[Previous Page]
CHAPTER VII.
FIFTY YEARS OF CHURCH LIFE.
THE first church
to which I was taken was St. Martin's-in-the-Fields. The last
time I visited it I found it greatly changed. It may be more
changed now. In my early days it was full of high
"sleeping-pews," in which children were completely buried, and even
adults disappeared except when they stood up! These pews were
red-cushioned, their floors covered with cocoa-nut matting or
carpet, and furnished with comfortable hassocks. There were
forms round the church's walls, known as "free seats," and there
were also "free seats " in the middle aisle. Most of their
occupants were agèd, many of them
dependent on parochial doles. I can imagine no better way of
deliberately alienating any decent working people than these same
"free seats" and all the arrangements attaching to them. From
this probably the Church of England suffers to this very day.
The evil custom has gone, but not the resentment and prejudice which
it kindled.
Strangers, if well dressed, were not expected to take refuge
in these free seats. They were distinctly the ungracious
hospitality offered by the Church of that day to her poor.
When the strangers came, they were at once hailed by one of "the
pew-openers." In some churches these women wore a sort of
uniform—a plain black gown and a white cap—in others they were
simply elderly females in shabby-genteel garments. They had a
very keen scent for "tips." Only those old enough to remember
the general aspect and demeanour of most of them can appreciate
Dickens' description of them as "vessels of vinegar set on the
pathway to heaven."
St. Martin's Church in those days had deep galleries, with very
spacious front pews and narrower ones behind. One of the grandest
was occupied by the ducal family of Sutherland. A very odd
arrangement was that, at
each side of the chancel, and on a level with the gallery, was a
room. These rooms had sash-windows looking into the church, and they
could be opened or shut at their occupants' wish. One of these
rooms, I believe,
was the devotional premises of the Lords of the Admiralty; the
other, if memory serves me rightly, was used—or not used—by the
Dukes of Northumberland.
The pulpit of those days was the old-fashioned "three-decker," its
lowest stall occupied by the worthy parish clerk, who kept a shop in
St. Martin's Lane, where he dealt in books, chiefly prayer-books and
hymnals. In
the stall above him the curate read the prayers, punctuated by the
clerk's sonorous "Amens." To the highest stall, at the proper time
the vicar climbed to read his sermon. The whole was surmounted by a
sounding-board, a piece of furniture richly carved, and fashioned somewhat
like half of a big round table. Its top, right under the noses of
worshippers in the gallery,
was often thick with dust. All these stalls were set forth with
desks and luxurious cushions, but I almost think the clerk, and even
the curate, had to be satisfied with red cloth cushions, while the
vicar rejoiced in red
velvet!
The church had the usual appanage of "charity girls" and "charity
boys," the former clad in a uniform that, though objectionable as a
brand of poverty, was certainly becoming as a costume; but the boys
looked
miserable in skimp corduroys of a regulation cut. Over the entrances
and exits of these presided that awful personage, the parish beadle!—always in grand form on the church steps or in the vestibule.
Anybody who
knows the philosophy of clothes can understand how those of "Bumble" contributed to his air of vanity and arrogance. He wore garments
that were literally "robes," a wonderful three-cornered hat,
gold-laced, and he
brandished a heavy-headed mace. But he humbled himself on Boxing Day
by carrying round to the parishioners a broad sheet full of very
elementary pictures and still more elementary "poetry," relieved
here and there
by one of the quaint old folk-songs of the festive period. I wish I
had preserved one of those broad sheets; it would have borne
curious testimony to the common creeds and customs of its period. Of
course, the
parishioners acknowledged Mr. Bumble's obliging call by a suitable "box." I suppose the worthy had a home somewhere, and possibly a wife
and children with whom he was "a human man." There were three
services
every Sunday at St. Martin's—at eleven, at three, and at seven. The
afternoon service was specially intended for servants of "high"
families. It was a dreary affair, generally left to the youngest of
the two or three curates.
I remember one who dragged the "Corinthian games" into every
discourse.
Owing to the depth of those "sleeping-pews," I can remember little
of the method of Church service there, because I could never see it. I have no idea how the clergy reached their various elevations nor
how they left
them. I only know that my dear father understood childhood enough to
let me carry my "Sunday picture-books" to church, where I sat on a
hassock, making a table of the seat, and was very happy!
I do remember the occasion when one of the ducal members of the
congregation died, and all the preaching and reading desks were
draped in black, while a tremendous pall was suspended from the
ducal pew. I do
not think it then occurred to anybody to ask why, in Christ's
Church, one of its members, because rich and of noble birth, should
be the object of so much attention and reverence, while others sat
on the hard free
seats, and suffered and died unnoted. Yet I must say that all the
snobbery which I saw in St. Martin's more than fifty years ago did
not equal what I saw comparatively recently in the beautiful little
Northern cathedral
church of Dornoch, now used for Presbyterian worship. There a statue
of one of the Dukes of Sutherland occupied—perhaps still
occupies—the place of the altar, and every pew was painted with his
family arms!
One event of my earliest church-going days was the hearing of the
tramp, tramp of the cavalry parading Trafalgar Square, when the
National Gallery and other public buildings were supposed to need
protection from
Chartist rioters.
When I was about seven years old there was a change of vicars, and
the "new man" was evidently under the influence of those then
called "Puseyites." My father, despite his Scottish Episcopalian
rearing, could not
accept some of the "High" doctrines, and in consequence we left
St. Martin's-in-the-Fields and resorted to St. Paul's, Covent
Garden. In those days of strictly defined and rented "sittings" (I
don't know what it is
now), it was difficult and unpleasant to leave one's own parish
church. One was sniffed at as radically rebellious against the
regular ecclesiastical order. Beyond this, there was the material
difficulty of getting a pew,
since there was not enough of these to go round among the
parishioners if they had all claimed one. However, they did not, and
after some demur we got part of a back seat at the end of the South
Gallery, and really
behind the pulpit. This had one great advantage in my eyes—I was
able to look closely into one of the two stained-glass windows over
the chancel, and through its small transparent border-panes I could
watch the
stragglers who crossed Covent Garden during service. Also, on the
architrave above the Tables of the Law were seated two great angels,
one turned towards the north and the other towards the south. They
were to me
very real and charming—only I always felt sorry that I could not get
to them with a cloth and remove the dust that rested on their upper surfaces! The last time I visited the church I found that the
angels had departed! I
saw nobody of whom I could ask what had become of them. Also I
observed that a tablet to the memory of the artist Turner's parents,
which I used to see about the middle of the right-hand wall, was
removed. We sat
in the middle aisle for weeknight services, and as the tablet was
almost even with the pew we always used then, I remembered it
perfectly. I could not suppose such a thing to have vanished, so I
sought for it carefully,
and at last found it at the lowest end of the left-hand wall! This
was the tablet over which Turner quarrelled with the churchwarden
Mr. Cribb. It is of the tiniest dimensions; filial affection had
not wasted an inch of
marble! It seems to me rather a pity that such things should be
moved about. One would imagine that the Anglican Church would be
strong on the duty of not removing old and accustomed things.
The rector of St. Paul's in my young days was the Rev. Henry Hutton,
who was also chaplain to the great local landlord, the Duke of
Bedford. The Duke's younger brother, Lord Charles Russell, and his
daughters put in
an appearance at sundry Church festivals, Sunday-school prize-givings,
and the like. I remember on one such occasion a prize-winner, a boy
of about twelve, was so excited and nervous that, instead of making
a bow
to the chair, he dropped a profound curtsey, and the audience
roared.
The Rev. Mr. Hutton was not a specially interesting preacher. It is
significant of the general tone of those days that, whenever he
thought any word, phrase, or subject needed explanation, he always
addressed that
explanation specifically to "our poorer brethren."
I remember that on one occasion he was more direct than usual, for
at that time few clergymen made searching application of their
doctrines. Mr. Hutton animadverted strongly on adulteration and
underselling. A large
pew in the gallery was occupied by the family of a man who was
rather notorious in these respects. This person rose up and left the
church, and neither he nor any of his children ever again entered
its doors! There
was a singular lack of humour in so plainly announcing that "the cap
fitted."
Mr. Hutton prepared candidates for confirmation in a most
conventional and merely ecclesiastical way. He gave them lectures on
the early Fathers, and set them examination-papers which put some of
the girls to their
wits' ends.
There were but small charity schools belonging to St. Paul's. They
occupied the usual seats beside the organ. The girls' school,
numbering not more than sixteen, lived in a dwelling in Hand Court,
opening beside the
house in Maiden Lane where the artist Turner was born. There was
also a large Sunday-school with volunteer teachers. I do not know
whether this was common at that date. I remember no such thing at
St. Martin's-in-the-Fields. I had always known of Sunday-schools existing among the
Nonconformists. These were generally attended by the children of the
congregation, and my father had strongly disapproved of them in this
connection, saying that they encouraged parents to delegate duties
which should be peculiarly their own. However, in St. Paul's
Sunday-school the children belonged to people who made no outward
profession of
religion, and most of whom were distinctly careless in life. My
eldest sister and I became teachers. We had temporary charge at
first of classes belonging to the Misses Danvers, daughters of the
Clerk of the Duchy of
Lancaster. One of these ladies—they were all fine-looking, stately
women—afterwards married Mr. W. H. Smith, who eventually became
leader of the House of Commons. From the time we were associated
with the
school the Misses Danvers were seldom in town, and I do not remember
their taking classes more than once or twice, though they were held
in their name. I presently had a class of my own. The funny thing
was that
all these classes—there must have been about a dozen—were held in
the church itself, teachers and scholars grouping themselves as best
they could in the aisles. Each class could overhear what was going
on in
the next, and the children were allowed to use—and misuse—Bibles and
hymnbooks taken from the pews! At last I found a retreat behind the
organ―it was at least quiet and retired, if dusty. But the rector's
wife
thought that retreat too close, and I and my pupils were put into a
room opening off the gallery. Two other teachers were already there
with large classes, one of them the infant class, and naturally
noisy and restless.
Each teacher taught what was right in her own eyes, and the teacher
of this infant class chose to make her children learn a "poem"
of
about thirty verses, which they acquired by rote, repeating a verse
after her, in a
loud, sing-song voice. The "poem" was about a dying child, and it
seemed to me that the miserable little urchins were always chanting,
"This poor hot, aching head of mine."
There was no reprieve, for this teacher was one of the faithful who
was never missing from her post!
Sunday-school began at nine in the morning and continued till
ten-thirty, when the church had to be ready for early comers to
service, and the children left their classes and were ranged on low
forms about the
communion rails, where they stayed throughout service, which was
seldom over till one o'clock! School was held again for about an
hour and a half in the afternoon. The pleasantest part was the "dismissal," when
teachers and children all gathered in the vestibule of the church,
whose doors in summer were thrown open, so that while we sang our
parting hymn we could see the sunbeams playing in the little avenues
of the
graveyard.
It was a terrible arrangement to keep children and young people in a
stuffy edifice for four hours at a stretch, to say nothing of the
return to the afternoon school. Neither service nor sermon was at
all adapted to interest
youthful hearers. If many Sunday-schools have been so conducted, it
is small wonder that they have failed to feed the Church.
The vestry was at the west end of St. Paul's, and therefore remote
from pulpit and altar. As soon as the benediction was pronounced the
beadle ascended the pulpit stairs, opened the pulpit door, and led
off a little
procession of rector, curate, and clerk, which passed down the aisle,
jostled by the retreating congregation, few of whom dreamed of
waiting in their pews till it had passed by.
It was under the influence of St. Paul's Church that we took
collecting-cards to defray the expense of circulating the New
Testament in China! As collectors of course we had some funny
experiences. One old
neighbour, a butcher, not always perfectly sober, readily laid down
a shilling, but with the remark: "Poor things! I have no doubt
they are very cold!"
In course of time, owing to many changes, we ceased to attend the
services at St. Paul's, and resorted to St. John's, Broad Court,
Drury Lane.
At that time Broad Court was a quiet, homely spot—a roadless
thoroughfare with three outlets between Bow Street, Long Acre, and
Drury Lane. There were two or three small shops in Broad Court. The
other houses
were old-fashioned dwellings, let in every instance to more than one
tenant.
St. John's Church stood at the Drury Lane end. It was an ugly
edifice on the outside, and not handsome within, though it had a
sort of cheery comfort. There was—and I think still is—a rather
gaudy east window,
embodying a figure intended to symbolize the Almighty, with worlds
whirling about His head—something in the fashion of a juggler's
balls. The building is square in shape, and when I first knew it was
surrounded on
three sides by a steep and heavy gallery.
All seats were "free and open," though the very scanty
congregation soon fell into a routine use, which was rarely
disturbed. The congregation itself often included the patron of the
living, Sir Walter James, and his
family, who "took their chance" of a pew with the rest of us. There was a choir of young men and women, trained and conducted by
the organist, a Mr. Constantine. In the choir was a daughter of
Frank Romer, the
actor, and Miss Sophia Beale, daughter of Dr. Lionel Beale, whose
family then lived in Long Acre. At week-night services this lady
played the organ. She is now well known in art and literature.
The galleries are now cleared from the church, whose walls bear
small brasses in loving memory of humble worshippers.
The incumbent, the Rev. Richard Graham Maul, was a
distinguished-looking man, tall, with a scholarly stoop. He was
generally believed to be a bachelor; certainly, if he had ever been
married his wife must have died
in the days of his youth, for no name of her ever entered into his
life. He was one of the early Broad Churchmen, and his pulpit was
occasionally filled by distinguished preachers on that side of the
Church. We often
saw Processor Plumptre there, and I think, by photographs that I
have since seen, Maurice and Kingsley also came. In the days before
photography it was not so easy to recognize famous people as it is
now.
The little church had a warm, hearty influence about it. There
seemed to be no "distinction of persons." The backbone of the
congregation and of the general church work lay in the large
teaching staff of the National
School in Castle Street, Endell Street.
I did not become a Sunday-school teacher there till after I was
confirmed. Mr. Maul held his Confirmation classes in the apartments
where he then lived—an upstairs floor in a house very near Oxford
Street. The young
women's class numbered only about seven. Miss Romer was in it. It
was held in the evening at seven-thirty, one or two of the girls
being engaged in business. The season of the year was April. It was
not quite dark
when we left at eight-thirty. It seems significant of that period
that, though I was (I think not unjustly) reputed steady and acute
for my years (sixteen), yet I was never suffered to make this trip
alone! My eldest sister
always accompanied me, sitting aside during our class. She never
dreamed of allowing me to make any acquaintance with my classmates,
and her presence withheld me from doing so. I was much attracted to
Miss
Romer, who once gave signs of joining us on our homeward way, but
who was coldly received by my "chaperone."
Mr. Maul's Confirmation class was thoroughly sensible and inspiring. He did not trouble us with the early Fathers, but tried to show us
how we had to meet life and its responsibilities. To this day I
remember a passage
of Scripture which somehow came into every lesson. It is Deuteronomy
xi. 26-28: "Behold I set before you this day a blessing and a
curse: A blessing if ye obey the commandments of the Lord your God,
which I
command you this day. And a curse if ye will not obey the
commandments of the Lord your God, but turn aside out of the way
which I command you this day, to go after other gods which ye have
not known."
The Confirmation was held at St. Martin's-in-the-Fields on a lovely
day of May. The officiating Bishop was Archibald Campbell Tait,
presently Archbishop of Canterbury, who after the "laying on of
hands" I came down
into the centre of the middle aisle, and, standing among the
white-dressed girls—the youths were comparatively few—made an
earnest appeal to them. I can remember nothing that he said. Indeed,
though I had felt
aroused and impressed during the Confirmation classes, and though
their good influence has never left me, yet I was wholly unable to
raise or to fix my mind throughout the whole ceremony. I remember
the look of the
church, flooded in sunshine, the dreamy devotional pauses, but
through my brain, again and again, by what psychological mystery I
cannot divine, there ran only Byron's lines:
"O God, it is a fearful thing
To see a human soul take wing!
I've seen it rushing forth in blood――" |
The odd, haunting quotation stopped there and began again.
After that I became a teacher in St. John's Sunday-school, which was
held in the rooms of the National School. The little dismissal
service, in which all the classes, boys and girls, shared, was
always conducted by
Mr. Maul himself. We invariably separated to the singing of the
cheerful hymn―
"Now thank we all our God
With heart and hands and voices,
Who wondrous things hath done,
In whom His world rejoices," etc. |
Among the most faithful of the teachers were the staff of the
National School. The places of the headmistress and one of her
subordinates, a very pretty girl, slightly crippled, were simply
never empty. The faithful
teachers had to "take" the classes of the less faithful, and often
both classes suffered in this union. I had a class of ten, and could
generally reckon on an attendance of eight, all weekday scholars at
the National
School. Among my scholars was a smartly-dressed, well-mannered girl
whose father had been murdered, the murderer being never discovered. I also had two daughters of a famous pugilist, Nat Langham, who kept
a
public-house in Drury Lane. They were specially quiet, well-behaved
children, tall, handsome, and well-clad. When Mr. Maul brought them
up to join my group he said, in a sly aside, "In fine condition."
I look back on my Sunday-school teaching with a sense of pain. I
feel I was so ill-prepared for the task, and nobody attempted to
prepare me, or even to find out how I was prepared.
I gave up my Sunday-school teaching when once I was fairly launched
among the storms of life. I—this girl who, between sixteen and
seventeen, had not been allowed to go out alone in the evening,
between eighteen
and nineteen found herself forced to seek for bread in any honest
way that she could find it. Looking back, I sometimes pity her, as
if she were not myself—pity her, not for her hardships and
adventures, but for the
unnecessary limitations she had so painfully to break through. The
straight groove in which I had been reared, the petty distinctions
which had been made in the life about me, the puerile and ridiculous
"gentilities" woven around me, made my lot much harder than it could
have been had I been bred on broader lines. But the worst was over
when once I had work, for which I rose often at six, not retiring
till long past
midnight. This happened generally towards the end of the week, and I
used to work till midnight on Saturday and resume work at midnight
on Sunday—as Rob Angus did in Barrie's "When a Man's Single."
I learned the full significance of a day of rest from bread-winning! As a day of rest in the strictest sense I felt bound to claim it,
the more so as I felt that my Sunday-school teaching was not less
fatiguing because it
was so perfunctory. Mr. Maul seemed vexed at my decision. He
disputed my explanation that when one was hard at work through the
week one wanted some absolute repose on the seventh day. But then,
with my
accustomed reserve, I did not tell him fully what my "hard at work" meant, and so he misunderstood me, and a sort of alienation sprang
up.
I did not carry away a single friendship, or even acquaintanceship,
from that church. I think this was wholly our own fault, for
certainly the social atmosphere was warm and kindly, quite different
from what I can recollect
of St. Martin's or St. Paul's. We always went to the winter
tea-parties of the church-workers and to the summer excursions, but
somehow we remained aloof. I remember that at one of the winter
gatherings an elderly
lady startled us all by appearing in a jewelled tiara! (I do not
know whether or not it was mere theatrical property). I believe she
was the head of a pawn-broking business in Drury Lane. The rest of
her family were present
in ordinary attire.
Mr. Maul moved from the comfortable apartments near Oxford Street,
and took up his abode over a coffee-shop in Endell Street. He said
it was to be nearer to his church, but we noticed that the change
was made just
when the coffee-house-keeper died and his widow's struggle, with a
large family to maintain, became very hard. I fancy Mr. Maul made
slight claims on attendance, waiting chiefly on himself. A relative
of mine, passing
up Endell Street after ten one evening, saw Mr. Maul come out of his
house, jug in hand, and run to a neighbouring shop.
Some of the curates who assisted him were men of very fine type. I
imagine they came there for the benefit of encountering slum life
under the guidance of this saintly man. Two at least of these
curates belonged to
aristocratic families, but the last curate I saw there was a negro,
the Rev. Mr. Gordon.
Beside St. John's there was a public-house, and more than once
morning service was disturbed by strange, unearthly sounds coming
there from. I have learned since that it was a famous rat-pit!
My people continued to attend St. John's as long as we remained in
the neighbourhood, but though I never left the church, circumstances
put a stop to my regular week-night attendance, and afterwards I
began to
wander a little on Sunday morning, walking off alone to visit some
historic City church. In this way I made acquaintance with Cripplegate Church, with St. Bartholomew's, Smithfield, All-Hallows,
by the Tower, the
church by Christ's Hospital, St. Alban's, Wood Street, St.
Dunstan's, and many obscurer City churches some of which have since
vanished. Such churches furnished me with backgrounds for many of
the stories I was
soon to write.
When we removed to Stockwell I never really settled down in a
church. I knew my stay there would be short, for by that time my
marriage was "in the air." I often went to the Tabernacle to hear
Charles Spurgeon,
especially on his Thursday evenings, when I liked him best, and when
the crowd and heat were less, though even then the huge Tabernacle
was always fairly filled. By this time I had begun to write in
Good
Words and
the Sunday Magazine, and when I paid my first visit to Scotland, in
some of the remotest Highland districts I was received with open
arms as one "who had heard Spurgeon," and could give some personal
details to
devoted admirers who punctually read his printed sermons. His
influence was certainly wonderful. Yet perhaps it was not invariably
deep. I know of one man—and he was an educated man of good
birth—who,
continuing to live in every infamy, still went constantly to hear
Spurgeon, and who, when his own flagrant misdeeds were personally
pointed out to him, answered:
"But we are saved by grace—grace—grace, not by works. Spurgeon says
so. Works are nothing."
The friendliness of Spurgeon's congregation
was remarkable. No stranger was left without a hymn-book. All were
offered seats. I know one poor prodigal who found his way there who
was kindly addressed by the old lady in whose pew sat, and who
eventually invited him to dine with her, and gave him so much kind
and good
advice that ever afterwards he spoke of her with affection and
respect.
I happened to be in the Tabernacle when Dr. Guthrie saw and heard
Spurgeon there. I was in the upper gallery, while the Doctor was in
the lower, sitting with his friends Sir John and Lady Burgoyne, who
attended
regularly. I watched the Doctor as he listened and observed closely. After service we met on the stairs. He said: "Well, our friend's
wonderful, wonderful, but he's no bonnie!"
I have said that I liked Spurgeon best in his week-evening
discourses. This was because there was an undercurrent of feeling
that those who would come to a week-night service were already "saved," and so did not
need to be troubled with any pressing reiteration of dogma. Where
spiritual experience was concerned, or insight into human nature,
Spurgeon was matchless. His language was always racy and vigorous,
and his
voice a treat to hear. I never met him. In his Sword and Trowel I
understand that he condemned my poor little stories. I am very sorry
that I never saw his criticism, for though I do not suppose I should
have agreed with
it, yet I feel sure I should have learned something from it.
His brother James told me of one quaint experience of the great
preacher. He had for a guest an American divine, a "distinguished D.D.," said the narrator, but he kindly withheld the name. Going
down to his study in
the early morning, Charles Spurgeon had a consciousness that
somebody was in the room before him. He thought it was but the
housemaid, and went straight in, to see his American guest rise from
the study table,
cheerfully remarking, "Your correspondence, brother Spurgeon, is
real interesting." James Spurgeon added that his brother said he
felt so ashamed for the man that he could not say a word of protest.
For some time before and after our marriage my husband and I
attended a place of worship unconnected with the Establishment. I
will not name the minister. He was a man of considerable power and
great
attainments. He had shown much kind attention to my husband in his
boyhood, and he welcomed me, as John's bride, with special courtesy
and favour. But he had a fatal weakness for moneyed people, and a
want of
sympathy bordering almost on contempt for the lowly or unsuccessful. A member of his congregation told me that during one of his visits
to her she expressed a wish that he should speak to her gardener,
then at work
on her lawn, introducing him to the pastor's notice as one of the
most faithful and devoted of his congregation. "Yes, yes, my dear
lady," replied the pastor, "I'm sure that's all very nice; but,
after all" (confidentially),"
it is not that kind of people whom we want." A very ill-fated member
of his church happened to meet him when in my husband's company. The
poor man explained that he had had to leave his former place of
business,
and had opened another in W―, an unfashionable village to the east
of London. "And what sort of a hole is that?" asked the reverend
gentleman.
By the way, this unlucky church member had had rather a romantic
marriage. A young governess had gone into his shop (a chemist's) to
ask the favour of a postage-stamp. From that developed courtship and
marriage.
"She was an adhesive stamp herself !" remarked the pastor's son.
In this church we heard Father Gavazzi. We were not at all
attracted. He spoke English fluently, and had considerable
oratorical power, but there was a flashy air about it all—more fit
for a political platform than for a
pulpit. I cannot recall his text, nor a single word he said.
I have repeatedly listened to sermons and addresses from my old
friend and editor Dr. Thomas Guthrie. He had a marvellous
personality, and a winning power which attracted to his services
many clever men who did
not care much for his doctrine. "What! you going to kirk?"
exclaimed one, who met a rather godless advocate on his way to Free
St. John's, Edinburgh. "Ay, ay; I'm going to see Tam launch the
lifeboat!" he replied—the lifeboat service affording the Doctor many of his favourite
metaphors.
I heard the Doctor preach one Sunday afternoon on the shores of Loch
Lee, not far from a ruined castle of the Lindsays'. He often
preached there during his stay in the neighbourhood, which he had
visited regularly for
more than twenty years. Sir George Harvey's fine picture—which I
saw in Brechin Castle—depicts a Sunday afternoon scene when many
notables were present—for any of these who were within a "Sabbath
day's
journey" seldom failed to put in their appearance. On that lovely
August Sunday, when I was there, there were only the farmers and
shepherds of the glen, with their wives and children. What Scottish
psalm-singing can
be among the solemn hills only those who have heard it can know. The
Doctor himself, his family, and any guest, rowed down the loch from Inchgrundel. The sermon was short and simple; in it occurred the
words, "I
would not give much for a man's Christianity if his cat were not the
better for it," which I have since seen attributed to Dr. Norman
MacLeod, and which probably one of the Doctors quoted from the
other. I scarcely ever
heard Dr. Guthrie preach without that phrase coming in, and in
private he told me that he had been constantly pained by a cruel
habit among Edinburgh people of turning their cats adrift to fend
for themselves when the
family went for its summer holiday.
I remember once, when Dr. Guthrie had preached somewhere in the West
of London, I went to the vestry door to have a word with him and
Mrs. Guthrie. Others were waiting there, among them a young
country-looking
woman, like a respectable servant. When the Doctor appeared, she
addressed him modestly: "May I just shake your hand, sir? You don't
know me, but my father knew you well—Tam Forbes " (the names are
fictitious), "gardener at Ex Hall." "And are you Tam Forbes's
daughter?" cried the Doctor, heartily shaking her hand. "Then let
me tell you you had a good man for your father, and I'm glad to have
met you." I cannot
forget the flush of pleasure on the maiden's face, or the tears that
trembled on her eyelids. Exactly the right thing had been said, and
it was the true thing but how few would have had the genial presence
of mind to say
it so promptly!
I often heard the Doctor speak at evening drawing-room meetings. I
do not know if these take place at the present time. They were
after-dinner assemblages, and the ladies were in evening dress—all
of them but me. I
put only a lace ruffle round the neck of my usual cashmere frock. I
must admit that when, in Laurence Oliphant's "Piccadilly," I read the
description of such a scene, I at once recognized its truthfulness. The Doctor was
generally pleading the cause of the Protestants of the Waldensian
valleys—a subject which seemed very remote from his glittering
audience. I remember after one such meeting (at Mrs. Fuller-Maitland's) the Doctor
came among us, looking about him, and, seeing me standing humbly on
the staircase (the assembly overflowed into the hall), called my
name, drew my hand through his arm, and led me off to the
refreshment-table.
As we passed I heard a lovely woman, her neck gleaming with
diamonds, whisper: "Oh, what would not I give if he would take me!"
Dr. Guthrie was invited to the wedding of the Princess Louise and
the Marquis of Lorne (of whom he had once spoken as "the lad with
the morning on his brow"). After the wedding he repaired to the
friendly house of
the Fuller-Maitlands, where, by his wish, my husband and I were
invited to spend the evening. The Queen had spoken to him, and he
had evidently received every honour and consideration, but I think
the weight of form
and ceremony had fatigued him. He was not so bright and full of
spirits as he was after a morning's row on Lochlee and a chat with
the shepherds!
I enjoyed much conversation with him when I was his guest at Lochlee
and in Edinburgh, and the impression of his wide, warm nature has
influenced my whole life in many ways. I do not think any of Dr.
Guthrie's
written words convey any adequate idea of himself. Those who never
heard him—never knew him—can never understand quite all that he was.
He did not like old people and little children being kept severely
apart, in almshouses and orphan schools. It had been his lot to
visit in two such institutions, and he said he had always felt how
much better and happier
both would have been had they been judiciously mixed. He made
careful notes for his pastoral visitation, so that his memory should
never betray him into forgetfulness of a child, or of a family
ambition or affliction.
During most of our married life we lived in Devonshire Square,
Bishopsgate, and our house there, according to City use and custom,
had a pew assigned to it in St. Botolph's Church. I always enjoyed
passing through
the (then) newly laid-out churchyard, and took great delight in
watching the beautiful peacocks. Every Sunday morning, as the
congregation was coming out en masse, these birds displayed their
exquisite tails,
justifying that character for vanity imputed to them in fable and
poetry.
The Rector was the Rev. William Rogers, somewhat of a famous
educationist, and commonly known as "Hang-theology Rogers," because
that had been his exclamation when somebody wished to intrude dogma
where
he thought common sense should be supreme. He was a valuable
citizen. Bishopsgate owes her pretty garden-churchyard to his
efforts, made when such things were apt to be regarded as meddlesome
innovations.
His influence was always on the side of progress. But he was not
one's ideal of a spiritual pastor. He preached the briefest of
essay-like sermons. He was punctual and indispensable at all civic
festivities. I never heard
of his paying any pastoral visits; and certainly he made no effort
to become acquainted with us, though we were his opposite
neighbours, though he met my husband in public associations, and
though our pew was
within hand-reach of his reading-desk. When my husband was taken
from me, and I, Mr. Rogers' church member and neighbour, was left a
young and lonely widow, he sent in—his card!
There was a little mystery in Bishopsgate Church about that time. A
curate died, a middle-aged man, plain and simple in look and manner,
and a devoted worker among the poor. At his death a lady of the
congregation
suddenly appeared in deepest mourning, giving out that she had been
engaged to him. She pointed to a ring as his betrothal gift. She
could produce no letters, but that was not unnatural, as both lived
within a small
radius, and could have met constantly. But that was precisely what
those who had known the curate best were most disposed to
disbelieve, saying that there were no hours of his life unaccounted
for by duty. It
remained an open question whether this grave, homely, middle-aged
man had cherished a secret romance with a plain, middle-aged
heroine, or whether she had chosen to give some secret dream this
outward form, and thus crown herself with sorrow!
My acquaintance with the Rev. Alexander Ross, of St. Philip's,
Stepney, dated from my consenting to become superintendent of a
mothers' meeting in his parish, which was too distant from most
residential quarters to
secure much regular assistance in church work. One large mothers'
meeting already existed there under the devoted superintendence of
Miss Mary De Morgan, daughter of the famous Professor De Morgan, and
sister
of the novelist, William De Morgan. But this meeting had been
started in the evening, and Mr. Ross felt that it therefore failed
to draw the younger mothers, who had husbands to welcome home and
children to put to
bed. Therefore he wished to inaugurate one for the afternoon. I went
with Miss De Morgan to her meetings for several evenings, to be
inducted into methods. We did not return home till about ten at
night, and had to
pass through some of the worst parts of the East End on foot. Nobody
ever even looked at us in the way of insult or injury. Yet at the
same time two gentlemen, doing other church work in the same
district, were mis-used and robbed more than once.
Mr. Ross said to me: "You will have nothing but pleasure and
interest in your dealings with the 'mothers.' Your trials will be
with the ladies of the committee;" the work being put under the
Bishop of London's Fund,
because it was desirable to have a regular mission-woman whose
salary could be secured in no other way.
This mission-woman was a poor widow, living with a mother (who was
well-nigh a centenarian) in almshouses in the Whitechapel Road. She
had lived with her mother as nurse and attendant, and took up the
mission-work, hoping to combine all these duties. The ladies of the
committee—Countesses and ladyships of the highest degree—told her
that "it was her duty to hold herself ready for the services of the
poor by day and by
might." She was to collect the money for the Clothing Fund (this
very soon involved ninety weekly visits), to visit and help the
bedridden, to look after the sick, take them to hospital, etc., and
be ready for any demand
at any moment. For all this they offered her the wage of—eight
shillings a week! In vain was it represented to them that she could
not possibly live on this sum in London if she had to pay
house-rent. They said,
inexorably, that she had not to pay house-rent, ignoring that the
aged mother had given her daughter house-room that she might render
her services, for which her new duties left little time.
"If she had no mother to live with," they said, "another five pounds
per annum might be managed." I ventured to retort: "Then the old
woman in the almshouse contributes five pounds per annum to the
Bishop of
London's Fund." They ignored my remark equally with all appeals both
from Mr. Ross and myself.
We tried to feed my mothers' meeting mainly from Essex Street, a
narrow lane straggling northward from the Commercial Road. Its
houses were but two-roomed edifices, and many of them sheltered at
least two
families. Mrs. Ross and I visited every house with an invitation. We
came across Roman Catholics. Of course, we did not expect them to
respond to us, but I remember one woman gave us a warm Celtic
greeting, and then shed tears over the little tin photograph of a
dead son, about whom Mrs. Ross felt rather compunctious, since
people had not been ready to believe in the gravity of his illness,
his mother, the poetic Celt, being known as both a drunkard and a "sorner."
I recollect one house on whose threshold we paused awkwardly. These
people, too, were Irish, and they had contrived to swindle some
Emigration Society. They had no known occupation, and when we
entered the
whole family were seated against the walls of the apartment, which
in their case had a stone floor. Everything was beautifully clean,
and the people were civil, but there was a sense of reserve on both
sides which made
us glad to retreat.
In another house dwelt a very pathetic little family—a widow with
one boy and two little girls. The dead husband had been a
costermonger—a most sober and industrious man—and his wife had been
worthy of him. At
the wash-tub, day after day, and far into the night, she earned
bread for herself and her children, and I never saw her otherwise
than clean, tidy, and cheerful. Free education did not then prevail,
but her children went to
some of the local foundation schools, and one or two of them had a "uniform" bestowed. They were neat and well-behaved. The mother
would not let them play in the streets, so they had to sit in the
room with the
steaming washing, and to sleep among the dampness it left behind. In
consequence, their health suffered; one had a touch of St. Vitus'
dance, and the boy was threatened with consumption. After knowing
that family, I
have always remembered that good-breeding and good behaviour are not
cheap and easy acquisitions for the very poor!
Sadder still seemed the case of another family. They did not live in
one of the houses, but in a sort of outbuilding in a back-yard. Here
again was a widow, a well-spoken person of courteous manners. Her
husband, I
afterwards learned, had kept a shop in one of the larger streets,
but had been unable to make any provision for his family. There were
two daughters. The elder, a girl of about eighteen, worked with her
mother at shoe-binding; even the younger one, a delicate child of eight or nine,
gave a little help. I have never forgotten the dismal room, with no
outlook save on water-closets and dustbins. Mother and daughters
received us as if we
had been friendly callers—only they never stopped working! The two
elders evidently took a pathetic pride in the younger girl, for her
long fair hair fell in carefully made ringlets. That was all they
could do for
her.
I remember another room, at whose door I knocked, to hear, after a
moment's pause, a quiet, "Come in!" The blinds were drawn down;
they always were so. The chamber was tidy, and well filled with
furniture,
including a mangle, at which the owner was working. She was a tall,
dark, grave woman, with a shawl pinned about her shoulders—just the
type one could imagine in the severe cap of an old-fashioned
domestic. I spoke to her about our two mothers' meetings, and she
seemed friendly and interested. Then, to decide to which she was to
be specially invited (as Miss De Morgan was to have the elder women
and widows, and I the young wives), I had to ask: "Are you a widow?" I was struck by the reserve of pain and endurance in the tone of
her reply: "I suppose I may say I am, for I've not heard of him
for twenty years."
Once, when a lady who became my colleague was accompanying me down
Essex Street, we noticed standing at a door a woman whose appearance
struck us as peculiar, and somehow out of keeping with the place.
Yet she was dressed even more poorly than many of her neighbours,
and wore an expression of hopeless misery. We entered into
conversation with her, and often afterwards paid her a call, for she
was too invalided to
come to any meeting. In course of time her history came out. She was
a knight's daughter! Her father had been a leading City tradesman,
and had been knighted for some reason at the Coronation of George
IV. The
knight had been married twice. By his first marriage he had several
children; by his second, with a woman who had been his housekeeper,
he had only our acquaintance of Essex Street. (It must have been
this
second wife who shared his title and became "Lady.") The knight
died when this youngest daughter was little more than an infant, and
the widow and her child found themselves very poorly provided for,
most of the
property being of a nature of which only the sons of the first family
got advantage. They retired to a little house (I think) at Stoke
Newington. The widow resumed the habits of her original condition. She set no store on
education, and would not allow her sickly little daughter to be "bothered" with it, so that she could scarcely write, or even read. In the end she married a young man who turned out a drunkard and a
brute, and, losing
his original employment, was, at the time we knew his wife, working
as a slaughter-man. The children were rather good to their mother,
though the eldest son, when about nineteen, brought home a wife to
swell the
miserable family party. There was a young daughter of whom the
mother was specially fond, and the last word I ever heard of these
people was that this girl had died, and that her death and dying
conversations had
had such an influence on her father that he had discontinued his
evil ways, and was displaying a rather belated but genuine kindness
to his neglected wife.
Amid all this poverty, we were told—and truthfully—that "not long
ago we might have picked up half-sovereigns and crown-pieces in the
Essex Street gutter." It appeared that at that time two elderly
women had
received respectively the sums of £300 and £150 as compensation for
the deaths of their husbands at the docks. These sums, respectable
in themselves, and little fortunes from the outlook of these poor
people, were all squandered in a few weeks, with nothing, as the
saying goes, "to show for it." The two women lived in
perpetual drunkenness; they "treated" all neighbours willing to be
"treated," and under such conditions they were, of course freely
robbed. (It was hinted that the civil, clean Irish family of
no known occupation lived particularly sumptuously at that time!) I called on one of these poor
women, whom I found, with two or three children, in a room where
there was little but a mangle. A tiny dusty fire was dying in the
grate, and in front of it sat three of the piteous stray cats of
poor London neighbourhoods. "They just come in and out," she said,
"an' I let them have a warm at the fire. It's all I can give 'em,
poor dears! but they're welcome to that." There was a kind heart in
the poor, irresponsible woman, and it seemed so sad that she had had
none to guide her in using and investing a sum that might have put
her in comfort for all her life.
The best and most thriving people in Essex Street—a family all
well-doing, saving money, and marrying well, with comfortable
outfits—were nearly related to our most shiftless and pitiful
family. The two mothers were
sisters, and the two fathers worked in the same employment. The
daughters of the capable woman were, as their mother said, "put to
shame" by the sight of their cousin's illegitimate child. The
unhappy cousin
herself had become quite blind. She must have been a lovely girl
once, and she had an exquisite voice. Essex Street was proud of her
singing, though its matrons shook their heads over the singer's
history. Yet they
had a feeling that her blindness and the suffering it entailed
restored her to a right to pity and consideration.
I found these wives of London labouring men by no means inclined to
be too sympathetic towards fallen sisters. It often pained me to
note how hard and callous they were about young girls who were only
on the road to
ruin. Their philosophy seemed to be, as they stated it: "If a
girl's got it in her to be bad, she will be bad, do what you like."
We "emigrated" two or three girls from our mission. One, an Irish "Norah," was something of a character. She was quite painfully ugly
when we first met her, but we put her, at the mission's expense, to
live as
servant with a very superior woman connected with the mission, who
had been in good service herself, and was now a clear-starcher. Norah's appearance improved with wonderful quickness! Her "mistress" was
satisfied with her industry and brightness, but said that she showed
signs of desire to flirt with the son of the house, a
genteel-looking young printer, who was, as his mother promptly told
Norah, "quite above the likes
of her." My colleague and I went down to the docks to see the girl
off, our mission-woman being also there. Norah went about busily
among her future shipmates, and presently came to us in great glee,
to say that
she'd found a nice girl who had a brother at the other end of the
ship, and he'd promised to look after her when he came to see his
sister! As the sailing of the vessel was unduly delayed, my
colleague and I had to
depart, leaving the mission-woman to see the last. Norah parted from
us without the slightest sign of emotion, and did not even turn to
look at us as we walked away. The mission-woman told us afterwards
that she
kept up the same unconcerned demeanour till the very moment of
unmooring, when she suddenly sat down on the deck and fairly howled.
Meanwhile she had confided to the mission-woman that she hoped to "get engaged" before she even saw Canadian shores! As Norah could
not write, we could hear of her only in the bald report of the
emigration agent on the other side.
We had held our first afternoon mothers' meeting in the parlour of
Norah's "mistress," the clear-starcher, as the Rosses thought that
would make it more interesting and more "talked about" than if we
had begun in
the schoolhouse, to which we presently went. The clear-starcher was a
very prim and proper person; her late husband had been a Frenchman,
and they had lived in France till the troubled year of 1870. I do
not think he
was able to leave her anything, but she was a fine ironer, and her
son was bringing in good wages. Between them they kept up a neat
little home. These people did not live in Essex Street, but in one
of the better
streets near. They also maintained an aged grandmother, quite
confined to bed and rather "dottled." Her bed was in the corner of
the large parlour where we held our meeting, and she startled its
proprieties by
suddenly exclaiming, in a loud and angry voice: "If I could only get
my stockings, I'd get up!"
Considering the long devotion of this daughter to her mother, the
end of their relationship was tragic. The daughter herself began to
grow infirm, and the aged invalid showed a tendency to such
violence as was possible
in her bedded condition. At last, most reluctantly, the daughter, for
the mother's own sake, let her be taken to the London Hospital. There, whenever visiting-days came, she punctually resorted. On one
occasion,
however, owing to her own ill-health, she could not go. She knew
perfectly that her mother was quite past missing her, and she felt
she would be well taken care of. But when she went to the Hospital
next visiting-day,
what was her horror and dismay to find another invalid in her
mother's bed, and to hear that the old woman was dead and buried! There had been a sad blunder and muddle somewhere. (This was in the
year 1874.) The
full force of the blow can be realized only when we recollect the
suspicion and horror that people entertain concerning "dissecting-rooms." Further, the good daughter clearly felt that the
corner-stone would have been
put on her filial duty by a "respectable funeral." Her only
consolation was in profound and elaborate "mournings"—the
mission-woman hinting that she spent on them what otherwise would
have gone to the
undertaker.
Our mission-woman herself, now living with her aged mother, and "devoting herself to the service of the poor by day and by night "
for eight shillings weekly, was also a "character." She had been
twice widowed. Her
first husband died young, leaving her with a boy and girl. With
tremendous effort she kept herself and the children, and brought
them up respectably. The girl married. The son, as a youth of
twenty, was earning good
wages, and his mother was in comparative comfort, when he suddenly
fell ill and died. She confided to me that she had been fairly
struck down. "I felt," she said, "as if I could not begin all
over again, all by myself." And so—she promptly married a decent man
in good work! "And, would you believe," she said, "we hadn't been
man and wife a fortnight before he said, 'Polly, my eyes feel very
queer,' and from that day they got worse, and in no time he was
stone-blind! Says I to myself, 'Polly, you've been and gone and
made a fine fool of yourself, and now you must just make the best of
your own bad job'; and so I had to keep that blind man as well as
myself—and oh, his temper was awful! I think something wrong in his
brain had flown to his eyes, you see!"
It appeared that she had managed to keep a little shop. "You can
start decent with three pounds," she assured us, "but you have to
take care you don't live on the stock."
My colleague and I were puzzled by the ease with which these working
widows, often with children, seemed able, the moment they wished it,
to secure other husbands to assume all responsibilities. The
mission-woman was not quite a case in point, as she had married again as a
widow unencumbered, so we ventured to ask her to explain this
mystery. She was a little sallow woman, with irregular features, and
one perpetually "weeping" eye—not by any means what one would call an attractive
person—yet she had had two husbands, the latter, apparently, at
her own behest.
"Why, don't you see, ladies," she said quite frankly, "it's the
'home' the man thinks of. A widow's got a little 'home' all ready for
him to
sit down in!"
A "home" in the East End means a bed with bedding, oilcloth, a
table, and some chairs, crockery in the cupboard, and a big chest of
drawers. If there be some carpet, a looking-glass, and a few framed
oleographs,
then it is "a very good home."
We had a little provident fund connected with our meeting, as this
gave a reason for the mission-woman's weekly visit to all the
members. She gathered up pence, and even farthings, which, as nearly
all the women
owned, would have been otherwise wasted. As she was no
arithmetician, I took extraordinary measures against mistakes. I
made six bags, marking on each the name of a day of the week. She
used "Monday" bag
on Monday, and so on, tying each up at night, and bringing them all
to me on Saturday afternoon. It was a very primitive plan, but it
had the merit of success, for we never had a single error. Each
woman had a card, on
which her contribution was entered, and our funds were invariably
exactly responsive to this. Then we bought rolls of navy blue cloth,
flannel, etc., and even a few small table-cloths. The latter proved
very attractive. The
women came to the meeting to make their purchases, and any who chose
could stay and work, needles and cotton being freely provided. We
generally found a member able and willing to cut out, and we had a
clever German woman, who delighted to settle such problems as 3¾
yards at 6¾d. per yard. She was a regular and valuable member of
our meeting, a woman full of thrift and capacity, the wife of a
sugar-baker.
Another regular attendant was a pretty young woman, married to an
elderly carman. The other women used to say, with a sneer, "that
she made as much fuss with him as if he was a young lord!"
While the women worked, one of us read to them. We were always glad
when Mr. Ross himself came to "dismiss" us; his presence was so
gentle and inspiriting. I think all his parishioners loved him, and
knew that
he cared for them, but for all that he never filled his church. He
was a deep thinker, something of a mystic, and his mental style was
scarcely suited to the East End—at least, in those days. When I was
going about
his parish I often met him, and some beautiful thought was always
ready on his lips. His feet trod the narrow Stepney byways for
years, but his soul did always behold the face of his Father in
heaven. Mr. Ross was
ably seconded by his wife, who, being an artist of no small skill,
never allowed any of his efforts to stand still for want of cash
while she could sell one of her beautiful pictures.
Since I have lived in Scotland I have not come into any close
relation with churches or church work. When I first settled in
Aberdeen—nay, even when I first paid a visit there—I was struck by
what seemed to me a lack
of spirituality in the people. It is true that when I first knew the
city Union Street, its main thoroughfare, was totally bare of
vehicles on Sunday—with the rare exception of a specially chartered
cab or a carriage from the
country—and the whole thoroughfare, roadway as well as pavements,
was dark with a throng of church-goers. There was quite a church
uniform among the men—a suit of "blacks" and a top-hat. But
church-going was
regarded as a sort of social function, a badge of "respectability,"
and did not involve any spiritual life, or even always ordinary
morality. I remember when I was staying at an hotel, previous to
taking a house, a youth
from Glasgow also staying there remarked to me that he had never
before heard such bad language or seen such flagrant ill-behaviour
as he had noticed in Aberdeen streets after dark on Sunday evening. My own
observation, so far as it went, confirmed his. Afterwards, when
dining at the house of a Free Church divinity professor, I remarked
on this to my next neighbour, who happened to be a very popular town
minister. His
answer shocked and silenced me. It was:
"But it is not so bad as you think. All those young people have been
to church on Sunday morning!"
I have known ministers of the Presbyterian Established Church to
urge full membership on a servant girl so densely ignorant that even
after she had gone through their "preparation," and had attended
several
Communion services, she said she "did not think she should go
again, as she was never likely to see anything!"
The most persistent drunkenness did not always keep its victims even
from official Church positions, unless it was too flagrantly
displayed on official occasions.
In a little Highland town which I knew well twenty years ago the "officer" of the Parish Church was terribly addicted to drink. In
the end, he walked so manifestly the breadth rather than the length
of the aisle that he
was dismissed. "There are some who would have been put from their
church by that," he was wont to say, "but that's not my way," and
he continued punctual attendance unofficially. He was a man over
seventy, but
when one saw him in the early morning one saw him with erect figure,
martial step, and beaming face. Later in the day it was a different
story. He looked after luggage from the station, and was the
town-crier. During
one of my last visits to that city I saw him doddering at the corner
of a street, announcing, with a muttered expletive at his own
condition, that a temperance meeting was to come off that evening!
But it is not only in Scotland that there existed—or still exists
(?)—this strange divorce between religion (so called) and conduct. I
remember, when I was a young woman, the middle-aged son of a
well-known London
family was killed by his mistress, who threw a knife at him as they
sat at supper. He had taken her from her husband long before. It was
some cruel remark made by the man about this unhappy woman's
daughter
which roused the mother's fatal fury. His sisters told a well-known
literary woman of that period that their brother had never failed to
accompany them to Holy Communion! They pleaded this—and she
accepted it—as a
mark of grace and virtue in this deliberate profligate. Without any
desire—such as Ruskin had—to restore the personal "fencing of the
tables," surely the priests of every creed should make searching and
ever-renewed
appeal to their co-religionists not to stretch out their hands
towards the sacred mysteries of any creed while their conduct
remains persistently in flat contradiction of its teaching. The
penitent? yes, they are surely the
most welcome; but the impenitent—those who, so far from "giving
up," are determined to go on?—surely not. What is atheism, what is
blasphemy, if not this?
Aberdeen has long had rather a bad reputation for fraudulent public
men and defaulting lawyers. Most of these were Church members; many
were loud and active in religious profession. Their frauds were
often of the
meanest sort—stealing the small savings of poor working-men or aged
widows. I must tell a story related of one of these lawyers, a man
of specially unctuous type. He wished to get his hand upon the
little property of
an old countrywoman for whom he had done some small business. After
urging on her the excellent investments he could make in her behalf,
he proceeded:
"But I don't want you to do anything rashly, Mrs. X――. Suppose we
kneel down together and get the will of the Lord upon it?"
The two kneeled down, and the lawyer "prayed" fervently. When they
rose, Mrs. X―― said:
"Thank you, sir. I hae gotten the will of the Lord on it, an' it's
no to let you hae my siller!"
That lawyer eventually, leaving ruin behind him, fled to South
Africa. He was first heard of there as frequenting a "Young Men's
Christian Association." Nearly every Aberdeen defaulter for the last
ten years has fled to South Africa.
Young people, too, in Scotland were tempted to join the Church as a
mere matter of social propriety, however unthinking and frivolous
they might be. A consciousness of the worth of religious conviction had
degenerated into undue regard for dogma and mere outward forms, thus
encouraging an easy hypocrisy. It seemed to be forgotten that human
judgment has no right to pry further than the "fruits" of upright
living, and
that a soul's personal relations with God must be left between God
and the soul.
"Sabbath observance" in Scotland has been allowed to become a
superstition imposed upon humanity without understanding or true
appreciation of its real significance as ordained "for man." A few
illustrations will
make clear what I mean.
A friend has told me that one Sunday morning recently a few ladies
happened, for some reason, to be in their church rather before the
appointed hour for the ingathering of the congregation. A bird
poured out its heart in
song just outside the window. Next day one of the ladies remarked on
the loveliness of the melody, when another, who had also been
present, responded "Ah, I noticed it too, and I should have so
enjoyed it if it had not been Sunday!"
Not long ago I remarked to an Aberdeen Bible-woman that a certain
humble street in her district was always quiet and clean, with tidy
curtains and bright flowers at the windows. She shook her head
solemnly, with the
remark: "The fowk here are no better than the lave; you'll see as
mony reading Sunday newspapers there as i' ony ither place!"
During a visit to Loch Maree in 1880, my little party always took
every opportunity to escape into the open air, for the full blaze of
the sun beat upon our little parlour. So on Sunday afternoon—as on
other afternoons—we took our books—and they were really what are
called "Sunday books"—and went out, and, as our only escape from the
midges was to go on the loch, we got into the boat and drifted about
as usual.
But what a reception awaited our return! A sour, elderly Highlander
met us, and railed at us as "Sabbath breakers," and, snatching at
one of our oars, that we had taken from a heap which always lay at
the landing-stage, he said "that, at least, did not belong to our boat, and we
shouldn't use it again whatever!"
Now, a few years before, when Queen Victoria had stayed at Loch
Maree Hotel, and had delighted in being rowed on the loch, she had
summoned the local boatmen to take her out on Sunday, and they had
replied "that they were at the Queen's service all the week, but on the
Sabbath they were in the service of the King of kings." There was
something grand in that, as a claim to one day when they must be
free from
breadwinning to act out their highest life as "their own masters." Nobody was more ready to appreciate this than the Queen herself. But
surely, if some of the monarch's sons or friends had chosen for
kindliness to
take "a tired Queen with her state oppressed" for a quiet drifting on
peaceful waters, that would have been a different matter. It is hard
to understand how lifting an oar can be conceived as in itself an
action absolutely different from drawing a chair up to a table. Yet
doubtless our rigid Highlander had done that before he partook of
his Sabbath meals. He would call that "a work of necessity." Yet he
might be little the worse—possibly much the better—for a whole
Sabbath day's fast!
In the reaction from such bondage as this—a most unchristian bondage
often sanctimoniously accepted by those who broke most of the other
Commandments—the true blessing of the day of rest and peace, of joy
and gladness, has been apt to be lost sight of. Those who were
shocked at thought of a Sunday walk, or at seeing a piano open—even
for that music which is quaintly differentiated as "sacred"—forgot
that their
grandparents would have been equally shocked at their making their
beds or shaving on "the Sabbath." In Aberdeen of recent years many
people who have hot dinner on Sunday have objected to the running of
cars on
that day. Yet why is the service to the community of the driver and
conductor more objectionable than the service of the cook to a
family? Personally, I regret Sunday cars, with their invasion of
peace and quietness,
but they are only an effect, and my regret goes down to the
cause—i.e., the great growth of cities. Without Sunday cars some
working families, wherein are old people or little children, could
never be reunited. If once
the spirit of appreciation of a rest-day awakes in people, these
things can be used without abuse.
A quaint story went round Aberdeen about three years ago. A certain
minister was invited to take a special service at a suburban place
of worship. It was remote from his dwelling, but both places were
near a car line.
"You will find it quite easy to get to us," said the gentleman who
gave the invitation. "The car which passes here will drop you a few
yards from our chapel door." "But I should never dream of
travelling in a Sunday car!" cried the minister. "I would not do
such a thing. It is contrary to my principles." The other stood
aghast. "What shall we do, then?" he asked. "I have always had a
cab provided for me," said the minister gravely. A cab was provided,
and as he kept it waiting a long while, and as our cab fares are
(very wisely) a "fare and a half" on Sunday, the suburban
congregation were "let in" for an account for ten shillings! The
electric car would have cost four-pence return, and this "swallower
of camels" might have sat beside a young workman going out to see
his old mother, and no horse would have been wearied (one should be
jealous of the rest-days of animals, who cannot form unions nor go
on strike), and perhaps the reverend gentleman might have got some
new ideas for his discourse.
Moody and Sankey, and other evangelists of that type, have always
had great vogue in Aberdeen. The city was fairly upset over the
first-named Americans, and its population went wellnigh frantic. The
wave of emotion,
generally intensely egotistic, was not quite exhausted when I first
settled here. I have noticed that a certain set of Aberdonians are
perennial attendants at "meetings," though of the most conventional
type. There are those who never miss any "revivalist," and who
really make me think of Paul's description of "silly women"—"ever
learning, and never able to come to the knowledge of the truth."
Yet many of this type seem devoid of all softer emotion, all touch
of pity, all tenderness for the works of God. One of the most dismal
and disheartening sights I ever saw I witnessed in the little
Highland town to which I
have already referred. My hostess took me to call on a well-placed,
wealthy widow in later middle life. We found her in her snug
parlour, clad in the costliest and most sepulchral "weeds," an open
Bible on the table
before her. My friend inquired after the widow's nephew, a boy of
twelve or thirteen. "Oh, he is quite well," answered the aunt; "he is
down at the bottom of the garden enjoying himself catapulting
blackbirds!"
What could reach that woman's heart? The Bible had failed to do it. The supreme sorrow of life had also failed.
Scotland has been too long under the cult of gloom. It is only of
recent years that it has not been thought wellnigh irreligious to
make a graveyard into a bright and soothing spot. Even yet the
graveyard and all the most
dismal associations of mortality bulk largely and quaintly on many
Scottish imaginations. There is a curious pride in the height or
weight of the gravestone or the length of the inscription. Quite
lately I heard of a
medical practitioner who expressed a desire soon to exchange his M.B.,
C.M. for the more dignified M.D., and when asked what had put this
into his head at that particular time, gravely replied that he would
like to have
the higher degree noted in his epitaph!
I scarcely think that in any other country—save perhaps Turkey—a
woman would take a class of little children for a picnic in a
cemetery. That happened quite lately in Grange, Edinburgh.
My old friend Dr. Japp has left on record that he had known
old-fashioned Scots who turned with horror from any portrait of the
dead. A father, shown the only extant likeness of a young son who
had died away from home, put it aside with the words !"We hae naething
to dae wi' the blessed deid."
On the north-east of Scotland, too, where trees are not too
abundant, and are sadly slow in growth, there seems to be an almost
malicious delight in cutting them down. They are cleared away on the
slightest pretext.
Is it necessary to lop a few boughs to relieve a smoky chimney, then
a noble tree is hewn down—perhaps a tree whereon the birds sang long
before John Knox preached. Is a new house to be built where no house
has
been before, then everything is first reduced to desolation, the
ancient hedge is torn away, the old oak or the cheery hawthorn is
laid low. Then a "neat" granite wall is reared, surmounted by a
cast-iron railing. Perhaps
in the more cultured cities things are not quite so bad in this
direction as they have been—that is not saying much!—but in the
smaller towns this blasphemy against the Divine in Nature still goes
on apace. The
common "civic" idea of beauty seems to be straight lines and as much
iron as possible. Is the "Kirk " wholly guiltless? How seldom does
any minister of any church plead for reverence for, or conservation
of, natural beauty, or for justice and kindness to the animal world,
or even for the brotherhood of humanity, below and above all details
of creed, civilization, and colour! I heard a young English
nonconforming minister lately declare that, though he should
certainly preach the "immanence of God and the brotherhood of man
in the abstract," he should never seek to apply those truths to the
problems which are being set on all hands. He said such
"application" would be "mere casuistry." Perhaps he is not a fair
instance, but he is rising rapidly in his sect.
When the clergy lead the prayer, "Thy will be done as in heaven so
on earth," do they ask themselves first what they regard as the will
of God? If they have seated a demon on the throne of the universe,
inevitably the working out of his will does not make earth paradise,
and, reasoning backwards, whatever worship does not tend to make
earth paradise must be demon-worship. If the Churches had made their
constant study of "whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things
are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure,
whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report,
of every virtue and of every praise," there might well have been
some havoc among certain dogmas, but many who are now outside those
churches would be within, and their number would be steadily on the
increase. |