignorance and self-conceit. He had gone to spend a day or two in his native village of Friockheim, about twenty miles from Drumscondie. On his return he was met at the railway station by a member of the “Toon Cooncil,” and the two men walked home together, discussing current events. During his absence there had been a solar eclipse, which caused quite a commotion among the villagers.
“Aye, Provost, an’ did you see the eclipse?” said the Cooncillor.
The great man was amazed at the question, and replied in a tone that was meant to crush the questioner:
“Man, Donald, I wonder at ye speerin’ sic a thing; hoo cud I see the eclipse, an’ me at Friockheim?”
Nothing so uplifted Willie as to have to preside at any public meeting in the Toon Hall. For a day or two previously he would be in such a state of excitement that any work in his shop, short of a coffin to be made, was entirely out of the question. Several times a day he would have to “gang doon the toon on business,” which meant on each occasion one or two bottles of ale, with cronies, at the inn; and it generally happened that by the time he came to mount the platform, he was prepared to make a speech that would take the palm as the most amusing item on the programme. One Hallowe’en night a party of musical folks had given an entertainment in the “Hall,” in aid of some contemplated local improvements. The Provost rose to thank the visitors for their kindly help. “Gentlemen an’ ladies,” he said, “A’m sure we’re a’ vera muckle obleeged to the freens that’s fushen ye here the nicht. Ye’ve gien us a concert that couldna be beaten in the big toon o’ Aiberdeen. I howp we’ll a’ gang hame like gude bairns, an’ be thankfu’ that we leeve in sic an enlichtened toon. There’s a heap mair I could say aboot it; but—but—I mean—I think we’ll draw the meetin’ to a con—con close, wi’ a verse o’ the netteral anthum. Whaur’s the precentor? Oh! ye’re there, are ye, Rob? Just strike up—“God Save the Queen.”
Tammas Brown’s remarks on his successor were more forcible than polite.
“What in a’ the worrld gars the useless, bletherin’ cratur stand up and mak’ a fule of hissel’ an’ the ToonCooncil? He fair bates a’. Gin I had a neep (turnip)—big eneuch, I could mak’ a better man oot o’t wi’ my knife.”
Tammas was an Episcopalian of a type that is fast passing away, more’s the pity. In his young days he had received his religious training under a succession of clergy who had imbibed freely of the teaching of the great Oxford Revival. Church doctrine was set forth with no uncertain sound; but, there was no attempt at anything of the nature of ceremonial. The services in St. John’s were plain but reverent. There was no chanting of the Psalms—priest and people read them antiphonally, Tammas leading the people’s part in clear stentorian tones. He had a perfect horror of anything that savored of ritualism.
During my first winter there the heating arrangements of the church were not of a very satisfactory kind, and on several occasions we were nearly frozen out. I had contracted a severe cold in my head, and to protect my bald pate had taken to wearing a small silk skull-cap. For several Sundays no notice was taken of this; but one day the storm burst. I was taking off my surplice in the vestry when the door opened and Tammas stood before me. His face was severe; my greeting fell unheeded. He pointed to the cap, and said sternly:
“We want nane o’ thae Popish things here, Maister Gray. Thae bannets may do a’ vera weel among the puir craturs in Edinbro that ken nae better, but they’ll no do here.”
I assured him that our own Bishop himself wore one; but that argument was worse than useless.
“What kens he about the auld sufferin’ Scottish Church? He’s only an Englishman. We’re no oonder the English Church, although we’re in communion wi’ her.We have a history that gangs as far back as hers, an’ we’re no to get the fashion set by a wheen mim-moothed bits o’ curates that introduce a’ kinds o’ trumpery to please idle weemonfolk.”
Here was a storm in a teacup. I saw it was no use discussing the question, so I quietly replied:
“Well, well, Provost, I’ll be very glad to follow the example of godly Bishop Jolly, who wore a full-bottomed wig. How do you think that would suit you?”
He was too serious about the matter to take a joke, so I put the cap in my pocket, and assured him that I would not permit such a trivial thing to give him any worry and here the matter ended.
For a clergyman to wear a straw hat or anything except the orthodox clerical head-gear was to him almost sacrilege; indeed, any change from the conservative fashions of his youth met with his strongest censure. It took me a considerable time to sound his depths, and understand his idiosyncrasies; but when I at last succeeded in getting into touch with him, I learnt to esteem him highly.
The first glimpse I got of his real inwardness was on the occasion of a visit which he and I paid to Glasgow to attend the annual meeting of the Church council. It was his first visit to the west, and I did my best to make it a pleasant one. I took him through the grand old Gothic cathedral and pointed out its beauties as best I could. It was a wonderful revelation to the old man. He said very little until we were just about to leave the building. One last look he must have; and, as he stood in the centre of the nave and gazed up at the finely moulded arches and the lovely tracery of the windows, he exclaimed in a voice quivering with emotion.
“No man need ever tell me that this place was biggitfor cauld Presbyterian worship. Na, na, the men that biggit this worshipped God in the beauty of holiness. Aye, Maister Gray, thae forebears o’ ours had a wonnerful grip o’ the Faith, an’ they’ve left their belief in the walls, an’ roof, and even in the foondation o’ this grand biggin’. It’s a pairfit pictur’ o the speeritual temple that the Maister wants us to raise. The foondation taks the form o’ the cross, to teach us that oor real life maun be based on sacrifice; there’s the sacred number three—teepical o’ the Trinity—in the three aisles leadin’ up to the altar; an’ syne, there’s the nave—that’s the Church Militant—an’ the choir—that’s the Church in Paradise—an’ the sanctuary—that’s the Church Triumphant. There’s a heap mair, if a bodie only took time to find it oot. Lang, lang syne, I mind on the dean tellin’ us aboot a’ this in a sermon; but I never had ony idea before hoo it could a’ be set furth. I wad na hae missed this graund sicht for onything.”
How short-sighted I had been in my estimate of the “auld provost!”
I could hardly believe that the simple countryman who stood before me, his face aglow with enthusiasm, pointing out with a keenness of perception that was wonderful the beautiful teachings of Gothic art, was the man whom I had hitherto supposed to be devoid of emotion. To say that I was thunderstruck but feebly expresses my feelings. Now I knew him as I had never known him before. Now I knew that under the reserve of his cold, austere outer shell there was a depth of devotional feeling to which he rarely gave vent in words.
Had he lived in the days of the Nonjurors, when it was a crime in Scotland to be an Episcopalian, he would have been one of the staunchest of the “faithful remnant.” Of his own personal religion he would have said little;but, when necessity arose, he would have been ready with a reason for the faith that was in him.
Now I could see that the “auld provost” was one of those who kept the precious things of the spiritual life locked up in the sacred repository of his heart, and who with Lady Nairne, the poetess, felt that “religion ought to be a walking and not a talking concern.”
The vestry of St. John’s, in whose hands lay the management of the temporal affairs of the parish, consisted at this time of four members, with myself as chairman. All the four were men worthy of note.
The “auld provost,” of whom I have been speaking, was secretary and treasurer.
The Honorable James Stewart, the laird of Strathfinlas, was of Scottish birth and upbringing, but a graduate of the English University of Cambridge. Succeeding to the estate after he had passed middle life, he had set himself to carry out the principles of Christian Socialism, which he had learned at the feet of Kingsley, Maurice and Fawcett. His neighbor lairds smiled at his enthusiasm, and looked on him as a harmless faddist; but he went on his way, and very soon gained the esteem and affection of the tenantry, as well as the retainers on his lovely demesne.
Andrew Blair had been for many years a successful railway contractor, but even in his busiest times had never ceased to maintain a warm interest in all that concerned the best welfare of the ancient Scottish Church. Now that he had taken to the quiet life of a farmer his interest in church affairs was intensified.
Adam Skene was a tradesman in the village of Dunluther, on the southern side of the cairn. His flowing beard of snowy white marked him out as one of the fathers of the congregation; but, in spite of advancing age, it was something of very grave import which would keephim at home on the weekly day of rest. Staff in hand, he trudged the seven miles of hill road, Sunday after Sunday, in order that he might worship with the brethren of his father’s faith.
Many an earnest discussion did these four worthies have in the dear old parsonage at the quarterly meetings of the vestry. Seldom was there anything of the nature of friction, although sometimes I had to exercise some tact to keep the provost and Andrew Blair from misunderstanding the somewhat novel ideas put forth by the laird.
When I proposed a weekly celebration of the Holy Communion at an early hour, Mr. Stewart warmly supported me. Adam Skene, who was always willing to be led by those better educated than himself, raised no objection. Andrew Blair had sent his sons to one of the schools of the Woodardian foundation, where they had received careful instruction in sacramental life, and so he knew somewhat of the stirring among the Church’s dry bones. He was at least willing to hear all that could be said in favor of the proposed innovation.
The provost alone was in opposition. He listened while the others expressed their approval—and, then, in awe-inspiring tones, he gave his verdict:
“I’m no sayin’, Maister Gray, but what ye mean weel in what ye propose, but, for my part, I think ye’d better leave things as they are. I wadna mind noo an’ then, on the greater feasts, maybe, haein’ what ye ca’ an early celebration, but tak’ ye care lest ye mak’ sacred things ower common. When the auld dean was preparin’ me for my first Saycrament, he spak’ a heap aboot oor preparation for the ordinance, an’ I would just be feared that your new plan micht lead some o’s, speecially the young fowk, to gang forrit oonprepared. I dinna doot that what ye say aboot the early Chistians is true eneuch;but, ye maun mind that there was less risk o’ them dishonorin’ the Lord’s Body than wi’ maist o’ us. The very persecution they had to thole frae the heathen was eneuch to keep them richt. But nooadays we’re free frae ony interference, an’ can worship as oor conscience tells us; an’ maybe we’re juist ready eneuch to tak’ things easy. For ma pairt I’ll e’en be content wi’ the auld way that my father had afore me.”
My youthful zeal made me inclined to slight the old man’s caution. I carried out my proposal, and, I feel sure that it was wisely done, even if it was the cause of a little coolness, for a time. The Auld Provost was not unreasonable, and I think he saw the good that had been effected.
THE good folks of Drumscondie set much store by old saws and proverbs. They certainly adhered to the belief that “A green Yule maks a fat kirkyaird”—it had so often come true in their own experience. So when snow fell continuously for twelve hours on a stretch one Christmas Eve, every one heaved a big sigh of relief, as if the snow spirit had, by a touch of her wand, lifted the burden of a gloomy foreboding. Up went the spirits of old and young; the salutations of the gossips were redolent of good cheer; youngsters shouted with glee as they pelted one another with snowballs; even in the church itself the infection of joy had spread, and the church decorators sang snatches of carols as they hung up wreaths of red-berried holly on arch and pillar and window.
Then when the gloamin’ came and all met in church for the first Christmas vespers, their hearts went out in happy thanksgiving for the Nativity, which had wrought such wondrous good to them and to all mankind.
Now, there’s no doubt the gentle falling of the snow had not a little to do with this happy state of things. Our villagers were a very simple people, and somehow or other could not realize Christmas to be Christmas unless it was heralded by the snow. To them Christmas was more than a mere social feasting time. They had been trained in their young days to follow the course of the Church’s year with reverent attention, and to meditate on the special teaching that each season inculcated.
Oh! how they enjoyed the Church’s services at Christmastide! They were transported, in thought, to the holy fields of Bethlehem, where they kept watch with the humble shepherds; they heard the angelic song, “Gloria in Excelsis Deo;” they set out to seek the newly born King; and, when they found Him, they bent in lowly adoration. It did one good to note their realistic appreciation of the sweet old story of the Christchild.
The snow storm which began that year on Christmas Eve was one of the heaviest we had experienced for many winters. Towards the end of the year blowing commenced, and the light snow was piled in great drifts. Traffic on the country roads was for some time suspended and railway communication was stopped; on several lines of railway, notably those among the hills, the stoppage was of several weeks’ duration.
My dear friend and neighbor, the Rev. Hugh Arnott, had gone, after Christmas, to pay a long—promised visit to a country house in the romantic Carse of Gowrie, and his home-coming was delayed on account of the storm. Meanwhile one of his parishioners had died and would have to be buried before he could possibly return. He telegraphed his difficulty to me, and I agreed to take the burial service. Mr. Arnott’s church was in the county town, but the home of the dead girl was in the little fishing village of Carronmouth, a mile to the north. There was no church in the village at this time, but every soul in the place was a hereditary Episcopalian. I made my way down the hill from the railway to the seaside, where Carronmouth stood at the base of a great overhanging cliff; but, as it was my first visit to the place, I looked about in some perplexity, wondering which was the house I wanted. I was soon out of my dilemma. A cheery voice called out to me:
“This way, your reverence.”
I looked, and saw approaching me a youngish man of middle stature, attired comfortably but plainly in a suit of dark blue, over which he wore a heavy reefer coat buttoned up to the chin. His whole appearance told that he was not one of the fishermen.
I followed him into one of the cottages, in which were assembled a large gathering of silent men and women, evidently waiting for the service. The coffin of the young girl was in the “ben” end of the house, and there most of the women were; I retired to the “but” end, where the men were, to put on my surplice; and as I was getting ready I could not help observing that in the horny hand of each fisherman was a well-thumbed Prayer Book, the place turned up at the Burial Office.
I noticed also that in every face there was a look of affectionate respect when my companion spoke, as he did to almost every individual. He seemed to move about, and to interest himself in the arrangements, as if the dead girl had been of his own kin; and the utmost deference was paid to him.
While the Psalm was recited, verse about, by clergyman and people, I was astonished, but delighted, to hear the whole company joining, in clear earnest tones, led by my unknown friend.
When the coffin was ready to be “lifted,” one of the women put into his hands a spotless white linen sheet, which he wrapped around the plain deal coffin and on which he laid a wreath of sweet winter flowers; and, when the procession started up the hill to the peaceful resting-place on the top, it was he who walked immediately behind the coffin in the place of the chief mourner.
As soon as my duty was performed I retired to the ruins of the old church that stood in the churchyard; there I unrobed, and made ready for a smart walk back to the station, to catch my return train. One of thefishermen came to carry my bag, and as soon as we were well on our way, I asked him the name of the gentleman who had so aroused my curiosity.
“Oh! the Major, you mean; I thocht a’body hereaboot kent the Major. He’s the Laird o’ Carron, and owns the hale toon o’ Carronmooth. He bides in yon big hoose amo’ the trees, on the tap o’ the hill. He’s an awfu’ fine man. Aye, gin a’ the lairds were like him, you wouldna hear sae muckle grumblin’ frae the workin’ fowk. There’s no a bairn in the place he disna ken. Noo, there was wee Mirren that we’ve juist beeried—she was an orphan, an’ the Major an’ his leddy never loot her want for onything that could do her good, a’ the time she was sick. Aye, there’s nae mony fowk like the Major!”
“Is he a wealthy man, then?”
“Na, sir; as lairds go, he’s a poor man. He disna gie himsel’ a chance to grow rich. The rents frae the estate dinna come to a great deal, an’ he spends the feck o’ it. When he cam’ here, aifter the auld laird deed, things were in a gey bad wye. He made nae fuss aboot it, but in his ain quaiet style he set himsel’ to the wark o’ local improvement.
“The first big job he startit was to repair a’ the cottages, an’ to get in a regular set o’ drains. There’s nae half the sick fowk noo that there used to be.
“Syne he fitted up ane o’ the hooses as a schuil, and got Miss Emslie an’ her twa nieces to teach the bairns. They’re maybe nae sae weel trained as the toon’s teachers, but they can teach readin’, an’ writin’, an’ coontin’—an’ what’s better than a’, they see that a’ oor young folk ken the Gospels, an’ the Catechism, an’ the Mornin’ an’ Evenin’ Prayer.
“Weel, he fand oot that there was a wheen auld fowk that werena able to traivel to St. James’ Church,an’ so he gaed to the Bishop, an’ got a lay reader’s license, an’ noo we hae a service in the schuil ilka Sunday aifternoon. The Major reads the prayers, an’ gies a bit simple sermon, an’ his leddy plays the harmonium.
“But that’s no a’ he’s done. He’s paid the hale cost o’ makin’ oor fine wee harbor, an’ noo oor boats are safe when they’re no oot at sea.
“Aye, he’s a graund man, the Major—never thinkin’ aboot himsel’, but a’ the time plannin’ for ither fowks’ weelfare.”
I was sorry when the arrival of my train cut short this interesting chat; but it was not long before I had an opportunity of coming into closer contact with the Major. We met again, one afternoon, at Glendouglas House, when we were formally introduced to one another. In the course of conversation the subject of golf as a healthful recreation came up.
“We have a capital golf course at Carronmouth, Mr. Gray; some day soon you must come and spend the afternoon with me, and I will take you over it.”
His innate modesty kept him from telling me that it also was a gift from him to his people, and that the idea was a partial carrying out of a scheme which he had formulated as a counterfoil to more questionable modes of enjoyment. Needless to say, I took advantage of this kind invitation. What a glorious afternoon that was! Our game did not amount to much, but there was ample compensation in our pleasant intercourse. Simply and unassumingly he told me of the primitive manners and customs of his fisherfolks, and of their loyal devotion to the faith of their fathers. Ignorant of many of the ways of the great world beyond them, they were, nevertheless, endowed with an amount of traditional lore that many with greater pretensions could not claim. One could easily see that he was a feudal superior of agrand type; that these homely folks were bound to him by ties of the most enduring character; that their interests were his, and his responsibility, in regard to them, a very sacred thing in his eyes.
I happened to mention that I intended having lantern services for my people during Holy Week. This at once aroused his interest. Would I come to the Carronmouth School on Good Friday evening and give his people such a service? I was only too glad to have the privilege of assisting him in his splendid work; and so, on the evening named, I was there. The school was crowded with fisherfolks, and right on the front bench sat the laird between two of the fathers of the place. With hymn, and prayer, and picture, and meditation, the evening sped; the silence was almost breathless—they had never experienced such a service before; and when I threw a beautiful reproduction of Gabriel Max’s “Ecce Homo” on the canvas the effect was marvellous. I turned to give the benediction, but it was with difficulty I could utter a word. Laird and fisherman, old and young, gazed awestruck on the “Man of Sorrows,” and tears were streaming down many a rugged face.
The gentle laird rose and said: “It is all too sad and yet too sweet for me to say anything. God bless you, sir, for coming here to-night; it is a night we’ll remember for along time.”
The following evening saw a very different sight. All day a terrible storm had been raging, and all the boats were out at sea. The women were in awful anxiety, each fearing the worst for her “man” or her boys. Down to the village in the afternoon came the Major—in sou’wester and oilskin coat. He had a cheery word of comfort and hope for all; and he did not return home till every boat came in. He was ready to shake hands withevery man as he came ashore, and to remind him that he must give thanks to God for His mercy.
Years have passed away since that time; the Major’s “sweet leddy” has gone to the rest of Paradise; he himself, in obedience to the call of the Master, has exchanged his rank in the army of Great Britain for the rank of a priest in the Church of God, and is devoting his life to mission work in a large and busy centre of the fishing industry—but in dear little Carronmouth, where he began his work for Christ, old men love to speak of “The Major.”
“WEEL, man, I suppose I ought to have been wringing my hands and tearing my hair over this business, but, somehow or other, I wasna; I never breathed a mair fervent thanksgiving than I did on Sunday when I saw the flames burstin’ through the auld gray slates o’ the kirk.”
“Are you sure, doctor, that ye’ didna happen—by accident, of course—to let fa’ a burnin’ match among the rubbish in the disused chancel?”
“Whisht, man, dinna speak o’ sic a thing, for though I didna actually do it, I wished it wi’ a’ my heart. If wishing had onything to do wi’t, then I doot I maun plead guilty. But, come awa’ and see what’s left, and I think ye’ll be able to understand how I feel.”
The doctor was the minister of a Presbyterian parish a few miles from Drumscondie, and his church, which had been burnt down on the previous Sunday by an overheated stovepipe, was the most ancient ecclesiastical structure in the whole Howe o’ the Mearns. He and I had been friends ever since I came into the district, and my visit on the present occasion was for the purpose of condoling with him over his loss; but, from the conversation already narrated, it will be seen that condolence was hardly needed, in so far at least as the worthy doctor was concerned.
He was in many respects a very remarkable man. Those who only knew him in a casual kind of way regarded him as an enigma. He was loyal to the vows he hadtaken as a minister of the Presbyterian Establishment; but he held opinions concerning doctrine and Church order that savored rather of those of the Scotch Episcopal Church as taught by men of the type of saintly Bishop Jolly, than of the current teaching of his Presbyterian brethren.
He had been in the same parish for nearly forty years; and as he had never been over-burdened with parochial duties, he had been able to indulge his taste for Church history and ecclesiology to the fullest extent. For years he had been burrowing in local archives, and was able, to his own satisfaction, to reconstruct mentally his own parish church as it stood in the days of Archbishop David de Bernham, of St. Andrew’s, by whom it was consecrated in the fourteenth century.
To me it was always a great treat to visit the old man. His scholarship was so accurate that one could not fail to be benefited by intercourse with him.
No sooner were we standing inside the blackened walls than he began to wax eloquent over the beauties of the architecture that had been disclosed by the work of the flames.
“Originally,” he said, “the church was a plain oblong, with a Norman apse probably, in the east, and that peculiar octagonal turret surmounting the west gable. There was no glass in these parts then; and as the wind from the north is generally very cold, the windows were all on the south side.
“When the need arose for a larger sanctuary and choir, yonder early English arch and chancel took the place of the Norman apse.
“Then in the beginning of the sixteenth century, the feudal superior of that time erected the lady chapelas a chantry, in which masses for the repose of his soul were to be said.
“The turret at the angle between the nave and lady chapel has in it a corkscrew stair, leading to the parvise, or priest’s room, over the groined roof of the chapel. About a hundred and fifty years ago the church was in need of repairs, and it was then that Puritan vandals shut off the sanctuary with a lath and plaster wall, and transformed the nave into the hideous, gloomy barn it was before the fire.
“Can you blame me, Gray, if in my heart I longed for a fire, or some such disaster, to tear down the awful disfigurations?
“It is a positive joy to me to look on these bare walls.”
“I thoroughly sympathize with you, doctor; and to me the bare walls are an object lesson of great value. Fire is a great cleanser. The conflagration which broke out here on Sunday cleared away all that belonged to the debased period, the age of Philistinism, but did no real harm to the solid and beautiful masonry of the ages of faith. Now that the vile rubbish has been removed one can see the framework of a church that was built for the service of God, and for the cultivation of the devotional spirit. That east window with its delicate stone tracery, through which the rising sun casts its glorious rays upon priest and people, reminding them of the greater sun—the sun of righteousness who arose in the east bringing healing to the nations—the altar and aumbry and piscina telling of reverence and order in the celebration of the Eucharist—in fact there is everything now to indicate a church of a truly primitive type.”
“Aye, Gray, and so is it ever in regard to the spiritual life. When we look around in the Christian Church to-day we see truth disfigured and mutilated and obscuredby opinions that are entirely of human devising. When the days of trial come, as come they must—the Church of God will have to hold her own against the powers of evil; then all that is primitive and apostolic will stand scatheless amid the fierce fires of tribulation, and will come forth—like the three children from the burning fiery furnace—with no trace of the fire upon it, while all that is purely of human creation will crumble to ashes.”
“Wouldn’t it be grand, doctor, if this old church of St. Ternan could be restored as it was in pre-Reformation days, without any of the foreign accretions that roused the indignation of the truly spiritually-minded?”
“If God spares me, Gray, I mean to make this the work of my declining years.”
The old man kept his vow faithfully. He set to work at once to arouse the interest of the heritors, upon whom lay the burden of maintening the fabric of the church; and, before two years had passed I had the pleasure of again visiting him and of seeing a beautiful restoration of a typical Scottish church of mediaeval days. The altar stood in the east—only it was not called an altar, but a communion table. The font—a lovely replica in marble of an ancient one—was in its proper place. The pulpit no longer barred the way to the sanctuary, but stood at the north side, between the chancel arch and the wall of the nave. Over the doorway leading from the chancel to the vestry there were three niches in which at one time figures of saints had stood; even these the doctor filled by three statuettes of the Blessed Saviour with St. Peter and St. Paul—copies in miniature of Thorwaldsen’s famous group.
What was of even greater importance, there was inaugurated a far more orderly and reverent worship than before; an organ was installed, and the old wallsresounded with a devotional service which, if not all that could be desired, was at all events a distinct advance towards the worship of the best days of the Christian Church.
For a long time I was unable to understand the Doctor’s position. He was so thoroughly Catholic in sentiment that it was hard to see why he remained where he was. I could not believe that a man of his spotless integrity would hold to a religious body, with the majority of whom he seemed so entirely at variance, simply and solely because it gave him a comfortable living.
One day we were sitting together in his study, and in the course of conversation I managed to draw him out without in any way reflecting on him personally.
“It has always been my opinion,” he said, “that all reformation should proceed from within, if it is to be effective. The reforms wrought in Scotland in the fifteenth and subsequent centuries were altogether too revolutionary and iconoclastic. If the spiritually-minded of those days had only been guided by the example of Savonarola, who reformed without breaking the unity of the Body, things would have been altogether different in Scotland to-day. There is a large and growing school of thought in the Presbyterian Established Church of Scotland, that is longing, and praying, and working for a return to primitive ideals, and to that school I belong. Were I to throw in my lot with the Historic Church—the Body that truly ‘continues in the Apostles’ doctrine and fellowship, in the breaking of bread and the prayers,’ I would undoubtedly gain many spiritual privileges for myself. But what about the flock committed to my care? I believe it is my duty to stay where I am, and to teach the Faith as fully as it can be taught from the formularies to which I have vowed allegiance. Theproselytising of individuals will never bring about corporate unity. I think that God will not allow my sacrifice to go unrewarded, but will in His own way make up to me what I deprive myself of by staying where I am.”
The good old man was so sincere in all that he said that I felt it would be wrong to enter into an argument which probably would have done no good.
That he was fully aware of his own position I learned from a remark made by him some months later.
The lord of the manor was a hereditary Episcopalian, but for many years had never entered a church for worship. I found him an exceedingly kind man, ever ready and willing to do kind deeds, to give liberally for any good cause, and to befriend any who stood in need of help; but I could not get him to talk of spiritual things. He died, and I was asked to read the Burial Service over his body when it was laid in the vault beneath the old lady chapel. The service over, a little group stood talking in the graveyard, before setting out for their several homes. One of the old baron’s comrades made the somewhat flippant remark:
“Well, it’s a long time since his lordship was in the company of so many clergy.”
Quick as thought the doctor replied: “There was only one clergyman here, Colonel.”
“What do you mean, doctor? I saw at least half a dozen ministers at the funeral.”
“Aye—ministers—but that is a different thing altogether. Mr. Gray was the only cleric present here to-day.”
It was as if a bomb had fallen in their midst.
“Well, what do you call yourself, doctor?”
The old man smiled as he replied:
“I am only an elder in the congregation—a teachingelder doubtless, but only an elder. Mr. Gray has Apostolic orders, which I lack.”
An elder he remained; but surely if ever any one outside the unity of the historic faith deserved it, he deserved to be reckoned one of the Gentle Persuasion.