Part 10 (1/2)
V.
O Lord of light, disperse my baffling fears, Give me a look but for a moment's s.p.a.ce Upon the tranquil glory of Thy face, To serve as force to fight the chilling years.
Clouds hide Thee from me, and the bitter tears Run down my cheek in floods. Out of Thy grace Let my heart's chamber be a dwelling-place For Thee. Come for a little s.p.a.ce. Mine ears Strain for the hearing of a word divine Straight from Thy holy lips. No single task Can I at all accomplish or design Without the full a.s.surance that I ask This, namely, that my soul is one with Thee, And Thou dost work Thy purposes by me.
THE CHRISTIAN BRETHREN.
It would be well-spent labour if some sympathetic historian could find time to write a short account of the Plymouth Brethren, giving details of the origin, tenets, divisions, and influence of the sect. I am surprised that Mr. Barrie in his notable excursions into Scotch life and religion, has never portrayed such a fine specimen of the working-man turned theologian.
It must not be supposed that only the rich and the leisurely have what is called religious experiences and shadowed souls. The finest developments, doubtless, of the religious sense require time and money.
That leisurely groping after tendencies, that introspective a.n.a.lysis of the sins of omission and commission, that delightful perception of the falling away from righteousness of your brethren and sisters--all these choice sweets are, if they are to be adequately enjoyed, compatible only with a minimum of 300 a year. The religious sense and the musical are in many points alike. If you wish to develop an initially melodious soul, it means expense: you must go to professors, study counterpoint, practice many hours daily, and attend concerts of the most exclusive and expensive kind. Similarly with religion in its finest flower. You need slaves to cook and wash for you if you mean to ecstaticise and see beatific visions: you must get the most fas.h.i.+onable and picturesque specialists to come and feel your religious pulse, and you must on no account neglect the subscription lists. But only those rich enough to be hypochondriac can afford such luxuries. Now, in the toiling cla.s.ses there are often good ears for music, and exquisite responsiveness to religious sensations. What satisfies such natures and such wants must be cheap. The Plymouth Brethren (I ought rather to say _Christian_ Brethren), have no General a.s.sembly, little or no pedantry of a costly kind, and yet, I believe, they supply all the exhilaration of schisms, splits, counter-splits, and heresy-hunts. Every man his own General a.s.sembly! There may be a lack of the finer touches in such a system, but what is lacking in elegance is fully made up in clearness of view and rombustious vigour.
In many of the fis.h.i.+ng villages on the east coast of Scotland, there are large congregations of these worthy men raising their Ebenezers, and making a joyful noise on the first day of the week. I have a good deal of sympathy with their democratic and direct style of wors.h.i.+p. In Scotland, when a man gets converted, he feels constrained to _do something_, but very often there is little outlet for his energy in the calm routine of the fas.h.i.+onable churches--hence the necessity for bethels and mission-houses. At their revivals, let me add, one is in presence of that mysterious awakening to which every religion owes its birth.
In the autumn of 1906, I had an interesting talk with the minister of a seaside village on the sh.o.r.e of the Moray Firth, and was distressed to find that he was sorely hara.s.sed by the lively sect I have mentioned.
Every now and again a wandering evangelist comes along the coast, pitches a tent, and begins a series of gospel services. Those who are converted, neglect the church and all its ordinances, and begin preaching on their own account; nay, they even b.u.t.tonhole the minister and preach to _him_, accusing him of being an unjust steward, a hireling, and no shepherd, and so on. Such conduct creates a very painful situation. With a good deal of detail, the long-suffering clergyman gave me an account of a visit he had paid to an old woman recently converted. The narrative of her conversion as told by herself was quaint and touching: ”They were a' gettin' it,” she said, ”and I wasna gettin' it. So I jist went to the door and steekit my e'en, and raised them to the lift, and _I got it_. Isn't that the way o't, auld man?” ”Aye, aye, that's the way o't, auld wife,” chimed in the husband.
The latter then took up the wondrous tale: ”When she came in and tell't me she had got it, I went doon on my knees to thank the Lord jist at the fireside, and lo and behold, when I opened my e'en, I was at the street door. The Spirit had taken me there, unbeknown to me. So I lifted up my voice and called on G.o.d's people. And in five minutes the room and kitchen were filled wi' saved folk, a' singing hymns, because my auld wife had got it at last.”
I also remember meeting an old thatcher of eminent talents who seemed to me to be on the straight road for Zion, for he fulfilled the Scriptural injunction to be fervent in spirit as well as not slothful in business.
James had at one time been precentor in one of the regular churches, but owing to some cantankerous criticism of his melody, he seceded to the Brethren, who fearlessly accepted his services gratis. James was specially lyrical on the roof, and it was a treat to hear him sing ”_There is rest for the weary_,” as he pushed the thatch into its long home:--
”There is rest for the weary, There is rest for the weary, There is rest for _you_” (with a forceful thrust).
I must not omit to mention (and with reverence be it spoken) that James had a reputation far and wide in the country-side, for the vigour and extreme unction of his grace before meat. Though giving a humble tenor to the initial phrases and using the tar-brush on himself, and the hungry company as putrid sinners unworthy even of the least of the mercies, he always contrived to rea.s.sure everyone by sunnily rounding off the matter with some rich and racy allusions to the gracious and ample promises of Holy Writ. One could have felt quite comfortable even in a slight excess of gluttony after such introductory words of blessing. You felt that the occasion had been met, that something like perfection had been attained. James was willing to admit shortcomings in thatching, or in any department of human activity, so long as his superiority in pre-prandial supplication was admitted. But it so happened that Fate, whose delight it is to imperil even the stablest reputations, sent his way a South-country Brother with a gift in prayer truly appalling. At a gathering at which James was present, this stranger was honoured by being asked to say grace. In the process, he soared to such heights of oratory and supplicatory fervour, that the uniform opinion of the guests, as evinced by looks, demeanour, and even congratulation, was that James had at last been beaten on his own ground. Supreme dejection settled on the thatcher, and neither bite nor sup could dislodge the settled melancholy of his soul. After long pondering with chin on chest in a corner of that pious throng, he had an idea. Sidling up to the matron of the house, he, with a terrible whisper of earnestness, addressed her in these words: ”Mistress, before we gang hame, doon wi' a whang o' cheese and a farl o' cake--it'll no' cost ye much--and _I'll ha'e a tussle wi' him for't yet_.” She gladly complied with his request. His excitement gave him inspiration, and over that cheese and oatcake, he delivered himself of such a grace as had never before proceeded from his lips. A murmur of involuntary admiration greeted the conclusion. James was comforted, and once more held his head erect.
To talk of the Evolution of Religion to men like James would be a complete waste of time. Such men regard themselves as the acme of the process: whatever modifications may supervene after their day will be deteriorations. It is quite impossible to persuade an enthusiast that he is a mere phenomenon of development, and not, actually and now, the roof and crown of things. Even if persuasion were possible, it would be a cruelty to disillusionise these happy wights,--men who, with such sublime confidence, can read their t.i.tle clear to mansions in the sky.
They have a complete key to the universe, and are as happy as if they had seen the whole vast circle of truth.
DRIMNIN IN MORVEN.
How many of my readers know where Drimnin is? If I should say, ”In the parish of Morven,” it is possible the majority of them would not be greatly edified, unless they had acquaintance with the saintly Macleod's _Reminiscences of a Highland Parish_. Well, Drimnin is on the mainland, nearly opposite the entrance to the haven of Tobermory. The _Chevalier_ nears into the coast when anyone wishes to land, and two boatmen, obeying a signal, pull out from sh.o.r.e into the open, and the pa.s.senger leaps, as gracefully as circ.u.mstances permit, into their arms--amid the cheers of those left on the steamer.
The clergyman of Morven ministers to a parish that has over a hundred miles of seaboard, and, strange to say, there have been only three inc.u.mbents in it during the last hundred and thirty years, himself being the third, with twenty-six years' ministry to his credit so far. These facts procured him an extraordinary reception in America, where he spent a holiday recently. The Americans, with whom change is the permanent element, looked with amazement on a minister who came from a parish with such a record. They thronged round his hotel to get shaking hands with him, while he blushed to think that homage was being paid to the longevity of his predecessors. It is no treat to be a lion in Maine.
The visitor to Drimnin should return to Oban by driving to Lochaline, where there is a pier. A mere glance up that inlet of Lochaline is sufficient to prove the unerring accuracy of Sir Walter's description: ”Fair Lochaline's woodland sh.o.r.e.” Scott had a marvellous eye for scenery, and having once seen a locality, could describe it better than a native could do who had lived in the neighbourhood from youth upwards.[19]
[19] I may here refer to a pleasant three hours spent in rowing on Lochaline in the company of Mr. Hugh Macintyre, an old gentleman full of Scott and well versed in the lore of the locality. He was a policeman in Glasgow for thirty-five years (latterly as guardian of the Kelvingrove Picture Gallery), and now, in the enjoyment of good health and a pension, spends his time reading and doing good in his native district. Mr.
Macintyre's earliest recollection is of his father being evicted from a small holding, at the head of the loch, in the ”forties.”
Tennyson and Palgrave were visitors at Ardtornish, as Mr. Lang tells us, but made no special impression on the natives, who styled them respectively _Tinman_ and _Pancake_.
CRAIGNISH.
At Craignish (two miles _or so_ from Ardfern, next pier to Luing on the way from Crinan to Oban) I was astonished to find what I think is unique in Scotland, an old clergyman, born in 1824, still, without any aid whatever, performing all the duties of a parish minister in one of the wildest parts of Argylls.h.i.+re. I refer to the Rev. Mr. M'Michael, who was chairman at the lecture. The old gentleman, who is remarkably hale in body and never melancholy at meal-time (as he slyly puts it), is p.r.o.ne to speak by preference of the events of ”auld lang syne.” He gave me a most vivid account of Professor John Wilson (whom, as I do not now live in Paisley, I may safely venture to call Paisley's _greatest_ son), who was one of his teachers, and who, as ”Christopher North,” wrote so many witty and solid articles that undeservedly perished in _Blackwood's Magazine_ at the beginning of last reign. I have rarely had such a treat as my talk with this hale-hearted octogenarian. His charming daughters keep house for him, and employ their leisure time weaving at a loom of their own. The sheep that graze on the glebe supply the wool, and the intermediate stages between the back of the sheep and the woollen overcoat on the back of the needy are all supervised by these dexterous daughters of the manse.
The coach to Craignish pa.s.ses through a bit of Scotland that, in the leafy month of June, must be glorious to behold. I pa.s.sed along in a fierce and chilling blizzard of sleet and snow. If a poet could keep warm, thought I, this would be the spot for him to get impressive scenes for his word-pictures. At one part, the road ziz-zags up a hill for three miles, alongside a furious burn, to a height of six hundred feet; from which eminence one sees, on the right, great bare crags and steep heights, and, on the left, an inlet of the Atlantic foaming wildly below. Ye gentlemen of the cloth, whose lot is cast in towns and who sit at home in ease, think of the trials of your rural brethren in their attempts to drive in winter through drifting snow to a presbytery meeting fourteen miles away![20]
[20] I could mention another rural parish, considerably further north, where, two winters ago, the roads were so badly blocked with snow that for five consecutive weeks no church services could be held! Both minister and congregation were overcome with grief.