occasion. “Naething will suit the puir bodie but I maun paint his
picture. I tellt him that I was gey busy juist noo, but I would see what
I could do later on. What do you think he said, sir?--‘If I were to come
round the nicht, efter I’ve gotten ma supper, you could put on the first
coat o’ paint, and syne it would be dry for the second coat the morn’s
nicht.’ Poor auld Joseph, he thinks that a portrait is paintit like a
barn door. He has been oot o’ sorts lately, so I speired what was the
maitter wi’ him. ‘Weel, man,’ he said, ‘I saw the doctor on Monday when
he was owerby, an’ he said it was a stomach tribble. Ye see there’s twa
kinds o’t; there’s disgeestion an’ indisgeestion, an’ the deil a bit o’
me minds whilk o’ them’s the maitter wi’ me.’”
Another day I found him simply bubbling over with merriment over an
encounter he had had with the Free Kirk minister. The minister, in the
course of conversation with him, had made some slighting remarks anent
the Episcopal Church, as being full of empty forms.
“Man,” said Jamie, pretending not to understand what he meant, “ye’re
wrang there; oor kirk has nae empty forms. The ither Sunday nicht we had
the maist o’ the young folks frae the Free Kirk there, as weel as oor
ain; we’ve nae empty forms noo.”
As I have already said, Jamie was an auld-farrant laddie, bright
intellectually and spiritually; brimful of humor, and yet yearning with
all the force of his intense nature to see right into the heart of
things; content to endure great weakness of body, in the full belief
that one day he would leave all his infirmities behind him, and stand
without a single flaw in the presence of his Master. It is many years
now since he shook off the trammels of earth, but, when I meet him again
I shall know him, and shall be glad.
IX. Boycotted
I often look back with longing to the simple rural life we spent in the
dear old parsonage at Drumscondie. We rose early, both summer and
winter; at eight o’clock breakfast was on the table, at one we had
dinner, and at six in the evening we assembled for that delightfully
cosy meal yclept High Tea. Then, in the winter, there was a hurry-scurry
for a little, while the table was being cleared, the dishes washed and
put away, and other domestic duties attended to; after everything was
prepared for the morning, the whole of our little household, including
Janet Spence, our faithful domestic and friend, gathered around the big
open fireplace in the nursery. Mother, daughter and maid took their
sewing, knitting or darning, and all listened while I read aloud from
one of the old favorite works of fiction, or an ancient ballad from the
days of chivalry. George Macdonald’s Alec Forbes and Robert Falconer,
Malcolm Marquis of Lossie and Dooble Sanny with his Stradivarius, Miss
Mulock’s John Halifax and Phineas Fletcher, Sir James the Rose and Sir
Patrick Spens--were very real personages, in whose doings we took the
keenest interest.
Many a happy evening did we spend in such delightful company, and much
food for thought did we gather for the busy future.
I was reading one evening the Siege of Torquilstone from Scott’s
“Ivanhoe,” when an interruption came in the shape of loud knocking at
the kitchen door. I ceased reading while Janet went to see what was the
matter. Presently the trampling of heavy boots was heard on the stairs,
my study door was opened, and then shut, and Janet returned to tell me
that three young men wished to see me. On my entering the study, one of
the visitors whom I had met once or twice before, came forward, and
introduced his companions.
“We’re a deppytation from the Mutual Improvement Society, Maister Gray,”
he said, “an’ we’ve come to ask you if you would be so good as gie us a
lecture some evenin’ soon.”
“A lecture?” I said, “why, I never gave a lecture in my life. I would
gladly be of any service to your Society, but really I fear I am of no
use in the way you mention. I don’t know what I could talk to you
about.”
There was silence for a moment, and then an idea struck me. “I’ll tell
you what I’ll do. I have for some years been trying, in my leisure time,
to find out the origin and history of some of the old Jacobite songs. I
could tell you how these songs came into being--what events in the
romance of the white cockade called them forth--and, if you like, I
would sing some of the songs.”
I could easily see from their faces that this was more than they
expected.
“That would be splendid. We’ve never had onything o’ that kind before.
We’ll lat a’ body ken aboot it, an’ the hall will be crooded.”
“Don’t say too much about it, boys,” I interposed, “because it is only
an experiment.”
We arranged the day and hour, and the deputation departed, much pleased
with the result of their visit.
I collected my notes, made a sketch of the Jacobite story from the
Revolution of 1689 down to the sad defeat at Culloden, and introduced
the most notable of the songs in their proper historical order.
The evening of the lecture arrived, and I proceeded to the place of
meeting. The building known as “The Hall,” had at one time been a Free
Kirk day school, and was still to a great extent in the hands of that
body. My chairman was an old man, very much esteemed in the
neighborhood. In politics he was an ultra-Radical; in religion he was a
Congregationalist of a very narrow type. In introducing me he said very
little, and that of a vague and general character. It was something new
for these folks to hear a parson singing old Scotch songs; some seemed
to look upon it with considerable suspicion; others showed their
enjoyment and appreciation by attending closely to my remarks, and
vociferously applauding my simple rendering of the old ballads. In his
closing remarks the chairman expressed the thanks of the audience to me
for the trouble I had taken, but said he was quite sure “if the young
Pretender were to land on these shores now, the great mass of the people
would rise and drive him back again to the ship which had brought him
hither.”
I saw I had got into a hornet’s nest, but I made no reply. This,
however, was not the end of the matter. Various chats with the young
people of the village led to my opening a night school for them, in the
Hall, on two evenings weekly, and, in the conducting of this, I took
good care that the study of Scottish history had its due share of
attention. For two winters this went on. Beyond opening our meetings
with prayer, nothing of a religious character was introduced. My class
soon included all the young men of the village; and, more out of
gratitude to me than from any other cause, the members of my class took
to attending our Sunday evening services. What our congregation gained
in numbers my Free Kirk neighbor lost, and great was his indignation.
Something must be done to stop the deplorable leakage. Ministers and
elders used their influence individually with the young men, sermon
after sermon was preached to show the delinquents the imminent danger
they were in spiritually from coquetting with Black Prelacy; but, the
results were meagre. The religion of the “Gentle Persuasion,”--that took
a real and living interest in their everyday lives, that aimed at making
their lives brighter and happier, that laid no ban on innocent and
rational pleasures, that took even their recreations under its fostering
care--appealed strongly to their common sense; and, not a few who had
been fed on the dry husks of an effete Calvinism owed their emancipation
from its thraldom, directly or indirectly, to our village night school.
But the Free Kirk Session was not to yield its hold without a further
effort. By fair means or foul, my evening school must be stopped.
At the beginning of my third winter, I went to the “Provost” to arrange
for the use of the Hall, and was told that the trustees had resolved,
contrary to all precedent, to charge me the same fee as they charged any
travelling concert company for every night I used it. At first, I was
dumbfounded. The charge was prohibitive. I went home in despair, to take
counsel with my women-folks. Advice and comfort came, and from a source
whence I never expected it.
Janet, who bore no particular good-will to the Frees, came to the
rescue.
“Ye needna tribble yersel’ about that poor ablich o’ a minister bodie
an’ his elders. There’s plenty o’ room for a’ the laddies in my kitchen.
We’ll get some o’ them to gie’s a haund, and we’ll cairry oot the things
that wad be in the wye, an’ aifter the class is ower, we can easy pit
them a’ back again.”
“But, Janet,” I said, “that’ll mean a lot of work twice every week.”
“Never ye min’ that, we’re nae gaun to hae the good wark stoppit for a
wee bit extra wark.”
And so it was arranged. The class was summoned to a meeting in the
parsonage kitchen, the new scheme was broached, and every one promised
to help. One or two came half an hour earlier on class nights to get
things in order; several of them always stayed behind to restore things
to their wonted order; and the work went on, with more success than
ever. Persecution in a good cause is always productive of good. Even
some of the old folks, who at first were suspicious of anything of the
nature of innovation, expressed their sympathy in no uncertain language.
Davie Paterson, the postman, on his journey round the Brae side, gave a
most amusing account of the whole affair to the Brae dominie, who in
turn retailed it to me.
“That free kirk futtrit thocht he was gaun to pit an end to Maister
Gray’s nicht schule, but, Lord, man, he got sair begowkit. The parsonage
kitchie on a schule nicht is a sicht for sair e’en. I gaed roon ae
evenin’ to hae a word wi’ the minister, an’ got a luik in. Muckle Jamie
Todd, that used to be either blebbin’ an’ drinkin’ at the inn in the
forenichts, or fechtin, was in the neuk, wi’ the meal barrel for a dask,
an’ wis learnin’ gigonometry, or lan’ measurin’, or something o’ that
kind, an’ he wis that eident that he never saw me. The minister himsel’
had a muckle blackboard set up on the dresser, an’ wis giein’ the lave a
lesson in gography. They were a’ as busy as bonnet makkers. Thae Frees
may say what they like, the toon folk are maistly a’ wi’ Maister Gray.
You would think it was Sunday on the schule nichts--the hale place is as
quaiet as pussy. If he’s nae daein’ ony gude, he’s keepin’ a lot o’ them
oot o’ mischief.”
But the boycotting brought even better results than these I have
indicated. A neighboring laird who had for years been an ardent
follower of Kingsley, and a strong Christian Socialist, came to the
front with counsel and material help which ended in our being able to
convert our disused church into a hall for classes and social
gatherings. We opened it on three nights a week as a reading and
recreation room; by and by it was duly enrolled as a school under the
South Kensington Science and Art Department; classes in chemistry,
physiography and agriculture were commenced and carried on with great
success; popular lectures were given on all kinds of useful subjects,
and today there are of our young men not a few in various parts of the
world whose ability to perform the important work committed to them was
largely due, in the first instance, to the narrow-minded policy which
caused the Frees to boycott the “Gentle Persuasion.”
X. The Auld Provost
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 Toon Cooncil? 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 biggit for 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 keep him 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.
XI. The Major