They certainly adhered to the belief that “A green Yule maks a fat
kirkyaird”--it had so often come true in their own experience. So when
snow fell continuously for twelve hours on a stretch one Christmas Eve,
every one heaved a big sigh of relief, as if the snow spirit had, by a
touch of her wand, lifted the burden of a gloomy foreboding. Up went the
spirits of old and young; the salutations of the gossips were redolent
of good cheer; youngsters shouted with glee as they pelted one another
with snowballs; even in the church itself the infection of joy had
spread, and the church decorators sang snatches of carols as they hung
up wreaths of red-berried holly on arch and pillar and window.
Then when the gloamin’ came and all met in church for the first
Christmas vespers, their hearts went out in happy thanksgiving for the
Nativity, which had wrought such wondrous good to them and to all
mankind.
Now, there’s no doubt the gentle falling of the snow had not a little to
do with this happy state of things. Our villagers were a very simple
people, and somehow or other could not realize Christmas to be Christmas
unless it was heralded by the snow. To them Christmas was more than a
mere social feasting time. They had been trained in their young days to
follow the course of the Church’s year with reverent attention, and to
meditate on the special teaching that each season inculcated.
Oh! how they enjoyed the Church’s services at Christmastide! They were
transported, in thought, to the holy fields of Bethlehem, where they
kept watch with the humble shepherds; they heard the angelic song,
“Gloria in Excelsis Deo;” they set out to seek the newly born King; and,
when they found Him, they bent in lowly adoration. It did one good to
note their realistic appreciation of the sweet old story of the
Christchild.
The snow storm which began that year on Christmas Eve was one of the
heaviest we had experienced for many winters. Towards the end of the
year blowing commenced, and the light snow was piled in great drifts.
Traffic on the country roads was for some time suspended and railway
communication was stopped; on several lines of railway, notably those
among the hills, the stoppage was of several weeks’ duration.
My dear friend and neighbor, the Rev. Hugh Arnott, had gone, after
Christmas, to pay a long--promised visit to a country house in the
romantic Carse of Gowrie, and his home-coming was delayed on account of
the storm. Meanwhile one of his parishioners had died and would have to
be buried before he could possibly return. He telegraphed his difficulty
to me, and I agreed to take the burial service. Mr. Arnott’s church was
in the county town, but the home of the dead girl was in the little
fishing village of Carronmouth, a mile to the north. There was no church
in the village at this time, but every soul in the place was a
hereditary Episcopalian. I made my way down the hill from the railway to
the seaside, where Carronmouth stood at the base of a great overhanging
cliff; but, as it was my first visit to the place, I looked about in
some perplexity, wondering which was the house I wanted. I was soon out
of my dilemma. A cheery voice called out to me:
“This way, your reverence.”
I looked, and saw approaching me a youngish man of middle stature,
attired comfortably but plainly in a suit of dark blue, over which he
wore a heavy reefer coat buttoned up to the chin. His whole appearance
told that he was not one of the fishermen.
I followed him into one of the cottages, in which were assembled a large
gathering of silent men and women, evidently waiting for the service.
The coffin of the young girl was in the “ben” end of the house, and
there most of the women were; I retired to the “but” end, where the men
were, to put on my surplice; and as I was getting ready I could not help
observing that in the horny hand of each fisherman was a well-thumbed
Prayer Book, the place turned up at the Burial Office.
I noticed also that in every face there was a look of affectionate
respect when my companion spoke, as he did to almost every individual.
He seemed to move about, and to interest himself in the arrangements, as
if the dead girl had been of his own kin; and the utmost deference was
paid to him.
While the Psalm was recited, verse about, by clergyman and people, I was
astonished, but delighted, to hear the whole company joining, in clear
earnest tones, led by my unknown friend.
When the coffin was ready to be “lifted,” one of the women put into his
hands a spotless white linen sheet, which he wrapped around the plain
deal coffin and on which he laid a wreath of sweet winter flowers; and,
when the procession started up the hill to the peaceful resting-place on
the top, it was he who walked immediately behind the coffin in the place
of the chief mourner.
As soon as my duty was performed I retired to the ruins of the old
church that stood in the churchyard; there I unrobed, and made ready for
a smart walk back to the station, to catch my return train. One of the
fishermen came to carry my bag, and as soon as we were well on our way,
I asked him the name of the gentleman who had so aroused my curiosity.
“Oh! the Major, you mean; I thocht a’body hereaboot kent the Major. He’s
the Laird o’ Carron, and owns the hale toon o’ Carronmooth. He bides in
yon big hoose amo’ the trees, on the tap o’ the hill. He’s an awfu’ fine
man. Aye, gin a’ the lairds were like him, you wouldna hear sae muckle
grumblin’ frae the workin’ fowk. There’s no a bairn in the place he
disna ken. Noo, there was wee Mirren that we’ve juist beeried--she was
an orphan, an’ the Major an’ his leddy never loot her want for onything
that could do her good, a’ the time she was sick. Aye, there’s nae mony
fowk like the Major!”
“Is he a wealthy man, then?”
“Na, sir; as lairds go, he’s a poor man. He disna gie himsel’ a chance
to grow rich. The rents frae the estate dinna come to a great deal, an’
he spends the feck o’ it. When he cam’ here, aifter the auld laird deed,
things were in a gey bad wye. He made nae fuss aboot it, but in his ain
quaiet style he set himsel’ to the wark o’ local improvement.
“The first big job he startit was to repair a’ the cottages, an’ to get
in a regular set o’ drains. There’s nae half the sick fowk noo that
there used to be.
“Syne he fitted up ane o’ the hooses as a schuil, and got Miss Emslie
an’ her twa nieces to teach the bairns. They’re maybe nae sae weel
trained as the toon’s teachers, but they can teach readin’, an’ writin’,
an’ coontin’--an’ what’s better than a’, they see that a’ oor young folk
ken the Gospels, an’ the Catechism, an’ the Mornin’ an’ Evenin’ Prayer.
“Weel, he fand oot that there was a wheen auld fowk that werena able to
traivel to St. James’ Church, an’ so he gaed to the Bishop, an’ got a
lay reader’s license, an’ noo we hae a service in the schuil ilka Sunday
aifternoon. The Major reads the prayers, an’ gies a bit simple sermon,
an’ his leddy plays the harmonium.
“But that’s no a’ he’s done. He’s paid the hale cost o’ makin’ oor fine
wee harbor, an’ noo oor boats are safe when they’re no oot at sea.
“Aye, he’s a graund man, the Major--never thinkin’ aboot himsel’, but a’
the time plannin’ for ither fowks’ weelfare.”
I was sorry when the arrival of my train cut short this interesting
chat; but it was not long before I had an opportunity of coming into
closer contact with the Major. We met again, one afternoon, at
Glendouglas House, when we were formally introduced to one another. In
the course of conversation the subject of golf as a healthful recreation
came up.
“We have a capital golf course at Carronmouth, Mr. Gray; some day soon
you must come and spend the afternoon with me, and I will take you over
it.”
His innate modesty kept him from telling me that it also was a gift from
him to his people, and that the idea was a partial carrying out of a
scheme which he had formulated as a counterfoil to more questionable
modes of enjoyment. Needless to say, I took advantage of this kind
invitation. What a glorious afternoon that was! Our game did not amount
to much, but there was ample compensation in our pleasant intercourse.
Simply and unassumingly he told me of the primitive manners and customs
of his fisherfolks, and of their loyal devotion to the faith of their
fathers. Ignorant of many of the ways of the great world beyond them,
they were, nevertheless, endowed with an amount of traditional lore that
many with greater pretensions could not claim. One could easily see that
he was a feudal superior of a grand type; that these homely folks were
bound to him by ties of the most enduring character; that their
interests were his, and his responsibility, in regard to them, a very
sacred thing in his eyes.
I happened to mention that I intended having lantern services for my
people during Holy Week. This at once aroused his interest. Would I come
to the Carronmouth School on Good Friday evening and give his people
such a service? I was only too glad to have the privilege of assisting
him in his splendid work; and so, on the evening named, I was there. The
school was crowded with fisherfolks, and right on the front bench sat
the laird between two of the fathers of the place. With hymn, and
prayer, and picture, and meditation, the evening sped; the silence was
almost breathless--they had never experienced such a service before; and
when I threw a beautiful reproduction of Gabriel Max’s “Ecce Homo” on
the canvas the effect was marvellous. I turned to give the benediction,
but it was with difficulty I could utter a word. Laird and fisherman,
old and young, gazed awestruck on the “Man of Sorrows,” and tears were
streaming down many a rugged face.
The gentle laird rose and said: “It is all too sad and yet too sweet for
me to say anything. God bless you, sir, for coming here to-night; it is
a night we’ll remember for along time.”
The following evening saw a very different sight. All day a terrible
storm had been raging, and all the boats were out at sea. The women were
in awful anxiety, each fearing the worst for her “man” or her boys. Down
to the village in the afternoon came the Major--in sou’wester and
oilskin coat. He had a cheery word of comfort and hope for all; and he
did not return home till every boat came in. He was ready to shake hands
with every man as he came ashore, and to remind him that he must give
thanks to God for His mercy.
Years have passed away since that time; the Major’s “sweet leddy” has
gone to the rest of Paradise; he himself, in obedience to the call of
the Master, has exchanged his rank in the army of Great Britain for the
rank of a priest in the Church of God, and is devoting his life to
mission work in a large and busy centre of the fishing industry--but in
dear little Carronmouth, where he began his work for Christ, old men
love to speak of “The Major.”
XII. The Burnin’ o’ the Kirk
“Weel, man, I suppose I ought to have been wringing my hands and tearing
my hair over this business, but, somehow or other, I wasna; I never
breathed a mair fervent thanksgiving than I did on Sunday when I saw the
flames burstin’ through the auld gray slates o’ the kirk.”
“Are you sure, doctor, that ye’ didna happen--by accident, of course--to
let fa’ a burnin’ match among the rubbish in the disused chancel?”
“Whisht, man, dinna speak o’ sic a thing, for though I didna actually do
it, I wished it wi’ a’ my heart. If wishing had onything to do wi’t,
then I doot I maun plead guilty. But, come awa’ and see what’s left, and
I think ye’ll be able to understand how I feel.”
The doctor was the minister of a Presbyterian parish a few miles from
Drumscondie, and his church, which had been burnt down on the previous
Sunday by an overheated stovepipe, was the most ancient ecclesiastical
structure in the whole Howe o’ the Mearns. He and I had been friends
ever since I came into the district, and my visit on the present
occasion was for the purpose of condoling with him over his loss; but,
from the conversation already narrated, it will be seen that condolence
was hardly needed, in so far at least as the worthy doctor was
concerned.
He was in many respects a very remarkable man. Those who only knew him
in a casual kind of way regarded him as an enigma. He was loyal to the
vows he had taken as a minister of the Presbyterian Establishment; but
he held opinions concerning doctrine and Church order that savored
rather of those of the Scotch Episcopal Church as taught by men of the
type of saintly Bishop Jolly, than of the current teaching of his
Presbyterian brethren.
He had been in the same parish for nearly forty years; and as he had
never been over-burdened with parochial duties, he had been able to
indulge his taste for Church history and ecclesiology to the fullest
extent. For years he had been burrowing in local archives, and was able,
to his own satisfaction, to reconstruct mentally his own parish church
as it stood in the days of Archbishop David de Bernham, of St. Andrew’s,
by whom it was consecrated in the fourteenth century.
To me it was always a great treat to visit the old man. His scholarship
was so accurate that one could not fail to be benefited by intercourse
with him.
No sooner were we standing inside the blackened walls than he began to
wax eloquent over the beauties of the architecture that had been
disclosed by the work of the flames.
“Originally,” he said, “the church was a plain oblong, with a Norman
apse probably, in the east, and that peculiar octagonal turret
surmounting the west gable. There was no glass in these parts then; and
as the wind from the north is generally very cold, the windows were all
on the south side.
“When the need arose for a larger sanctuary and choir, yonder early
English arch and chancel took the place of the Norman apse.
“Then in the beginning of the sixteenth century, the feudal superior of
that time erected the lady chapel as a chantry, in which masses for the
repose of his soul were to be said.
“The turret at the angle between the nave and lady chapel has in it a
corkscrew stair, leading to the parvise, or priest’s room, over the
groined roof of the chapel. About a hundred and fifty years ago the
church was in need of repairs, and it was then that Puritan vandals shut
off the sanctuary with a lath and plaster wall, and transformed the nave
into the hideous, gloomy barn it was before the fire.
“Can you blame me, Gray, if in my heart I longed for a fire, or some
such disaster, to tear down the awful disfigurations?
“It is a positive joy to me to look on these bare walls.”
“I thoroughly sympathize with you, doctor; and to me the bare walls are
an object lesson of great value. Fire is a great cleanser. The
conflagration which broke out here on Sunday cleared away all that
belonged to the debased period, the age of Philistinism, but did no real
harm to the solid and beautiful masonry of the ages of faith. Now that
the vile rubbish has been removed one can see the framework of a church
that was built for the service of God, and for the cultivation of the
devotional spirit. That east window with its delicate stone tracery,
through which the rising sun casts its glorious rays upon priest and
people, reminding them of the greater sun--the sun of righteousness who
arose in the east bringing healing to the nations--the altar and aumbry
and piscina telling of reverence and order in the celebration of the
Eucharist--in fact there is everything now to indicate a church of a
truly primitive type.”
“Aye, Gray, and so is it ever in regard to the spiritual life. When we
look around in the Christian Church to-day we see truth disfigured and
mutilated and obscured by opinions that are entirely of human devising.
When the days of trial come, as come they must--the Church of God will
have to hold her own against the powers of evil; then all that is
primitive and apostolic will stand scatheless amid the fierce fires of
tribulation, and will come forth--like the three children from the
burning fiery furnace--with no trace of the fire upon it, while all that
is purely of human creation will crumble to ashes.”
“Wouldn’t it be grand, doctor, if this old church of St. Ternan could be
restored as it was in pre-Reformation days, without any of the foreign
accretions that roused the indignation of the truly spiritually-minded?”
“If God spares me, Gray, I mean to make this the work of my declining
years.”
The old man kept his vow faithfully. He set to work at once to arouse
the interest of the heritors, upon whom lay the burden of maintening the
fabric of the church; and, before two years had passed I had the
pleasure of again visiting him and of seeing a beautiful restoration of
a typical Scottish church of mediaeval days. The altar stood in the
east--only it was not called an altar, but a communion table. The
font--a lovely replica in marble of an ancient one--was in its proper
place. The pulpit no longer barred the way to the sanctuary, but stood
at the north side, between the chancel arch and the wall of the nave.
Over the doorway leading from the chancel to the vestry there were three
niches in which at one time figures of saints had stood; even these the
doctor filled by three statuettes of the Blessed Saviour with St. Peter
and St. Paul--copies in miniature of Thorwaldsen’s famous group.
What was of even greater importance, there was inaugurated a far more
orderly and reverent worship than before; an organ was installed, and
the old walls resounded with a devotional service which, if not all
that could be desired, was at all events a distinct advance towards the
worship of the best days of the Christian Church.
For a long time I was unable to understand the Doctor’s position. He was
so thoroughly Catholic in sentiment that it was hard to see why he
remained where he was. I could not believe that a man of his spotless
integrity would hold to a religious body, with the majority of whom he
seemed so entirely at variance, simply and solely because it gave him a
comfortable living.
One day we were sitting together in his study, and in the course of
conversation I managed to draw him out without in any way reflecting on
him personally.
“It has always been my opinion,” he said, “that all reformation should
proceed from within, if it is to be effective. The reforms wrought in
Scotland in the fifteenth and subsequent centuries were altogether too
revolutionary and iconoclastic. If the spiritually-minded of those days
had only been guided by the example of Savonarola, who reformed without
breaking the unity of the Body, things would have been altogether
different in Scotland to-day. There is a large and growing school of
thought in the Presbyterian Established Church of Scotland, that is
longing, and praying, and working for a return to primitive ideals, and
to that school I belong. Were I to throw in my lot with the Historic
Church--the Body that truly ‘continues in the Apostles’ doctrine and
fellowship, in the breaking of bread and the prayers,’ I would
undoubtedly gain many spiritual privileges for myself. But what about
the flock committed to my care? I believe it is my duty to stay where I
am, and to teach the Faith as fully as it can be taught from the
formularies to which I have vowed allegiance. The proselytising of
individuals will never bring about corporate unity. I think that God
will not allow my sacrifice to go unrewarded, but will in His own way
make up to me what I deprive myself of by staying where I am.”
The good old man was so sincere in all that he said that I felt it would
be wrong to enter into an argument which probably would have done no
good.
That he was fully aware of his own position I learned from a remark made
by him some months later.
The lord of the manor was a hereditary Episcopalian, but for many years
had never entered a church for worship. I found him an exceedingly kind
man, ever ready and willing to do kind deeds, to give liberally for any
good cause, and to befriend any who stood in need of help; but I could
not get him to talk of spiritual things. He died, and I was asked to
read the Burial Service over his body when it was laid in the vault
beneath the old lady chapel. The service over, a little group stood
talking in the graveyard, before setting out for their several homes.
One of the old baron’s comrades made the somewhat flippant remark:
“Well, it’s a long time since his lordship was in the company of so many
clergy.”
Quick as thought the doctor replied: “There was only one clergyman here,
Colonel.”
“What do you mean, doctor? I saw at least half a dozen ministers at the
funeral.”
“Aye--ministers--but that is a different thing altogether. Mr. Gray was
the only cleric present here to-day.”
It was as if a bomb had fallen in their midst.
“Well, what do you call yourself, doctor?”
The old man smiled as he replied:
“I am only an elder in the congregation--a teaching elder doubtless,
but only an elder. Mr. Gray has Apostolic orders, which I lack.”
An elder he remained; but surely if ever any one outside the unity of
the historic faith deserved it, he deserved to be reckoned one of the
Gentle Persuasion.