THE PARSONAGE:
MY FATHER’S FIRESIDE.
After the lapse of about thirty years, I lately paid a visit to what had once been my father’s fireside. It was in the month of October that I visited the manse of Kirkhall. My father had been minister of that parish; and I received a kindly welcome from his worthy successor—one of the warmest-hearted and most learned men in the Church of Scotland, whom I have long known and esteemed as a brother. I found myself again seated beside the hearth in the little parlour which was once gladdened with a mother’s smile—which was once cheered with the childish sports of brothers and sisters—which was hallowed by the prayers and presiding virtues of an affectionate father. They are all departed to the land of spirits!
Yet, on looking round me, every object seemed to assure me that they were still near—for almost everything else was unchanged. On looking through the window from the elbow-chair in which I sat, the old and magnificent lime tree, which, in the days of my youth, spread its branches and foliage in wide luxuriance over the court, and gave assurance of shade and shelter, was still unscathed. Its sweet-scented flowers were indeed faded—for the breath of approaching winter had touched its verdure; but its variegated green and yellow leaves were the same as when I had seen them, and attempted, with boyish hands, to imitate, nearly half a century ago. A little farther off, the “decent church” peered from among the majestic ash, elm, and chestnut trees, with which it was surrounded—the growth of centuries—casting a deep and solemn shadow over the place of graves. The humble offices, and the corn-yard in which I had rejoiced to mingle in rural occupations and frolic, were near; and nothing was wanted to realize the scenes of my youth, save the presence of the venerable patriarch and my mother, and their little ones grouping around their knees, or at the frugal board.
But the illusion was short-lived. A holly tree, in the adjoining parterre, caught my eye. When I knew it of old, it was a little bush, in which the goldfinch and the linnet nestled, and were protected under my juvenile guardianship; but, now it had grown up to a stately tree. I saw, in the mirror over the mantelpiece, the image of my own visage, in which there were lines that time and the world’s cares imprint on the smoothest brow and the most blooming cheek. The yellow locks of my forehead were fled, and the few remaining hairs were beginning to be silvered with grey. My son, too, rising almost to manhood, stood up before me, unconscious of the recollections and visions which flitted through my mind. These things dispelled my reverie; and my wandering thoughts were recalled to the realities of the passing hour.
It was on a Saturday evening that I thus revisited Kirkhall; and my melancholy meditations were soon partially dissipated by the cheerful, but moderate hospitalities of my host; which were truly such as to make me feel that I was, as it were, among mine own kindred, and at my father’s fireside.
What a flood of emotions and remembrances spring forth at the mental utterance of these words! On retiring from the parlour, I was ushered into what was, of old, denominated, in the quaint colloquial language of Scotland, “The Prophet’s Cham’er”—that is, the apartment for study, which was to be found thus distinguished in all the old manses of our clergy. It was now a bedroom, the library being established in another apartment; and I laid my head upon the pillow in a chamber which was consecrated, in my memory, by the recollection that within its walls good men had often thought of “the ways of God to man,” and prepared their spirits, in the depths of silence and seclusion, for proclaiming in the sanctuary the glad tidings of salvation.
It was a tempestuous night; and, though the blast was completely excluded from the manse by the dense masses of trees with which it was surrounded, the wind howled and moaned through their branches and on their summits, and, like the thunder, gave forth a solemn music to the soul. I did not sleep, but listened to the sounds of the tempest with that pleasure which philosophy cannot explain. Ere long, the current of thought reverted to my own former relations, to the dwelling in which I reposed; and busy memory, in the watches of the night, supplied, with all the freshness of a recent event, the circumstances which chequered the life and marked the character of my father. Though, perhaps, in the estimation of many, these were commonplace, yet, to me, they were still full of interest; and, as they seem to afford a true and undistorted picture of a Scottish clergyman’s real character and fortunes, I have written them down to fill a spare corner in the Tales of the Borders.
William Douglas was the eldest son of a farmer in one of the northern counties of Scotland. The family had been tenants of the farm of Mains for five successive generations; and, so far as tradition and the humble annals of the parish could be relied on, had borne an unspotted name, and acquired that hereditary character for worth, which, in their humble station, maybe regarded as constituting the moral nobility of human nature. Just and devout in their lives—sincere, unpretending, and unaffected in their manners—they were never spoken of but with respect and goodwill by their neighbours; and were often, in the domestic and rural affairs of the vicinity, the counsellors and umpires, in whose good sense, and integrity, and kindness of heart, their humble friends trusted with confidence. Such characters and families are to be found in almost every rural district of this country; for, “though grace gangs no’ by generation, yet there is sic a thing as a hawk o’ a guid nest.” I believe in the homely proverb, though some metaphysicians may dispute it, but whether debatable or not in the abstract, William Douglas had the good fortune, as he deemed it, to grow up in the bosom of a family in which the characteristic of worth was cherished and transmitted as an heirloom.
The eldest son of the guidman of Mains showed an early fondness for his school exercises, and acquired, under the tuition of Roaring Jock, the dominie of the parish, a tolerable proficiency in the rudiments of literature. The guidman, being an elder of the kirk, was often at the minister’s manse, and the bairns from Mains were occasionally invited to tea on the Saturdays and play-days; and Paplay, the minister, (was so denominated, from the name of a small estate of which he was the laird), showed great favour to the “auldest callant,” and often conversed with him about the subject of his reading. In these circumstances, and considering the religious character of the Mains family, it was almost a matter of course that Willie should be destined by his parents, and prompted by his own predilections, to “the ministry.” And, by the advice of Paplay and Roaring Jock, Willie was sent to the Marischal College at Aberdeen, where he gained a bursary at the competition, and prosecuted his studies with assiduity, until, at length, in the fulness of time, he became a licentiate of the church.
The only thing I remember to have heard connected with this period of my father’s life, was his anecdotes of Paplay’s eccentricities, which were numerous—some of them personal, and some of them the peculiarities of the old school of clergy in Scotland. He was a pious and orthodox man; but withal had a tincture of the Covenanter about him, blended with the aristocratic and chivalrous feeling of a country gentleman of old family. In the troubled times, about the years 1745-6, he was a staunch Whig; and so very decided in his politics, that, when “Prince Charlie’s men” had the ascendancy in Scotland, he was either in arms or in hiding; and when he ventured to preach, he wore his sword in the pulpit, and a blue coat, girt with a belt, in which a pair of pistols were hung—more like a man of war than a preacher of peace! Even after the defeat at Culloden, the Jacobitism of the north was so strong, and Paplay was so obnoxious, by reason of his vehement preaching against popery, and prelacy, and the Pretender, that he continued long after to wear his sword (in the pulpit and elsewhere), which was rather a formidable concern to the nonjurors about him, in the hand of a brave and athletic champion of true Whiggery. He assigned three reasons for wearing his sword after it seemed to some of his friends to be unnecessary:—“First, because I am a gentleman; secondly, because I can use it; and, thirdly, because, if you doubt, you may try.” Among some of his oddities, he had a great admiration of a well-spring, a white calf, and a bonny lass; and he never passed any of them in his way without doing them homage. Though travelling on horseback, he would dismount to bathe his feet in a limpid stream, as it gushed from the earth, or to caress a white calf, or to salute a female—all which fantasies were united with the most primitive innocence. And he never ate a meal, even in his own house, or when he was a refugee in a hay stack or kiln barn, without exacting from his wife and friends the most urgent pressing.
It was under the auspices of this warlike and singular apostle that my father was ushered into the sacred office of a minister of the gospel. He preached his first sermon in the church of his native parish; and, according to the fashion of the times, at the close of the service, the parish minister publicly criticised the discourses of the day. The young preacher, in this instance, found favour in Paplay’s eyes; and his testimony in favour of the plant which had sprung up among them was so emphatic, and rendered so piquant by his odd figures of speech, that William Douglas was long distinguished among his friends and neighbours by the familiar designation of Paplay’s Plant.
But there was another plant that graced the manse, which was not unobserved or unadmired by the young preacher—Jane Malcolm (the daughter of a clergyman in a more remote parish, and niece of Paplay’s lady), a sweet flower, that had grown up in the wilderness, like “a daisy on the mountain’s side.” It was in the nature of things that “the loves of the plants” should be illustrated by the juxtaposition of the two favourite flowers of the chivalrous parson. An affectionate but secret attachment naturally grew out of the frequent visits which “Paplay’s Plant” paid to the manse; and these were multiplied in consequence of William Douglas being appointed assistant to his spiritual patron, whose decline into the vale of years had begun to abate the energy of his character, and to render assistance necessary. The attachment between the young people might be suspected, but was not formally made known to Paplay and “the lady,” as she was called, according to the courtesy of the olden time. Indeed, such a promulgation would have been idle; for the “half-reverend” assistant (as Paplay was wont to address the young probationers of the church) had no immediate prospect of a benefice, although he was an acceptable preacher, throughout the bounds of the presbytery. But an incident occurred which facilitated the union, of which the preliminaries were thus established.
The Earl of Bellersdale,[H] a nobleman in the neighbouring county, who affected to be descended from an ancient family that flourished in the days of good King Duncan, but who had really no more connection with it than with Hercules or the Man in the Moon, reared a village or sea-port at a short but convenient distance from his magnificent castle. Among the other items in the arrangements which were destined to immortalise the munificence of the Earl in the establishment of Bellerstown, a church was deemed necessary for political, to say nothing of moral considerations; and the earl, being a man of taste, thought that a church, placed in a particular position, would make a fine vista from various points in the noble park which surrounded the Castle of Bellersdale. A picturesque chapel was accordingly built on a rising knoll, separated from the pleasure grounds and the castle by a river, over which a handsome bridge made no mean addition to the lordly scene.
The chapel being built, and endowed with a stipend of “forty pounds a-year” (the hint, I suppose, was taken from Oliver Goldsmith), it was necessary to provide a clergyman to officiate in it; and William Douglas being one of the most approved young men in the district, had the honour to be preferred by the patron. The period to which I now refer was long before the church, in its wisdom, enacted a law for regulating chapels of ease; and not only the amount of stipend, but the continuance of clergymen who officiated in such chapels, depended on the arbitrary and sovereign will of their pious founders. Bellerstown, though a step in William Douglas’ professional progress, yielded too scanty a revenue to admit of matrimony; but the talents, respectability, and prepossessing manners of the chaplain made him a favourite at the castle, and rendered it practicable to eke out the slender living by the addition of a small farm, at what was called a moderate rent. But this appendage, too, was held by the same precarious tenure—Lord Bellersdale’s will. The probationer was inducted as pastor of the Bellerstown chapel, according to the rules of the church; and, after the lapse of a few months, he and Miss Jane Malcolm thought—although no other person thought—that they might venture to enter into the holy bands of wedlock, and, with frugality and mutual love in their household, look forward to happiness in their humble and unambitious sphere of life. This thought ended in deed—and they were married.
The tenor of a clergyman’s life is, in general, even and unvaried, consisting of a faithful and regular discharge of his peculiar duties. Such, for some years, was the fate of William Douglas. He acquired the confidence and affections of his humble flock—the esteem of his brethren—the countenance of the neighbouring gentry—and even the patronage of the great man, at whose table he was a frequent and welcomed guest. Mrs. Douglas had presented him with two sons: and his parents, advanced in years, were gathered to their fathers. This bereavement was not unlooked for; but the first trial of life which wrung his heart to the core, was a fatal illness which, in a few days, snatched the object of his most tender affection from him.
Time passed on, and “brought healing on its wings.” After the lapse of several years, my father felt that it was not meet for man to be alone; and, whilst he cherished the fondest remembrance of his first domestic companion, he had too much good sense to go into the affectation of continuing single during the rest of his life “for her sake;” more especially as he had no female relative to whom he could confide the maternal charge of his boys in their nursery days. He accordingly discerned, in the daughter of one of his flock, a respectable farmer in the neighbourhood, those personal attractions and amiable dispositions which awakened his manly sympathies; and, too high-minded to stoop to mercenary considerations, he married a second time, without hunting for a tocher, as is sometimes imputed sarcastically to the Scottish clergy. Isobel Wilson was lovely and virtuous.
About the time the American war ended, I came into this earthly part of the universe; but nothing occurred for several years of my father’s life to diversify the peaceful enjoyments of his domestic life, or to interrupt the conscientious and zealous discharge of his pastoral duties. At length, however, a cloud gathered in the firmament, which ere long burst on his head, in the wrath of his patron, the Earl of Bellersdale.
Local, rather than general politics agitated the district in which his humble life was cast; and there was a vehement struggle betwixt his lordship and a neighbouring nobleman for ascendancy in the county. The ranks of either party were swelled by the multiplication of freehold qualifications, for the purpose of acquiring votes. One of the expedients, as is well known, for the attainment of such objects, is the creation of nominal and fictitious voters, by conferring on the friends of a political party an apparent, but not a real interest in a landed estate; and this is practised and justified by a legal fiction, and a little casuistry, with which political agents are quite familiar. The ordinary mode in these cases, is to confer such parchment franchises on dependents and personal connections of the great man who needs their support—and the Earl of Bellersdale, who had the patronage of many churches of greater or less value, found, even among the clergy who had hopes of preferment from his hand, several individuals sufficiently unscrupulous to accept of such discreditable titles to a political franchise as freeholders.[I] Amongst others, my father, who was in good odour at the castle, was deemed a likely person to be intrusted with so precious a privilege as a right to vote for any tool of the earl who might be brought forward as a candidate for representing the shire in Parliament. The factor was despatched to Bellerstown to offer this high behest to the poor parson, whose ready compliance was expected, as a matter of course. But he calmly and peremptorily refused the proffered vote, and intimated that he held it derogatory to the sacred nature of his office to pollute himself with such politics, and inconsistent with every principle of honour, morality, and religion, to take an oath, as required by law, that he was possessed of a landed estate, while, in truth, he had no earthly title to an inch of it. This scrupulosity gave mortal offence at the castle; and the recusant parson was doomed to ridicule as a pious fool, and to ruin. And as, in such cases, when an offending individual is completely dependent on the offended party, pretexts are never wanting for cloaking the lurking purpose of mischief: these were soon and easily discovered. If the minister of Bellerstown discoursed on integrity and truth as Christian virtues, or on the sacredness of an oath, the earl’s underlings bore the tidings to the castle, where such doctrine was deemed high treason against the electioneering morality; and the faithful and fearless minister of religion having rebuked, from the pulpit, some gross and public enormities and violations of the Sabbath by the canvassers for the earl’s candidate, within the precincts of his pastoral charge, this was a sad and unpardonable aggravation of his rebellion. Nay, having published a little tract on the duty of attending public worship, of which he was the known author, this was regarded as a direct personal insult to the lord of the manor—because his lordship was so much engrossed with politics and his other affairs, that he had, for some time, ceased entirely to go to church. These little incidents were aggravated by the perfidy of the parson of the parish within which Mr. Douglas’ chapel was situated. That gentleman had formed a scheme for transferring his residence from the ancient manse, in a remote part of the parish, to the more populous and flourishing burgh of barony of Bellerstown—intending to officiate himself in the chapel (receiving, of course, the additional accommodation applicable to that cure), and consigning the care of the souls in the parish church to the schoolmaster—a preacher whom he satisfied with a bonus of £10 or £12 a-year. And for the accomplishment of this object, it was no difficult thing, as matters stood, to ingratiate himself into the patron’s favour, and to accomplish his own personal objects, by whispering into the earl’s greedy ear every remark that would suit his purpose, made by Mr. Douglas, in the most unbounded confidence of private intercourse and seeming friendship.
When the wrath which had accumulated in the heart of the earl was fanned to its height, he issued his orders to the factor in the following decree:—“Rackrent—Us”—(a grammatical singularity which his lordship always used, surpassing even the royal or editorial majesty, indicated by the first person plural)—“Us is determined to root out that rebellious fellow Douglas, and to banish him from our grounds. Rackrent, order Spulzie, the scribe, instantly to serve the fellow with a summons of removing from Stablebarns; and, do you hear, go to Bellerstown, lock and nail up the chapel door, and tell the fellow that he shall never preach there again against us. Tell him to go to the devil, as us will not suffer rebels against our will.”
This mandate was instantly obeyed. Mr. Douglas received the intimation from Rackrent with surprise, but undismayed; and, his “courage swelling as the danger swells,” he accepted the intimation as a testimony to his fidelity, and pitied the tyrant who had thus abused his authority. The earl had the uncontrolled power—there was no appeal from his heartless decree. Rackrent speedily promulgated in the burgh the purport of his mission, and ostentatiously performed his task of shutting up the chapel—putting the key in his pocket. Consternation, and sympathy with their “ain guid minister and his wife and bairns,” spread from house to house; and it was not till the shadow of night afforded shelter from observation, that even a few true friends mustered courage to venture into the house of a proscribed man, and to cheer him with their condolence.
Mr. Douglas had an instinctive courage, which prompted him to bear Rackrent’s message without a quiver on his countenance, save perhaps a momentary expression of scorn on his lip, and a sparkle of indignation in his keen blue eye. But, after the minion of power had retired, and he felt himself alone, a cold and chilling emotion gathered round his heart. He went immediately to the nursery, where his wife was busied in tending and amusing her children; and having desired Grace Grant (our attached and only servant, who never was in any other service) to look after her matters in the kitchen, he communicated to his dear Isobel, that she and her little ones were thrown destitute. I was too young (being only four or five years of age at the time) to understand the import of what he said. But my mother and the elder children knew it well; and I need not describe the scene. The tears which a brave man sheds are only those of tenderness and affection—but these are, indeed, tears of bitterness. Such scenes of love and agony are too sacred to be disclosed to an unfeeling world; and all I remember of the one now alluded to, was, that my heart was like to break when I saw those around me embracing and embraced, in tears and in silence, save the sounds of sobs which burst from every bosom.
It was a day of sorrow. Even the youngsters forgot, for a time, that they required their wonted frugal dinner; and it was not until twilight succeeded the last blaze of the setting sun, that Grace Grant called her mistress from the nursery (having heard from a neighbour the adversity which had befallen), to remind her that tea was ready. My mother was now much composed, and invited the minister to go to the parlour. It was a silent procession. My eldest brother carried me in his arms; and my father led his wife in one hand, while he bore their younger babe on his other arm. On reaching the parlour, we found tea prepared by the careful hands of Grace Grant; but, before sitting down to partake of that comforting refreshment, the minister proposed to offer up a prayer of resignation to the will of God, and of hope and trust in his providence.
“Then kneeling down to Heaven’s eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope ‘springs exulting on triumphant wing,’
That thus they all shall meet in future days;
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear;
Together hymning their Creator’s praise—
In such society yet still more dear,
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.”
These devout aspirations being ended, an air of calm composure reigned around my “Father’s Fireside.” He seated himself in his arm-chair, while my mother busied herself in preparing tea, and each little one took his appointed place around the oval wainscot table. The turf fire burned cheerily on the hearth. The tea-kettle gave out its hissing sounds, indicative of comfort; and the solitary candle diffused light on the fair young faces which brightened as the oat-cake and the “buttered pieces” began to disappear. But the minister’s wonted playfulness was gone; and the decent silence of a Sabbath afternoon was observed even by the younger boys.
The visits of their friends were a solace in the first hour of their unlooked-for adversity. But, after their retirement the vague, undefined, and gloomy shadows which rose to the contemplation of my parents, with respect to their future prospects, yielded only a troubled and unutterable anxiety. Repining and supineness, however, were not suited to my father’s character; for, with mildness, he united decision and even boldness of spirit. He had, for several years previous to this explosion of lordly despotism in the patron of his chapel, corresponded with some of his college friends in the new Republic of America; and had been encouraged by them, and through them, by one of the most distinguished of the American patriots, to leave his meagre benefice and cross the Atlantic. These invitations he had declined; being warmly attached to his flock, to the Established Church of Scotland, to his friends at home, and to his country. In his altered circumstances, however—severed as he was by an arbitrary act over which there was no moral or legal control, cast destitute from the altar at which he had ministered with usefulness and acceptance, and having no claims to immediate patronage in the church—he resolved, with a heavy heart, to betake himself to that field of exertion in a foreign land to which he had been so courteously invited. Having adopted this resolution, he did not waste time in idle whining, but prepared to encounter all the inconveniences and perils of a long voyage across the deep; aggravated, unspeakably, by the accompaniments of a wife and six young children, and hampered by the scanty means which remained to him amidst this wreck of his hopes of happiness at home.
But before his final departure from the cold and rocky shore of Scotland for ever, he wished to take a public leave of his flock. His own chapel had been shut up; but a reverend friend, in a closely adjoining burgh, acceded at once to his request, that he might have the use of his pulpit on the Sunday after the act of ejection which I have already mentioned. The villagers of Bellerstown were speedily apprised of their minister’s intention; and they and many others attended to hear his farewell sermon. The church was crowded with an affectionate and even somewhat exasperated multitude, and the service of the day was characterised by a more than usual solemnity. All the energy of the preacher’s spirit was called up to sustain him on so trying an occasion; and the unaffected, earnest, and native eloquence of his pulpit appearances, were heightened by the emotions which struggled within his bosom.
His brief but christianlike and dignified address, in which the tremulous voice of deep emotion was occasionally mingled with the manly tones of bolder elocution, was listened to in silence deep as death; and when he descended from the pulpit, Mr. Douglas was surrounded by a throng of elders, and young men, and humble matrons, who were eager to manifest their heartfelt reverence for their beloved pastor.
It were tedious and profitless to detail all the painful circumstances which intervened betwixt the time now referred to and that of the minister’s embarkation. He experienced, on the one hand, all the petty vexations which the earl’s sycophants could devise for his annoyance—and, on the other, much of that comfort which springs from spontaneous tokens of disinterested goodwill and of gratitude, even from the poor and humble; but the mens conscia sibi recti enabled him to bear the former with composure, and the latter without vain presumption.
The day of departure at length arrived—and, young as I was, I still remember as well as yesterday some of the circumstances. The family proceeded from the only home I had ever known, towards the harbour, accompanied by some of the most respectable inhabitants of the village.
After passing by the chapel, which stood conspicuously on a rising ground, the party descended a steep road—like a patriarch of old going on a pilgrimage through the world, with his children around him—to the quay at which the vessel that was to bear us away was moored. The sea beach and quays were crowded. The entire population of the burgh seemed assembled. There were no shouts; but uncovered heads, and outstretched hands, and old visages glistening with tears of kindness, spoke a language more eloquent than words can utter. I was carried with my mother on board the ship. The sails were unfurled, while we were grouped on the quarter-deck. Most of the family went into the cabin; but my father sat on a coil of ropes, and I stood between his knees, encircled by his arm, and looking up in his face, which was occasionally convulsed with marks of strong but suppressed feeling. The vessel bounded over the waves of the German Ocean. My father spake not. His eye was still bent on the rocky cliffs (near which stood his church and dwelling of peace), after it could not discern the people that clustered on their summits. He wrapped me in his cloak, and held me to his bosom; and, for the first time, I felt a sad consciousness that I was without a home in the world.
My first voyage in life was a rough one. The “Good Intent” of Bellerstown, in which my father and his family had embarked, as already stated, was a coasting trader, and was bound on this occasion for Leith, whence the patriarch of this intended emigration, and his partner, and little ones, were meant to be transferred to Greenock, as the port of final embarkation for the United States. To those who have had occasion to sojourn in such bottoms as the “Good Intent,” ere yet the Berwick smacks and other vessels of a superior class had been established in the coasting trade of Scotland, it is needless to offer any description of such a vehicle for the conveyance of human beings—and those who have never experienced such a transit, can form no adequate conception of the misery which it exhibits. Let them, however, imagine a small and dirty cabin, into which no one is admitted save by the companion-door and a small sky-light that cannot be opened in rough weather—let them imagine, if they can, the “villanous compound of smells,” produced by confined air, the flavour of bilge water, agitated in the hold of the ship, and diffused through every creaking crevice, and pitch, and effluvia of rancid salt meat and broth, and the products of universal sea-sickness, altogether inevitable in such circumstances—let them figure such a confined hole filled with human beings, crammed into smaller holes all around, called beds, or laid on shakedowns upon the floor, or stretched upon the lockers, in that state of despondency which overwhelming sickness induces;—and they have a picture of the Good Intent’s cabin and state-room during the voyage to which I refer. Nor was this all. The weather was boisterous, being the vernal equinox; the winds cross and tempestuous; and the waves of the sea so tremendous that the little vessel sunk, and rose, and rolled, as if each succeeding shock were the last ere she sank for ever into the roaring abyss; while each convulsion of the bark called forth involuntary moans and shrieks of distress, which were heard commingled with the whistling of the tempest, and the dash of the waves, that ever and anon burst on and swept over the deck. And thus, for the space of fourteen days went the Good Intent and her inmates, tossed to and fro on the German Ocean, with no comfort to mitigate the extreme of such unwonted sufferings, save the rough but hearty kindness of the skipper and crew, when their cares on deck left them a moment to go below, and offer any attention in their power. I have made many rough voyages since the time alluded to; but this one dwells on my memory like the visions in a wild and troubled dream, surpassing all I have since weathered in intensity of horror and dismay.
At length, the expected haven came in sight; and we entered it—safe but sad enough, the Good Intent entered the Water of Leith at morning tide, and my childish wonderment was strangely excited by what seemed to my inexperienced eye a forest of masts and “leviathans afloat,” as we were towed through among the vessels in harbour, until, amidst bawling and swearing on board and ashore, the Good Intent got a berth at the Coalhill of Leith. The emigrant party were all speedily taken on shore, and conveyed to a small inn, where soap and water, and clean clothes, and breakfast, revived, in no inconsiderable degree, the spirits of the whole party, after the exhaustion of such a voyage: and the youngsters, especially, were very speedily interested in the rude bustle which the shore of Leith usually exhibits.
Leaving the little colony at Mrs. Monro’s ship tavern, on the Coalhill, my father proceeded to the dwelling of his cousin, Mr. Pearson, who resided in one of the western suburbs of Edinburgh (where he and his were expected), in order to announce the advent to a temporary home. It was after noon ere he returned with his cousin to conduct the rest of the family; and the whole party proceeded on foot up Leith Walk, and through a part of Edinburgh, towards Mr. Pearson’s hospitable abode, astonished and bewildered in a scene so new. There we all received a warm welcome from the good old man and his daughters, and experienced every attention and kindness which good hearts and the ties of kindred could suggest.
Before proceeding to Greenock, to make the necessary arrangements for the final emigration, Mr. Douglas, while his family were refreshing with their relatives for a longer voyage than they had already encountered, paid a visit to an old friend, a clergyman in the country, in whose parish was situated the noble mansion of Earl H——. The countess of H—— was a relative of Lady B——, to whom Mr. Douglas had long been known as an exemplary clergyman, and who, in the day of his adversity and unmerited persecution, had taken a lively interest in his fate. Amongst other acts of kindness, she had not only given him an introductory letter to the countess of H——, but had written previously, recommending him earnestly to her good offices with the earl (who was, in all respects, a complete contrast to Lord Bellersdale), and soliciting some one of the numerous benefices in the church of which the earl was patron, when a vacancy might occur. Mr. Douglas visited his friend before delivering his introduction at the great house, and preached on the Sabbath which intervened during his stay: and the services of the day having been conducted with that simple and unfeigned devoutness which lends its highest power to pulpit eloquence, the noble family, who regularly attended on religious ordinances in their parish church, were much affected and gratified with the ministration of the stranger on this occasion; and this effect was not marred to “ears polite,” even by the slight “accents of the northern tongue.” Next morning, the pastor of the parish received an invitation to dine at H—— House that day, and was requested to bring along with him the friend who had officiated for him on the preceding Sunday. The invitation was, of course, accepted; and, on being introduced to the earl and countess of H——, and his name being announced, Lady H—— inquired if he were of the north country, when he took the opportunity of delivering Lady B.’s introductory letter, which showed that Mr. Douglas was the same person of whom Lady B. had previously written. His reception by both the noble personages of the mansion was more than polite; it was kind in the highest degree, and every way worthy of a generous and high-minded race, whose good qualities have, in various periods of our history, given lustre to the nobility of Scotland. The day was spent with mutual satisfaction; and the earl, before parting, gave Mr. Douglas a cordial shake by the hand, and assured him that the first benefice that should fall in his gift, should be conferred on him. Thus they parted; but Mr. Douglas returned to Mr. Pearson’s, with the unaltered purpose of pursuing his voyage to America—the hopes inspired by the earl’s spontaneous promise being too faint and remote, in their possible accomplishment, to induce procrastination in his proceedings. The love of his native country yearned in his bosom, and all the perils and privations to which his little fireside-flock might be exposed, passed through his thoughts as he drove along the southern shore of the Forth, on his return; but he could see no immediate alternative, save to go onward in the path which he had previously chalked out for himself in his present circumstances.
Accordingly, after a few days’ repose, he set out to Greenock, to make arrangements for the passage to New York of himself and family. He applied to an eminent merchant there on the subject, in whose service, as a clerk, a favourite brother had lived and died. From that gentleman he received every courtesy and counsel suited to the occasion, and was offered the passage contemplated gratuitously. He had spent a day or two only in Greenock, making preparations for the voyage, when, having gone into the vessel in which he was destined to embark, to hold some necessary consultation with the master, a packet was brought to him which had been forwarded by Mr. Pearson to the care of Mr. B. the merchant. On unsealing it, Mr. Douglas found inclosed a presentation in his favour, by the Earl of H., to a living in one of the southern counties of Scotland!
It were idle in any one who has never experienced a sudden and unexpected transition in the endless vicissitudes of human life—from a position encompassed with doubts and darkness, into scenes and prospects of brighter omen—to attempt any delineation of Mr. Douglas’ emotions on this occasion; for, who can express in language the throb of gratitude to benefactors, which, in such circumstances, swells the heart beyond the power of utterance?—or who can convey any adequate notion of the devout and silent thankfulness which exalts the soul of a good man, when he sees and feels, in such an event, the manifestation of that overruling Providence which it is his habitual principle to acknowledge and adore?
The American expedition was now abandoned, and Mr. Douglas returned from Greenock to Edinburgh, with all the despatch which the Flies of those days rendered practicable. The tidings were soon told, not with proud exultation, but with the chastened gladness which these were calculated to impress on his own spirit and all around him; and, instead of packing up for Greenock, and preparing for crossing the wide Atlantic, nothing was now talked of in Pearson’s kind circle but plenishing for the manse.
The day of departure at length arrived, ere yet the young folks had recovered from the astonishment which everything in the northern metropolis presented to them as wonders, and before they had become familiar with the splendours of long rows of lamps, and dazzling scattered lights over the dusky horizon of the “Auld Toun” in an evening. One of the most startling of these marvels, I well remember, was the Cowgate, with its rows of lamps extending beneath the South Bridge, and seen through the iron balustrades! This was perfect enchantment to some of us; and I don’t believe I have ever seen any scene of artificial magnificence, since I first looked down on the Cowgate, that made so strong an impression on me, as a specimen of city grandeur!
The vehicle for our conveyance was not, as in these latter days, a dashing stage-coach and four—for there was nothing of the kind on the public roads of Scotland fifty years ago—but a caravan or wagon, having a sort of rail round three sides of it, and covered overhead with a canvas cloth on strong hoops, with an aperture behind to let in the travellers, and the fresh air, and the light. Under this primitive pavilion sat ensconced the parson and spouse on trusses of straw, and with blankets to keep warmth, if necessary—the bairns being all packed in and about them, according to their dimensions; and in this fashion on jogged the cavalcade, consisting of the caravan, and another long cart with furniture. Two or three days were required for the journey—the carriers stopping each night at convenient distances in country inns for the “entertainment of men and horses,” where slight and rough accommodation only was to be had.
At length, on the third day, the caravansary reached the promised land—not like that in the Orient, flowing with milk and honey, and glowing in all the richness of natural beauty; but a long straggling village of heath-thatched cottages, with about half-a-dozen slated houses, including the kirk; and, though placed in a valley, on the banks of a rivulet, yet surrounded on all sides for many miles with the wildest moorlands in one of the most elevated situations inhabited in Scotland by human beings. But, what of all this? It afforded a home in our native land—and we soon learnt by experience that its inhabitants were among the most kind-hearted and intelligent of the sons of Caledonia.
The humble parsonage of Muirden was but a chapel of ease, yielding an income under one hundred pounds per annum. Yet, with this limited benefice, the Rev. William Douglas was enabled, by the frugal housewifery of the mistress, to maintain a decent, and, in his sphere, even a hospitable household, and to discharge the petty obligations to friends which he had incurred while “out of bread,” and preparing to cross the deep to a foreign land. Until this last, and, in his estimation, sacred duty was accomplished, the strictest economy was observed. The “muckle wheel” and the “little wheel” were heard humming incessantly in the kitchen; and the bairns were clad in the good home-made cloths of the domicile; while they were early taught practically that plain and wholesome, though humble fare at the board, was all that they ought to desire, and that luxuries and delicacies, such as load “the rich man’s table,” were truly a matter of small moment, and utterly despicable when compared with those luxuries of the mind, and that superiority of character, which are derived from moral and intellectual culture. These latter, accordingly, were day by day pressed on their attention as the proper business of their early life—and all were habituated to regular and constant attention to their “lessons,” at home as well as in school.
Nor was this remote parsonage destitute of some strong and interesting attractions to a generous mind. Muirden was situated in a region which is consecrated by many events and traditions of “the persecuted times.” There are hill-sides and moss-hags in its vicinity, still known to the peasant as the places of worship and of refuge to the Covenanters in days of peril and alarm; and some of Scotland’s martyrs were immolated at the doors of their own huts, the foundation of which may still be traced, overgrown with the green turf or the heather-bell. To a Scottish pastor such scenes are classic, grand even in a higher sense than those of Marathon or Thermopylæ—for it was the immutable and holy spirit which was there kindled, and formed into a flame, that finally won for Scotland not only the blessings of civil liberty, but the triumphs of religious truth.
It was an inspiriting task to serve at the altar among a people who, though humble, cherished with fondness the memory of their godly forefathers; and was, indeed, a labour of love, in which the teacher and the taught found mutual comfort and advantage. Nor were the exercises of the pulpit the only parts of pastoral duty to which Mr. Douglas directed his attention and his heart. He visited and soon became acquainted with all his flock—not formally and pompously, but frankly and in unaffected kindness; and ere long became the friend and trusted counsellor of his parishioners, not merely in spiritual, but in their temporal concerns. And, as a proof of the impression which such a truly evangelical course of conduct made among his people, I may state that, within these few years, after the lapse of nearly fifty, I had a call from a respectable old man, who, having heard I was in Edinburgh, had found me out, and announced himself to be Mr. ——, who had taught me the alphabet, and first guided my hand to wield the pen which now records this incident. I have rarely met with an occurrence more gratifying to my feelings, than when the old gentleman (for he was a gentleman in the best sense of the term, though a country schoolmaster) told me that years had not effaced from his heart and his memory the kindly affection which he bore to my father and all his children, who were the objects of his careful tuition, and that he had sought and found me to give utterance to that feeling. I need not say he got a warm welcome. He had then retired from the laborious duties of his office, with a moderate competency, and in a green old age. He has since paid the debt of nature. Peace to his ashes! It would be well if our parochial clergy would thus cultivate, not the vulgar arts of wordly popularity, but, by acts of real kindness, the confidence and the respect of their flocks. It is thus that the human heart is to be won; and it is thus that a Christian pastor most effectually
“Allures to brighter realms, and leads the way.”
There was a peculiarity in the village of Muirden which I must not omit to notice. It was, perhaps, the first locality in Scotland, so entirely rural, that had a library established in it. I do not know precisely the history of that institution; but its supporters were the general community of the place, who were, in different grades, employed chiefly in the working of some mines in the vicinity, who devoted a small portion of their wages, periodically, for the purchase of books for the library. The fruits of this establishment were visible in the decent and orderly habits, and in the superior information of the whole population; presenting a moral picture exactly the reverse of that which too often characterises the now liberated ascripti glebæ who are usually engaged in such occupations, and who are proverbially the most barbarous and ignorant class of the community of Scotland—thus furnishing an example, which is now become pretty general, of supplying an interesting and improving employment of the hours of relaxation from labour, instead of misspending the precious intervals at the alehouse or other houses of debauchery.
The village of Muirden, too, had the advantage of a resident country gentleman in its immediate neighbourhood—Mr. Sterling. Such an auxiliary to the clergyman and schoolmaster in a rural district, is generally of unspeakable advantage to the moral condition of the locality, more especially when, as in this instance, he was a man everyway worthy of his rank and position in society. He possessed an estate of his own in one of the most beautiful provinces in Scotland; but, being a man distinguished in science, he had a general supervision of the works to which I have alluded; and, being thus clothed with authority, as well as a magistrate in the county, he was ever ready to co-operate in every measure which was beneficial, and in the repression of whatever was pernicious, in this little colony. The society and friendly intercourse which naturally arose betwixt such a country gentleman and the pastor, formed no slight addition to the enjoyments of the latter, in a sphere shut out by its position from much personal intercourse with well-educated men; and, in short, amid mountain and moor all around, Muirden presented one of the most pleasing pictures that this country affords of a rural parsonage.
Mr. Douglas’ zealous and faithful discharge of his pastoral duties did not remain unknown to his noble patron. From the time, indeed, of his induction at Muirden, the moral movements of that hamlet were occasionally reported by its guardian, Mr. Sterling, to the family that was interested in its prosperity; and the unremitting but unobtrusive ministrations of the village pastor were not of course overlooked. These were duly appreciated; and, after the lapse of only two or three years, the Earl of H—— spontaneously, and without any previous communication, presented Mr. Douglas to the benefice of Eccleshall, which had fallen vacant by the demise of its minister. This change had the double advantage of being on the regular establishment of the church, beyond the risk of any such casualty as had formerly befallen the presentee, and of having a stipend nearly double the salary at Muirden—a consideration of no slight moment to a man with a family, however moderate in his views with regard to temporalities; and it possessed the further superiority over Muirden, that it was situated on the southern shore of the Firth of Forth, in a district of country highly cultivated, and within a few hours’ ride of the metropolis. It had the charm of the most perfect seclusion from the great and bustling world—the church and manse being situated in a sheltered valley, embosomed amidst a cluster of ancient trees, which probably were planted ere the Reformation dawned in Scotland.
The tidings of this promotion, as it may be deemed, produced, in the humble dwelling of the pastor of Muirden, that measure of gladness which is inspired by the smiles of fortune—varying in degree among the different members of the family according to their intelligence and their years. To the heads of it, the promised improvement in their condition afforded the calm, yet exquisite satisfaction which the prospect of a competence for their little ones, and the means of educating and preparing them to act their part in life, naturally awakens; and in the younger members of it, the reported beauties of the new parish, and the approach of a new journey, excited that joyousness and vivacity of hope which even invests what is unknown with the attribute of magnificence.
After a little while devoted to necessary arrangements—after many visits paid to all the dwellings of the humble flock of Muirden—after the interchange of kindly hospitalities among the superior classes of his neighbours—and after a public and affectionate farewell to all—Mr. Douglas once more set out with his family on this, his last migration; and, with the aid of caravan and cart, the family party went on their way from Muirden to Edinburgh, retracing thus far their steps, on their journey to Eccleshall; and, in a few days, they were set down in the court before the manse of Eccleshall, over which two stately lime trees formed a cooling shade from the fervours of a summer sun.
Whether the reality corresponded with the several anticipations of the new comers or not, I will not pretend to affirm; but the arrival had scarcely been accomplished, ere every room and recess of the manse was explored, and the neat and beautiful gardens were traversed, and the glebe surveyed, and the “bonny burnside” visited, and the water laved from its channel. It was, in truth, a new world to its young visitants—and appeared, in the superior house accommodation and rural amenity around, a terrestrial paradise, contrasted with the circumscribed dwelling on the rocky shore of the German Ocean in the north, or in the hamlet of Muirden amid the wilderness on the southern border of Scotland. The sensations and sympathies of that day, and of seven years which followed it, are yet fresh in my recollection, and still swell in my heart, as marking the brightest and the happiest period of my existence. Everything connected with that season of my life, is still invested in my memory with charms which I have never since tasted; and my young imagination clothed the vale of Eccleshall with a brighter verdure and gayer flowers than ever to me bloomed elsewhere on earth; and the heaven glowed in more resplendent sunshine than has ever since poured its golden radiance on my vision—for it was the sunshine of the young spirit still unclouded by a speck on its moral horizon, and undimmed by a tear of real suffering and sorrow. Are such youthful enchantments realities in the condition of man? or are they visions of fancy, which are kindled by a gracious dispensation of Providence, as a solace to the heart in riper years, when the cares, and toils, and anxieties of manhood are strewed thick in our path, and frown heavily in clouds over every stage of our progress?
In a few days after the house was put in order, the induction of Mr. Douglas took place; and, although not so impressive as a Presbyterian ordination, it was to all, his own family at least, an interesting scene. A numerous assemblage of the parishioners and the reverend brethren was convened; and the arrival of the latter, successively or in groups—their friendly greetings in the parlour, their progress to the church, and their solemn devoir during the service of the day—bore a character of dignity and impressiveness which does not now generally belong to such ceremonials. It may, perhaps, be unphilosophical, and not in accordance with more modern sentiment, to ascribe any efficacy to mere externals of costume. But it is a principle deeply implanted in human nature, and not to be stifled by any cold reasoning in the matter, that external decorum and suitable habiliments in any of the solemnities of religion and the administration of justice, have a powerful effect on the great mass of mankind, which it is not wise to cast aside or contemn.
It were an easy, and would be a pleasant task, to paint some of the scenes and characters which presented themselves to my observation even at that early period of life; but it would be foreign to the object I had in view, and would swell this humble narrative beyond the limits assigned to it. That object was merely to delineate some of the features in the character of a faithful Scottish clergyman, and to exhibit some of the “lights and shadows” which cheer or cloud his existence, like that of other men. I have traced his progress through various alternations of adversity and prosperity, and have placed him in circumstances such as usually fill up the measure of a Christian’s ambition—a position of usefulness to those within the sphere of his influence, and of comfort in his temporal condition. During the space of seven years, it was the lot of the individual who, in real life, was the prototype of our story, to enjoy health, and strength, and domestic felicity, and to discharge his duties with zeal and advantage in the parish of Eccleshall; but, returning home after nightfall, from attending a meeting of synod in Edinburgh, he caught a severe cold in riding during a stormy night, which affected his lungs; and, ere long, his indisposition assumed all the symptoms of pulmonary consumption.
Our tale of humble life now draws to a close. In the course of a few months, the indisposition of Mr. Douglas assumed all the symptoms of a settled consumption, which continued to present to his family and friends the alternations of hope and of fear, that are the unfailing companions of that subtle visitation. A sea voyage, native air, and all other expedients suggested by skill or affection, were tried in vain; and, in the fiftieth year of his age, the minister of Eccleshall returned to the bosom of his family, with a full anticipation that the distemper under which he lingered would, ere long, prove fatal. His eyes sparkled with more than wonted lustre—his benevolent and intelligent countenance glowed with the delicate hectic flush which so often marks the progress of consumption—and the healthy, but not robust frame of its victim, became emaciated and feeble. The fall of the year 179-, brought the chilling blasts of November to quench the flickering spark of life in his bosom.
I was despatched one cold morning on the pony for Mr. Blythe, a neighbouring clergyman and friend, to pay my father a visit. We rode together from his manse to Eccleshall; and, on his arrival, he remained alone with my father, engaged in those hallowed communings betwixt a dying man and his spiritual comforter which it is unseemly and sacrilegious in any case to disclose to mortal eyes. After a considerable space thus spent, the whole family, including the servants, were, by my father’s directions, summoned to the side of his couch, in the Red Room, where he reposed. When all were assembled, he intimated, with composure and resignation, that he was conscious of the near approach of death, and addressed a few sentences of admonition and affection to them all; and, having done so, he requested Mr. Blythe to unite with his household in prayer and praise—requesting that the last hymn in the beautiful collection of sacred lyrics attached to our national psalmody, might be sung. My father’s pulpit psalm-book was brought to Mr. Blythe. It is now before me, and I transcribe, from its page, with a vivid recollection of the scene now referred to, one of the solemn stanzas of that touching anthem:—
“The hour of my departure’s come,
I hear the voice that calls me home;
At last, O Lord! let troubles cease,
And let thy servant die in peace!”
Mr. Blythe breathed, rather than sung the hymn, in the notes of Luther’s hundredth psalm; and he did it with the accompaniment of tremulous and broken accents from all around the couch. The tears of unutterable sorrow were shed by all, save my mother, whose grief could not find a vent in tears. The voice of psalms was quenched amid the sobs which burst from every heart; and, during the singing of the last portion of it, the pious man who guided these orisons, sympathized so deeply in the passion of lamentation which encompassed him, that his accents were scarcely audible. The overpowering scene was closed by a brief and pathetic prayer to the Most High, that to His dying servant he would “stretch out His everlasting arms,” and “to the friendless prove a friend.”
A few hours more, and the scene of life had passed away from the mortal vision of William Douglas. I saw him die. It was the first deathbed I had ever seen. There are many occurrences in life which fill the mind with awe; but I have never been conscious of any emotion so profound and solemn as that which possessed me during the last day of my father’s life. I witnessed the expiring flame in those dread moments when time is blent with eternity, and when the last sigh seems to waft the immortal spirit into a state of existence of which no adequate conception can be formed. After all was over, and the breath of life had fled, I could not believe my senses, that the prop of my affections was gone from my love and my embrace, and that all which remained on earth of my father, protector, and gentle monitor, was a lifeless wreck on the shore of time. The world appeared to my young eye and heart as a wide scene of mere darkness and desolation.
I will not dwell on subsequent events. The funeral obsequies performed, the family councils were of a melancholy description. As to worldly matters, it was ascertained that there was very little debt—not more than could be fully paid by the current stipend and other limited means; but, beyond this, all was a dreary blank. The only means of subsistence to which my widowed mother could look with certainty, was her small annuity of £25 a-year; while one only of the family (the eldest boy, who had been educated as a surgeon, and had got an appointment in the East India Company’s service) could do ought to eke out the means of life for the family. In the depth of her affliction, she would say, with pious confidence, in the language of scripture, “I have never seen the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread.”
But, leaving these painful retrospects, it may not be inappropriate to note briefly the career of the earl of Bellersdale, whom I had occasion to advert to in the earlier part of this story. He survived my father many years, and spent his life devoid of domestic happiness or public respect, in the accumulation of wealth and the pursuits of sordid ambition. He lived detested and despised of mankind; and, dying unlamented by any one human being, he destined the vast treasures which he had amassed, to constant accumulation, not to be enjoyed fully by his heirs, but for the creation of a princedom of indefinite extent and wealth. But the honours of the Bellersdale family were speedily tarnished. A spendthrift successor squandered all the revenues which he could touch; and the last time I visited that part of the country, the splendid mansion of Bellersdale Castle was stripped of all its movables; the collections of many years of aristocratic pride—the pictures, the statues, the very board destined for baronial hospitality—were all brought to the hammer for payment of a tailor’s bill for gewgaws to grace a court pageant; and the nominal inheritor of the wide domains and honours of his lordship’s house, is an obscure and useless, though good-natured dependent upon Hebrew usurers and Gentile pettifoggers—a mere cumberer of the ground—a sycophant of the vulgar!
I need not point the moral of my tale.