Sabbath Morning-- 'The Sabbath,' by James Grahame--Sketch of his
Life--Extracts from his Poetry--The Cameronians--'Dream of the
Martyrs,' by James Hislop--Sabbath Morning Walk--Country
Church--The old Preacher--The Interval of Worship--Conversation in
the Church-yard--Going Home from Church--Sabbath Evening.
Sabbath morning dawns upon us, bright and clear, and all around a hushed
stillness pervades the air.
"With silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That scarcely wakes while all the fields are still;
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,
A graver murmur echoes from the hill,
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn;
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The sky a placid yellow lustre throws;
The gales that lately sighed along the grove
Have hushed their drowsy wings in dead repose;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move,
So soft the day when the first morn arose."
Thus sang Leyden, the celebrated scholar, poet, and traveller, who, like
all true sons of Scotland, revered the holy Sabbath, regarding it as the
best of days, the sweetest, purest, calmest of the seven! The same
images, borrowed not from Leyden, but from nature and his own heart, are
used by Grahame, in his delightful poem of 'The Sabbath,' a production
not without defects, but one of the most popular in Scotland.
"How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear--the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals
The voice of psalm, the simple song of praise."
The Rev. James Grahame, the author of 'The Sabbath,' 'The Birds of
Scotland,' 'Biblical Pictures,' and so forth, was born in 1765, in the
city of Glasgow. He studied law, but afterwards took orders in the
Church of England, and officiated as curate in the counties of
Gloucester and Durham. He is said to have been a popular and useful
preacher. Possessed of great simplicity of character, purity of morals,
and kindness of heart, he won the affections of all his parishioners.
Suffering from ill health, he gave up his curacy, and returned to
Scotland, where he acted, we believe, as a school-teacher. His poems,
particularly that of 'The Sabbath,' attracted much attention in his
native land, which he dearly loved. A deep religious vein pervades the
whole. Attached to the ritual of his own church, he could yet appreciate
the solemn 'hill worship' of the Covenanters. His descriptions of
Scottish scenery are accurate and beautiful. His Sabbath is the Sabbath
of Scotland. All its pictures are drawn from real life. His verse may
seem prosaic at times, but it is melodious as a whole. Nothing can be
more natural or agreeable, in its easy gentle flow. Moreover, it often
sparkles with original turns of thought, and felicitous expressions.
An interesting anecdote is told of Grahame in connection with the
publication of 'The Sabbath.' He had finished the poem, and sent it to
the press unknown to his wife. When it was issued he brought her a copy,
and requested her to read it. As his name was not prefixed to the work,
she did not dream that he had anything to do with it. As she went on
reading, the sensitive author walked up and down the room. At length she
broke out in praise of the poem, and turning to him said: "Ah! James, if
you could but produce a poem like this." Judge then of her delighted
surprise when told that he was its author. The effect upon her is said
to have been almost overwhelming.
After describing the solemn and delightful worship of God's house,
particularly the music, ascending in 'a thousand notes symphonious,' he
touchingly adds:
"Afar they float,
Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch:
Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close,
Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is cheered;
He smiles on death; but, ah! a wish will rise--
Would I were now beneath that echoing roof!
No lukewarm accents from my lips would flow;
My heart would sing: and many a Sabbath day
My steps should thither turn; or wandering far
In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow,
Then would I bless his name who led me forth
From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets--
Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow
Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye."
His description of the shepherd boy's Sabbath worship among the hills is
a passage of great beauty.
"It is not only in the sacred fane
That homage should be paid to the Most High;
There is a temple, one not made with hands,
The vaulted firmament. Far in the woods,
Almost beyond the sound of city chime,
At intervals heard through the breezeless air;
When not the limberest leaf is seen to move,
Save when the linnet lights upon the spray
When not a flow'ret bends its little stalk,
Save when a bee alights upon the bloom--
Then rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love
The man of God will pass his Sabbath noon;
Silence his praise; his disembodied thoughts
Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend
Beyond the empyrean.
Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne,
The Sabbath service of the shepherd boy!
In some lone glen, when every sound is lulled
To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,
Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,
Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's Son;
Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold,
And wonders why he weeps: the volume closed,
With thyme sprig laid between the leaves, he sings
The sacred lays, his weekly lesson conned
With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,
Where humble love is learnt, where humble worth
Pines unrewarded by a thankless state.
Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen,
The shepherd boy the Sabbath holy keeps,
Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands
Returning homeward from the house of prayer."
The hill worship of the Covenanters is also described with much beauty
and pathos.
"With them each day was holy, every hour
They stood prepared to die, a people doomed
To death--old men, and youths, and simple maids.
With them each day was holy; but that morn
On which the angel said, 'See where the Lord
Was laid,' joyous arose--to die that day
Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways,
O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought
The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks
Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks
A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat
With greensward gay, and flowers that strangers seem
Amid the heathery wild, that all around
Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these
Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled
A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws;
There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array
That in the times of old had scathed the rose
On England's banner, and had powerless struck
The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,
Yet ranged itself to aid his son dethroned,)
The lyart veteran heard the Word of God
By Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured
In gentle stream: then rose the song, the loud
Acclaim of praise; the wheeling plover ceased
Her plaint; the solitary place was glad.
And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear
Caught doubtfully at times, the breeze-borne note.
But years more gloomy followed, and no more
The assembled people dared, in face of day,
To worship God, or even at the dead
Of night, save when the wint'ry storm raved fierce,
And thunder peals compelled the men of blood
To crouch within their dens, then dauntlessly
The scattered few would meet, in some deep dell
By rocks o'ercanopied, to hear the voice,
Their faithful pastor's voice: he, by the gleam
Of sheeted lightning, oped the sacred Book,
And words of comfort spoke: over their souls
His accents soothing came--as to her young
The heathfowl's plumes, when at the close of eve
She gathers in her mournful brood, dispersed
By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads
Fondly her wings, close nestling 'neath her breast
They cherished, cower amid the purple blooms."
This is finely pictured; and, coming from a member of the Episcopal
Church, does honor to his heart and head. Sir Walter Scott has somewhat
injured the memory of the Scottish Covenanters, by presenting the darker
features of their character, and forgetting utterly their earnest piety,
their generous fervor, their heroic endurance. Many of them, doubtless,
were deficient in high-bred courtesy and learned refinement. Others were
narrow-minded and superstitious. But the great mass of them were men of
lofty faith, of generous self-sacrifice. They feared God, and perilled
their lives for freedom, in the high places of the field. "Lately," says
a vigorous writer in Blackwood's Magazine, "the Mighty Warlock of
Caledonia has shed a natural and a supernatural light round the founders
of the Cameronian dynasty; and as his business was to grapple with the
ruder and fiercer portion of their character, the gentle graces of
their nature were not called into action, and the storm and tempest and
thick darkness of John Balfour of Burley, have darkened the whole
breathing congregation of the Cameronians, and turned their sunny
hillside into a dreary desert." It requires men of no ordinary character
to become martyrs for principle, especially when that principle is one
of the highest order, and has been chosen calmly, deliberately, and in
the fear of God. When such men go forth to defend the right, and shed
their life's blood for its enthronement, their's is no vulgar
enthusiasm, no unnatural and infuriate fanaticism. Read the following
from James Hislop, once a poor shepherd boy, and afterwards a
school-teacher, written near the grave of the pious and redoubtable
Cameron, and several of his followers, slain by tyrants in the moor of
Aird's-moss, and say whether such martyrs for truth are worthy of our
reverence!
"In a dream of the night I was wafted away
To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay,
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen,
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.
'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood;
When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn 'mong the heather was lying.
'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew,
Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and mountain flowers blue.
And far up in heaven near the white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud,
And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.
And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.
But oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.
'Twas the few faithful ones, who with Cameron were lying
Concealed 'mong the mist where the heathfowl was flying,
For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,
And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering.
Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed,
But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed;
With eyes turned to heaven, in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of salvation.
The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing:
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.
Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded,
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded,
Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as firm and unbending,
They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.
The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,
When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.
When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,
A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended,
Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.
A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation
Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.
On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding,
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;
Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye,
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!"
But we are forgetting ourselves; and as we propose spending the Sabbath
in a small country hamlet, at some distance, we must be off immediately.
It would be gratifying to return to Perth and hear some of the clergymen
there, Dr. Young especially, who is a preacher of great depth and
energy; but the Sabbath will be sweeter amidst the woods and hills.
We enter a quiet unfrequented road, skirting around those fine clumps of
trees, and that green hill to the west, and after wandering a few miles,
we pass into a narrow vale, through which a small wooded stream makes
its noiseless way, and adorned on either side with rich green slopes,
clumps of birches, and tufts of flowering broom. As you ascend the vale,
it gradually widens, the acclivities on either side recede to a
considerable distance, and the road, taking a sudden turn, runs over the
hill to the left, and dives into a sort of natural amphitheatre, formed
by the woods and braes around it. On the further side you descry a small
antique-looking church, with two or three huge ash trees, and one or two
silver larches shading it, at one end, a pretty mansion built of
freestone, and handsomely slated, at a little distance at the other.
Approaching, we find a few stragglers, as if in haste, entering the
church door; the bell has ceased tolling, and the service probably is
about to commence. We enter, and find seats near the door. How tenderly
and solemnly that old minister, with his bland look, and silver locks,
reads the eighty-fourth psalm, and how reverently the whole
congregation, with book in hand, follow him to the close. A precentor,
as he is called, sitting in a sort of desk under the pulpit, strikes the
tune, and all, young and old, rich and poor, immediately accompany him.
The minister then offers a prayer, in simple Scripture language,
somewhat long, but solemn and affecting. He then reads another psalm,
which is sung, as the first was, by the whole congregation, and with
such earnest and visible delight, that you feel at once that their
hearts are in the service. The preacher then rises in the pulpit and
reads the twenty-third psalm, as the subject of his exposition, or
lecture, as the Scottish preachers uniformly style their morning's
discourse. His exposition is plain and practical, occasionally rising to
the pathetic and beautiful. Ah, how sweetly he dwells upon the good
Shepherd of the sheep, and how tenderly he depicts the security and
repose of the good man passing through the dark valley and the shadow of
death. His reverend look, the tremulous tones of his voice, his Scottish
accent, and occasionally Scottish phrases, his abundant use of
Scriptural quotations, and a certain Oriental cast of mind, derived, no
doubt, from intimate communion with prophets and apostles, invest his
discourse with a peculiar charm. It is not learned; neither is it
original and profound; but it is _good_, good for the heart--good for
the conscience and the life. Old preachers, like old wine, in our humble
opinion, are by far the best. Their freedom from earthly ambition, their
deep experience of men and things, their profound acquaintance with
their own heart, their evident nearness to heaven, their natural
simplicity and authority, their reverend looks and tremulous tones, all
unite to invest their preaching with a peculiar spiritual interest, such
as seldom attaches to that of young divines. Everything, of course,
depends upon personal character, and a young preacher may be truly
pious, and thus speak with much simplicity and power. But, other things
being equal, old preachers and old physicians, old friends and old
places possess qualities peculiar to themselves.
After the sermon, prayer is offered, and the whole congregation unite in
a psalm of praise. The interval of worship, it is announced, will be one
hour. A portion of the congregation return to their homes, but most of
them remain. Some repair to a house of refreshment in the neighborhood,
where they regale themselves on the simplest fare, such as bread and
milk, or bread and beer. Others wander off, in parties, to the green
woods or sunny knolls around, and seated on the greensward, eat their
bread and cheese, converse about the sermon, or such topics as happen to
interest them most. The younger people and children are inclined to
ramble, but are not permitted to do so. Yet the little fellows will
romp, '_a very little_,' and occasionally run off, but not so far as to
be beyond call. A large number of the people have gone into the
grave-yard connected with the church. Some are seated on the old flat
tombstones, others on the greensward, dotted all around with the graves
of their fathers. See that group there. The old man, with "lyart
haffets" and broad bonnet, looks like one of the old Covenanters. The
old lady, evidently his wife, wears a sort of hooded cloak, from which
peeps forth a nicely plaited cap of lace, which wonderfully sets off her
demure but agreeable features. These young people around them are
evidently their children and grandchildren. How contented they look, and
how reverently they listen to the old man. Let us draw near, and hear
the conversation.
"Why, grandfaither," says one of the younger lads, "don't you think the
auld Covenanters were rather sour kind o' bodies?"
"Sour!" replies the old man, "they had eneuch to mak' them sour. Hunted
from mountain to mountain, like wild beasts, it's nae wonder if they
felt waefu' at times, or that they let human passion gain a moment's
ascendancy. But they were guid men for a' that. They were the chosen o'
God, and wrastled hard against principalities and powers, against the
rulers o' the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in
high places. Reading their lives, I've aften thocht they must ha'e been
kind o' inspired. Like the auld prophets and martyrs, they were very
zealous for the Lord God, and endured, cheerfully, mair distress and
tribulation than we can well imagine."
"Weel, weel!" says one of the girls, "I wish they had been a wee bit
gentler in their ways, and mair charitable to their enemies."
"Ah, Nancy," is the quick reply of the old man, "ye ken but little about
it. A fine thing it is for us, sitting here in this peacefu' kirk-yard,
wi' nane to molest us or mak' us afraid, to talk about gentleness and
charity. But the auld Covenanters had to encounter fire and steel. They
wandered over muir and fell, in poverty and sorrow, being destitute,
afflicted, tormented. But oh, my bairns! they loved and served the Lord!
They endured as seeing him who is invisible; and when they cam' to dee,
they rejoiced that they were counted worthy to suffer for his name. Nae
doot, some of them were carnal men, and ithers o' them had great
imperfections. But the maist o' them were unco holy men, men o' prayer,
men o' faith, aye, and men of charity of whom the world was not worthy."
This answer silences all objections.
But the bell, from the old church tower, begins to toll.
"Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground,
The aged man, the bowed down, the blind
Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes
With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleased,
These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach
The house of God--these, spite of all their ills,
A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise
They enter in; a placid stillness reigns,
Until the man of God, worthy the name,
Opens the book, and reverentially
The stated portion reads."
The services of the afternoon are much the same as those of the morning,
except that the preacher comments briefly on the portion of Scripture
read at the opening of the service, and delivers a regular discourse,
from a single text. The congregation follow the preacher with evident
attention, and look up in their Bibles, which all have in their hands,
the passages of Scripture cited as proofs and illustrations. This, with
an occasional cough, and a little rustling from the children, are the
only sounds which break the solemn stillness of the scene.
Dismissed, with a solemn benediction, all take their several ways
homeward. The sun is going down; but its mellow light yet lingers upon
the uplands, and tinges the foliage of the trees with supernal tints. A
sabbath stillness reigns over hill and dale. The very trees appear to
slumber; the birds are silent, except a single thrush, which, in the
deep recesses of that shadowy copsewood, appears to be singing "her hymn
to the evening." A little later, you might hear the voice of psalms from
the low thatched cottage, on the hillside or in the glen. For, in
Scotland, family worship is generally maintained, and singing, in which
the whole family join, always forms a part of the exercises.
"They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps _Dundee's_ wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive _Martyrs_, worthy of the name,
Or noble _Elgin_ beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays."
Wandering thus, through the fields, with Sabbath influences all around
us, it is impossible not to be grateful and devout. A holy calm steals
upon the mind--a heavenly beatitude, akin to that of angels and the
spirits of just men made perfect.
"Oh Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales;
But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
Wandering and stopping oft, to hear the song
Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;
Or when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man,
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
Into his garden plat and little field,
To commune with his God in secret prayer--
To bless the Lord that in his downward years
His children are about him: sweet, meantime
The thrush that sings upon the aged thorn,
Brings to his view the days of youthful years,
When that same aged thorn was but a bush!
Nor is the contrast between youth and age
To him a painful thought; he joys to think
His journey near a close; heaven is his home."
Thus, in his own simple and charming style, Grahame describes the
Sabbath evening. So beautiful it is, so Sabbath-like, in its spirit and
tone, that we venture one extract more.
"Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic
The shepherd's shadow, thrown athwart the chasm,
As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.
How deep the hush! the torrent's channel dry,
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt.
But hark, a plaintive sound floating along!
'Tis from yon heath-roofed shieling; now it dies
Away, now rises full; it is the song
Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs
Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear;
It is the music of the heart, the voice
Of venerable age, of guileless youth,
In kindly circle seated on the ground
Before their wicker door. Behold the man,
The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,
Upon the smooth-cropt sward the open book,
His comfort, stay, and ever new delight;
While heedless at his side, the lisping boy
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch."