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.
VII. Drumscondie
I do 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 name
Of 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 as the 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’ my days 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 to dig 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 had an 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 and order_”; 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.
VIII. An Auld-Farrant Laddie
I was 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 my _dilettante_ knowledge 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 faith was 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 modest sitting-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 have afterwards 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 were _Scotch_ firs; his streams were
not gentle English brooks, but brawling _Scotch_ “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 be the 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.