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 his criticism 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.
V. Crossing the Rubicon
I have 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. A
regiment 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 annually by 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 happy half-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’s _my_ doxy,
an’ heterodoxy’s _your_ doxy. 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 speeritual formations 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 of my 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.
VI. Settling Down
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 has been 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 preacher was 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 a roving 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 services in 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 performers were 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 it to 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.