THE THIRD LETTER.
_Hubert Blake to Sophy Meredith._
THE CASTLE FARM, MUIRBURN, N.B.,
_September 17_.
MY DEAR SOPHY,
It did not occur to me, when I agreed to consider myself Mr. Lindsay’s
guest until to-day, that the arrangement would entail my spending the
greater part of a glorious autumn day within the walls of the Muirburn
Free Kirk--but you shall hear. I suspected, from something which fell
from my host at breakfast, that the excuses which I intended to offer
for my not accompanying the family to church would not be considered
sufficient; but when I ventured to hint at something of the kind my
remark was received by such a horrified stare (not to speak of the look
of consternation on Margaret’s beautiful face), that I saw that to have
made any further struggle for freedom would have been a positive breach
of good manners. I submitted, therefore, with as good a grace as I
could; and I was afterwards given to understand that to have absented
myself from ‘ordinances’ that Sunday would have been little short of a
scandal, seeing that it happened to be ‘Sacrament Sunday.’
If you ask a Scotchman how many sacraments there are, he will answer,
if he remembers the Shorter Catechism, two. If, however, he is taken
unawares, he will answer, one. Baptism is popularly considered to be
a mere ceremony, of no practical importance to the infant recipient
of it. It is regarded chiefly as an outward sign and token of the
respectability of the parents, since it is only administered to the
children of well-behaved people. ‘The Sacrament’ means the Lord’s
Supper, which is administered in Presbyterian churches generally
four times, but in country places often only twice a year. This,
as it happened, was one of the ‘quarterly’ Communions, and as such
popularly considered as of less dignity than those which occur at the
old-fashioned seasons of July and January.
We set off about a quarter-past ten in the heavy, two-wheeled dog-cart
which brought me here. I manifested an intention of walking to the
village, and asked Alec to accompany me, but Mr. Lindsay intervened
and protested strongly against my proposal. He said it would not be
‘seemly,’ by which I suppose he meant that it would be inconsistent
with the dignity of the family, if a guest of his house were to be seen
going to church on foot; but I could not help suspecting that he envied
Alec and myself the sinful pleasure which a four-mile walk on so lovely
a morning would have afforded us.
I can see that my elderly cousin (three times removed) is one of those
people who are thoroughly unhappy unless they get their own way
in everything, and never enjoy themselves more than when they have
succeeded in spoiling somebody’s pleasure. I mentally resolved to have
as little to do with the old gentleman as I possibly could, and mounted
to the front seat of the dog-cart, which, as the place of honour, had
been reserved for me.
As the old mare trotted soberly along, I could not help noticing the
silence that seemed to brood over the fields. I have remarked the same
thing in England, but somehow a Scotch Sunday seems even more still and
quiet than an English one. Is it merely a matter of association and
sentiment? Or is it that we miss on Sundays hundreds of trifling noises
which on week-days fall unconsciously upon our ears?
Presently we began to pass little knots of people trudging along
churchwards. The old women carried their Bibles wrapped up in their
pocket-handkerchiefs to preserve them from the dust, along with the
usual sprig of southern-wood. The men, without exception, wore suits
of black, shiny broadcloth. They seemed to be all farmers. Very few
of the weavers or labourers have any religion whatever (so far as
outward rites go), any more than your unworthy cousin; and I can’t help
thinking that the necessity for shiny black clothes has something to do
with it. The women are different; as usual in all countries, and in all
creeds, they are more devout than the men.
On the way we passed a group of young women just inside a field not
far from the town, who were sitting about and stooping in various
attitudes. I could not conceive what they were about, and turned to my
host for an explanation.
He gravely informed me that they were putting on their shoes. Being
accustomed throughout the week to dispense with these inventions of
modern effeminacy, they find it extremely irksome to walk for miles
over dusty roads in shoes and stockings. They therefore carry them in
their hands till they reach some convenient field near the town which
is the object of their journey, and then, sitting down on the grass,
they array themselves in that part of their raiment before going into
church.
We were now close to the town, and the sweet-toned little bell which
I had heard on the evening of my arrival, along with a larger one of
peculiarly strident tone in the belfry of the United Presbyterian
Kirk, were ‘doing their best.’ There were whole processions of gigs
or dog-carts such as that in which we were seated. No other style of
vehicle was to be seen.
I was rather amused to see that the corner at which on week-days the
weavers stand in their shirt-sleeves was not left unoccupied. The place
was crowded with farmers, most of them highly respectable-looking men,
clad in long black coats and tall hats. As to the hats, by the way,
they were of all shapes which have been in fashion for the last twenty
years, some of them taller than I should have supposed it possible for
a hat to be.
We alighted at the door of an inn, and I noticed that the inn yard
was crowded with ‘machines,’ _i.e._, dog-carts and gigs, which I
thought pretty fair evidence of the prosperity of the country. Then we
proceeded to our place of worship. In the little vestibule was a tall
three-legged stool covered with a white napkin, and upon this rested
a large pewter plate to receive the contributions of the faithful.
Two tall farmers, dressed in swallow-tail coats, tall hats, and white
neckties of the old-fashioned, all-round description, were standing
over the treasury, and in one of them I recognised my acquaintance of
the coach. I was prepared to nod him a greeting, but he preserved the
most complete immobility of countenance, and kept his gaze fixed on the
horizon outside the church door, as if no nearer object were worthy of
his attention.
I found the church filled with dreadfully narrow pews of unpainted
wood, and facing them an immensely tall pulpit, with a subsidiary
pulpit in front of the other at a lower elevation. There were carpets
on the staircase which led up to the pulpits, and the desks of both
were covered with red cloth, with elaborate tassels. From either side
of the upper pulpit there projected slender, curving brass rods about
two feet long, terminating in broad pieces of brass, fixed at right
angles to the rods. What the use of this apparatus was I could not
imagine. A steep gallery ran round three sides of the little building;
and in front of the pulpit was a table covered with a white cloth.
I was not so uncharitable as to suppose that those who came here to
worship were guilty of any intentional irreverence, but certainly they
carried out the theory that no reverence ought to be paid to sacred
places very completely. No male person removed his hat till he was well
within the doors; and in many cases men did not uncover themselves till
they were comfortably seated. No one so much as thought of engaging
in any private devotions. I was surprised to see that the congregation
(which was, for the size of the building, a large one) was composed
almost entirely of women and children; but as soon as the bells stopped
ringing, a great clatter of heavy boots was heard in the vestibule, and
the heads of families, whom I had seen standing at the corner, poured
into the place. Like wise men, they had been taking the benefit of the
fresh air till the last available moment.
Hardly had the farmers taken their seats when a man appeared, dressed
entirely in black, carrying an enormous Bible, with two smaller books
placed on the top of it. Ascending the pulpit stairs, he placed one
of the smaller books on the desk of the lower pulpit; and then, going
a few steps higher, he deposited the other two volumes on the desk of
the higher one. He then retired, and immediately the minister, a tall,
dark man, with very long black hair, wearing an immense gown of black
silk, black gloves, and white bands such as barristers wear, entered
the church and ascended to the pulpit. He was followed by an older man
dressed in a stuff gown, who went into the lower pulpit. Last of all
came the door-keeper, who also went up the pulpit stairs and carefully
closed the pulpit door after the minister. The man in the stuff gown
was left to shut his own door, and he did so with a bang, as if in
protest at the want of respect shown to him, and his inferior position
generally.
The ritual part, as I may call it, of the service being over, the
minister rose and gave out a psalm, just as old Mr. Lindsay does at
prayers; and as he did so, the man in the stuff gown got up, and
pulling out two thin black boards from under his desk, he skilfully
fixed one of them on the end of the brass rod which projected from the
right-hand side of the pulpit; and then, turning half round, he fixed
the other upon the similar rod on the left-hand side. On each of these
boards I read, in large gilt letters, the word ‘Martyrdom.’ I could not
imagine, even then, the meaning of this ceremony; but Alec informed me
afterwards that it was meant to convey to the congregation the name of
the tune to which the psalm was to be sung, so that they might turn it
up in their tune-books, if they felt so inclined.
When the minister had read the verses which he wished to have sung, he
gave out the number of the psalm again in a loud voice, and read the
first line a second time, so that there might be no mistake. He then
sat down, and the little man beneath him, rising up, began to sing.
I very nearly got into trouble at this point by rising to my feet,
forgetting for the moment that the orthodox Scotch fashion is to sit
while singing and to stand at prayer. (I am told that in the towns a
good many churches have adopted the habit of standing up to sing and
keeping their seats during the prayer; but older Presbyterians look
upon this custom, as, if not exactly heretical, yet objectionable,
as tending in the direction of ritualism, prelacy, and other
abominations.) For a line or two the precentor was left to sing by
himself, then one or two joined in, and presently the whole body of
the congregation took up the singing. I was surprised to find what a
good effect resulted--it was at least infinitely better than that of
an ordinary choir of mixed voices led by a vile harmonium or American
organ. Many of the voices were rough, no doubt; and the precentor
seemed to make it a point of honour to keep half a note ahead of
everybody else; but, in spite of this, the general effect of so many
sonorous voices singing in unison was decidedly impressive.
As soon as the four prescribed verses had been sung, the minister
rose up to pray, and everybody got up at the same time. You know
I am not easily shocked, Sophy; and hitherto, though I had seen
much that was ludicrous and strange, I had not seen anything that I
considered specially objectionable; but I must say that the behaviour
of these good folks at the prayer which followed did shock me. They
simply stood up and stared at each other; perhaps I noticed it more
particularly because I, being a stranger, came in for a good share of
attention. Many of the men kept their hands in their pockets; some
were occupied taking observations of the weather, through the little
windows of plain glass, half the time. The minister, I noticed, kept
his hands clasped and his eyes tightly closed; and some of his flock,
among whom were my host and his daughter, followed his example; but
the majority, as I have said, simply stared around them. They may
have been giving, meanwhile, a mental assent to the truths which the
minister was enunciating; I dare say some of them were; but as far as
one could judge from outward appearances they were no more engaged in
praying than they were engaged in ploughing. The prayer lasted a very
long time; when it was over we heard a chapter read, and after another
part of a psalm was sung the sermon began. This was evidently the
event of the day, to which everything said or done hitherto had been
only an accessory; and everybody settled himself down in his seat as
comfortably as he could.
From what I had heard of Scotch sermons I was prepared for a
well-planned logical discourse, and the sermon to which I now listened
fulfilled that description. But then it was, to my mind at least,
entirely superfluous. Granting the premisses (as to which no one in
the building, excepting perhaps my unworthy self, entertained the
slightest doubt), the conclusion followed as a matter of course, and
hardly needed a demonstration lasting fifty minutes by my watch. I
was so tired with the confinement in a cramped position and a close
atmosphere that I very nearly threw propriety to the winds and left
the building. Fortunately, however, just before exhausted nature
succumbed, the preacher began what he called the ‘practical application
of the foregoing,’ and I knew that the time of deliverance was at
hand. And I must say that, judging from the fervour with which the
concluding verses of a psalm were sung, I was not alone in my feeling
of relief. As soon as the psalm was ended everybody rose, and the
preacher, stretching out his arms over his flock, pronounced a solemn
benediction. The ‘Amen’ was hardly out of the good man’s mouth when
a most refreshing clatter arose. No one resumed his seat. Everybody
hurried into the narrow passages, which were in an instant so crammed
that moving in them was hardly possible. Here, again, I am convinced
that there was no intentional irreverence; it was merely a custom
arising from the extremely natural desire of breathing the fresh air
after the confinement we had undergone. As we passed out I overheard
several casual remarks about the sermon, which was discussed with the
utmost freedom.
‘Maister McLeod was a wee thocht dry the day,’ said one farmer.
‘But varra guid--varra soon’,’ responded his neighbour.
‘I thocht he micht ha’ made raither mair o’ that last pint,’ said the
first speaker.
‘Weel--maybe,’ was the cautious reply.
We went over to the inn for a little refreshment, and in three-quarters
of an hour the bells began to jangle once more. This was more than I
had bargained for; but there was no help for it. I could not offend my
host by retreating; and besides, I was desirous of seeing for myself
what a Scottish Communion Service was like.
After the usual singing of a few verses of a psalm, and prayer, the
minister descended from the pulpit, and took his place beside the table
beneath, on which there had now been placed two loaves of bread, and
four large pewter cups. From this position he delivered an address,
and after it a prayer. He then took a slice from one of the loaves of
bread which were ready cut before him, broke off a morsel for himself,
and handed the piece of bread to one of several elderly men, called
‘elders,’ who were seated near him. This man broke off a morsel in
the same way, and handed the remainder of the bread to another, and
so on till all the elders had partaken. Four of the elders then rose,
and two went down one side of the church, and two down the other side,
one of each pair bearing a plate covered with a napkin, and holding
a loaf of bread cut in slices, which they distributed among those
of the congregation who were sitting in the centre of the church,
and who alone were about to take part in the rite. The ceremony is,
in fact, very much, or altogether, the same as the ‘love-feasts’
among the Methodists; except that the Methodists use water while the
Presbyterians use wine. There is nothing of the sacramental character
left in the ordinance; it is avowedly a commemorative and symbolic
rite, and nothing more.
In the meantime perfect silence reigned in the little building. There
was literally not a sound to be heard but the chirping of one or two
sparrows outside the partly-opened windows. Have you ever noticed
how impressive an interval of silence is at any meeting of men,
especially when they are met together for a religious purpose? Silence
is never vulgar; and it almost seems as if any form of worship in which
intervals of silence form a part were redeemed thereby from vulgarity.
Whatever may have been the reason, this service impressed me, I must
confess, in a totally different way from that in which the long sermon
in the morning had done.
Suddenly a gentle falsetto voice fell upon my ear; and looking up, I
saw that the elders, having finished their task, had returned to the
table, and that a little white-haired man had risen to address the
people. He wore no gown, but he had on a pair of bands, like his friend
Mr. McLeod, which gave him a comical sort of air. This, however, as
well as the curious falsetto or whining tone in which his voice was
pitched, was forgotten when one began to listen. The old man had
chosen for his text one of the most sacred of all possible subjects to
a Christian; and no one who heard him could doubt that he was speaking
from his heart. A deeper solemnity seemed to fall upon the silent
gathering. I glanced round, but whatever emotions were excited by the
touching address, none of them were suffered to appear on the faces of
the people. On Alec Lindsay’s face, alone, I noticed a look of rapt
attention; his sister’s beautiful features seemed as if they had been
carved in marble.
Before the old minister sat down he raised one of the large cups (which
had been previously filled with wine from a flagon), and handed it
to one of the elders, who, after drinking from it, passed it to his
neighbour. After the ministers and elders had tasted the wine, two of
the latter rose, and each proceeded down one of the passages, bearing a
large pewter cup, while he was followed by one of his fellows carrying
a flagon. The cups were handed to the people still sitting in the
pews, exactly as the bread had been, and circulated from one to another
till all the communicants had partaken of the wine. Then followed
another address, from the black-haired gentleman this time; and with a
prayer and a little more singing the ceremony came to an end.
As we emerged into the afternoon sunshine, and waited for ‘the beast to
be put in,’ as the innkeeper called it, I could not be sorry that I had
sacrificed my inclinations and had seen something of the practice of
religion in this country.
But I dare say you have had enough of my experiences for the
present--so, good-night.
Your affectionate cousin,
HUBERT BLAKE.