THE CAMERONIANS.
From Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Nov. 1819.
For the Cameronians, those relicks of the stern enthusiastic Covenanters—those resolute maintainers of the unblemished purity and rights of the reformed church—those dwellers on the misty mountain tops—I entertain the greatest respect and reverence. It was my lot to pass the early part of my life in the neighbourhood of their hill of worship—often in the company of their leading men, and most admired professors—and at all times in the society of a portion of their number. They had hovered for many years about the mountainous regions of the parish of Kirkmahoe, in Dumfries-shire; and as they began to confide in the kindness of their less rigid brethren, they commenced descending, step by step, from a large hill to a less, till they finally swarmed on a small sterile mount, with a broomy glen at its foot, beside a little village, which one of their number named "Graceless Quarrelwood." Quarrelwood is a long straggling village, built in open hostility to regular lines, or the graceful curves of imaginary beauty. The cottages which compose it are scattered as if some wizard had dropt them down by random; and through the whole a streamlet winds, and a kind of road infinitely more crooked than the stream. This lane is fringed chiefly by old plum-trees, and seeks its way to the eastern extremity of the village, with a difficulty which a stranger will soon be sensible of, should he be so hardy as to endeavour to thread this Cameronian labyrinth. There is also a wide wilderness of gardens, hemmed in by strong walls of rough free-stone. It is a very defensible position; and, in case of retreat, the deep channels of two scanty streams present direct openings to the upland holds; and these are covered ways—for the brooks contrive to maintain as many stately trees and flourishing bushes on their steep and impassable banks, as would do honour to mightier streams. To this rural encampment several hundreds resorted weekly to hear their pastor's instructions; and at their great midsummer Festival of the Sacrament, several thousands usually assembled, many of them from distant parts, even from Fife and Banff. All around were objects to cherish their ancient spirit, and remind them of other days. The seat of their bitter persecutor, General Dalzell, was within two short miles—the grave of the cruel Laird of Lagg was visible from their mount; and in the church-yard of Dumfries, in the moors of Irongray, and the moorlands of Nithsdale, were buried, under broad and inscribed stones, some of the most renowned of the martyrs. With two of their preachers I had the pleasure of being acquainted; and I have also heard several of the western professors preach during the continuance of the sacramental holydays. Of their professors I shall endeavour to render some account. I still remember, with reverence, the thin long snowy hair and bald shining crown, and primitive look of the patriarchal Farely; and it is impossible I should ever forget the familiar and fervent eloquence of that delightful old pastor. Towards the close of his life, which was unusually long, he was accused of cheering his decaying spirits with other beverage than what cold brooks afforded. Of this infirmity I have heard some of the sternest of his flock speak with unlooked-for gentleness; and I believe none of his fellow-preachers chose to rebuke him for this indulgence, from a just dread of his powers for keen dry sarcasm. He was a great favourite with the Cameronian ladies, old and young, and his reputation with them was not at all diminished, by the renown he acquired by his ability in inflicting the discipline of his sect on fair trespassers.
Of John Curtis, the regular pastor of the flock, I do not remember so much as I do of Mr. Farely. He was a man unaffectedly pious, rather than eloquent, and was deservedly and warmly beloved. He adorned his discourses with that melodious tone which some call the Cameronian drawl, and which the pious Cowper complained of in the Conventicles. Each sentence has a kind of starting note; and I can discover remains of this old puritanical fashion in the eloquence of Wilberforce and also Lord Milton. It would require some constraint in a pious stranger to listen, without an inward smile at least, to this continually recurring chorus.—With a gifted preacher it is less ungraceful, for he contrives to make it tell in better time than an ordinary man—still it might be spared; but a very sensible divine told me, he dared as soon renounce predestination as part with the "twang;" it was as dear to his flock as the memory of Richard Cameron. John Curtis, for he abominated the prelatical designation of "Master," was not an unfrequent, or unwelcome guest at my father's house. His coming was a visitation, for it came over our mirth as a cloud. He invariably was invited on week days; Sunday was a day that had higher duties. His coming was the signal for seven children, I was one of them, to cease their play and pranks, and mix trembling with their mirth. We became as quiet as a brood of chickens, over which the hawk is hovering. Even the nuts or raisins which filled the pockets of this primitive person, and which he divided among us with many a clap on the head and benediction, failed to inspire confidence.
The chief revolution in the affairs of the Cameronians of Dumfriesshire, was effected at the death of John Curtis. They had been driven by persecution to preach on the mountains, and though persecution had ceased, on the mountains they remained. It was certainly a beautiful and impressive sight to see a congregation worshipping God on a mountain side or a wild glen; to see the upright pulpit-rows of bared, and white, and bald heads decently ranged around—and more extended ranks of beautiful women and active men drawn up in a regular confusion—the whole listening to the eloquence of my old friend Farely. This, with a clear day and a bright sun, must make an impression of devotion on the most obtuse intellect. But as the mason said of the wise man who sung, "Snow is beautiful in its season," "My certes," said he, "it was easy for him, with his lasses and his wine to sing so; had he been a poor free-stone mason, he would have sung another sang." For the weather seemed sometimes to inherit the rancour of the bloody Claverhouse, or the renowned chieftain of Lagg, to this persecuted race; and, instead of June giving one of her brightest and balmmiest days for the Sacrament, I have witnessed the heavy rain come down sans intermission for four stricken hours, as if ambitious to measure its mercies by the length of the "Action Sermon." By some this circumstance was hailed as a divine acknowledgment of their presence and influence; and after some very dry weather I have heard Mr. Farely turn a timely thunder shower to good account, by apostrophizing the Deity for his kindness to "this dry barren land." On another occasion—the morning was serene during the introductory discourse, and just as my friend Farely began to administer the sacrament, a huge black cloud sailed from the westward, and hung heavy and ominous over the congregation. Ere the ladies could raise their plaids, it descended perpendicular plump down, and the huge drops splashed off the bald crown of the preacher, in a manner that Kemble would have envied in acting King Lear. A Cameronian with an umbrella, at that time an unusual thing in the country, arose and stretched it over the Professor's head, regardless of himself. At this visible interposition between him and heaven, the preacher was wroth, and said audibly, "Take the Pope's cap off me," and his conduct was highly applauded.
To such a congregation, after the decease of John Curtis, my friend of the umbrella made a proposition to have a chapel erected. And I question much if a proposal to go to mass would have excited a stronger commotion—particularly among those whom the measure meant to protect—the old and infirm. He of the umbrella offered to subscribe largely himself, and promote the subscription among others, hinting that many of the members of the kirk favoured the cause, and would be glad of an opportunity to display it. The motion was well timed too, namely, at the close of one of those four-hours benedictions from a thunder cloud, which had urged its way through the broad bonnets and thick plaids of the most obstinate believers. I cannot enumerate to you all the bitter and brief exclamations of dismay and indignation which this proposal excited. The decided wrath of one old moorland dame I shall long remember, "Foul fall ye," said she, starting up and hurling her heavy clasped black print Bible at the proposer's head, "foul fall ye, ye deserve to be brained with the word ye hae abused;" and had he of the umbrella not caught this religious missile, as the Curtal fryar's dogs caught the outlaw's arrows, namely, as it flew, he might have been numbered with the martyrs. "Shall we," said she, "who were hounded like deer to the mountains, there to worship God in fear of evil men, shall we, whom he marvellously protected there, doubt his providence, and descend to keep yer coupled timber—yer covered cushions—and yer canopied, fringed, and painted prelatical pulpits—and yer walls of hewn stane—far frae me—fit places are they, not for the word, but for ye ken what;"—and so she sat down. The more sensible part reflecting, however, that the showers of spring were cold—that the winds of autumn were not always gentle—and that winter indulged them with various and dubious blessings, under the resemblance of snows and sleets, and sudden thaws, resolved, that the erection of a house of worship was a justifiable measure; and a house was accordingly built. But the eloquent dame of the moorlands introduced a salvo, by which the sacrament was directed to be administered in the open air, and so it still continues.
The religious festival of the sacrament is commenced after due private preparation by prayers of unwonted length, and the lonely broomy hollow where it is held, exhibits on Sabbath morn to a stranger a grand and solemn spectacle.
The last time I was present at this meeting I was invited to breakfast at the house of a respectable and recently converted member of the "Broken Remnant," a warm-hearted weaver, a man of rare conversation—ready wit, and cutting dry sarcasm. He was also as much celebrated for his poetry as the unrivalled productions of his loom. His birds-eye, his barley-pickle, his lowland plaiden, and fine linen, were the theme of praise among the young maids in danger of being married—and to their praise I add mine. I have proved his hospitality, and proved the labours of his loom. I sat down to an ample breakfast with this Cameronian worthy—his wife lively always, and once handsome—his two sons, inheriting their father's powers even to overflowing, and a solemn browed Cameronian from the borders of the moorlands. This family auxiliary undertook to pronounce a blessing on our good cheer; a serious trial of my patience and appetite. I endured his sermon for many minutes; it was in its nature controversial. He touched on the adventure at Drumclog, and addressed Providence in strong and familiar term anent the disaster at Bothwell Brig. I looked piteous but resigned, and the good housewife poured forth the tea. But then there came headings and hangings, and finings and confinings, and sad travels and sore tortures. The goodwife placed a plate of smoking savoury cake before him, but he was not to be tempted; he threw a passing curse or two on patronage, still he was distant from our day half a century at least. I looked with an imploring eye, and my entertainer closed his; but I could see by the sarcastic curl at the corners of his mouth that he was inwardly enjoying my misery. Once I stretched my hand, for I had half a mind, like the renowned and impatient good man of Drumbreg, on a time of similar trial, to seize my cup with a cry of "Ye have done brawly man," and cut short all explanation by falling to. I endured it to an end however, and an excellent breakfast enabled me to endure the infliction of a "return thanks," eminently curious and controversial. We then sallied forth to the preaching—the pastor had already commenced; it might be half past 9 o'clock. I was struck with the magnitude and repose of the congregation. Besides the sodded seats which held the oldest and most respectable members, the broom then, I think, in full bloom, with all its perfume about it, was bent down for many acres to form rural seats to Cameronian dames, and dames indeed of all persuasions.—There were many dressed in the latest fashion; the old simple mode of dress however prevailed. Though all shewed deep symptoms of devotion, and many of awe, the young women by no means confined their eyes, and many had bright ones, to the contemplation of the preacher. This festival always attracts an immense multitude, and though the Cameronians are the only communicants, all sects and denominations of Presbyterians crowd to the place, and occupy the vacant ground. I saw many of the Cameronians with whom I had a personal acquaintance, and a silent squeeze of the hand, or an acknowledgment, an austere one, of the eye, was all the recognition to be obtained. The list of offences and sects excluded from communication is extensive and curious—they call it "debarring"—Socinians, Arminians, Unitarians, Episcopalians, false teachers, promiscuous dancers, and playhouse frequenters. I cannot inflict the whole of this tremendous catalogue upon you. One prudent and warning exclusion I cannot omit to mention, namely, that of all wives who disobey their husbands.
In the green hedge-row lane, leading to the tent of the preacher, various stalls were established by persons who thought—as godliness was great gain, great gain was godliness. Here refreshments of all kinds, particularly liquid consolation, abounded, and one tent, rivalling in dimensions the tabernacle of the preacher, looked presumptuously down from the very crest of the hill on its more devout neighbour below. Here the owner of a neighbouring public house had established himself, and into this canvass mansion, in a moment of weakness, I was tempted to enter. I had sundry reasons for this piece of backsliding;—first, I had become wearied with the unexampled length and tediousness of the before-mentioned four hour's sermon; secondly, I was desirous to partake of either Ram-Jam, Mid-Row, or Pinkie, three denominations of ale, for which the landlord was become deservedly famous, and in the brewing of which, weak nerves, as well as a good head, had been doubtlessly consulted—and; thirdly and lastly, a dark-eyed damsel from the mountains wished for my private opinion anent the sinfulness of dancing, and to instruct me in a near road over the hills to her father's house, which stood in a remote glen on the stream of Ae. While deeply employed in taking a chart of this desart path, I could not avoid remarking with what particular gravity all were drinking, and many getting drunk. Consolation had been poured forth in no stinted tide, for a huge wall of empty vessels flanked the entrance. The proprietor of this house of call for the thirsty, was a ruddy carroty-headed rustic, who had contrived to draw down his cheeks for the occasion, in a manner unusually solemn. He sat apart busied, or apparently busied, with that chief of all sage books, the Young Man's Best Companion; while his daughter, as active a girl as ever chalked a score to a thirsty man, managed the business. But his mind had wandered into a long and studious calculation of the probable profit in his fermentations, and the Book, which was only put there as a decoy to the godly, was neglected. I contrived to withdraw it unperceived from before him, and for this feat I was rewarded by a grim smile from a broad bonneted son of Cameron, and a snuff from a tuphorn with a silver lid.
On returning to the meeting, the stars were beginning to glimmer, amongst the thin mist of the summer evening, and I could see groupes, already at some distance, of the spectators retiring home. Far differently demeaned themselves the pious remnant. They crowded round their preacher's tent after the repose of a brief intermission, and I left them enjoying a mysterious lecture on Permission, Predestination, Free Grace, The Elect, and Effectual Calling.
I am now, and I say it with sorrow, far removed from the society of those exemplary and pious people; and I heard, I confess, with something of an old Cameronian spirit and regret, that a proposition has been made to remove the meeting house into the neighbouring town of Dumfries. Of my old favourites, few I understand survive, and year after year lessens the number of those devout men who regularly passed my father's window on the Sabbath morn. Mr. Farely has long since been numbered with the blessed—and Jean Robson, a very singular and devout character, has also rested from her labour of instructing the youth of the Cameronians. She taught the writer of this imperfect account to read—the Bible, and the famed Prophecies of Alexander Peden. She tore the leaf from the Bible which said, "James, by the Grace of God, Defender of the Faith," and denounced the name of Sunday as Popish, or what was worse, Prelatical, and caused us all to call it the Sabbath. She died 83 years old. She used to flog her scholars, and exclaim,—"Thou art an evil one—a worker of iniquity," while the tawse and tongue kept time and told sharply.
The Cameronians make few converts—few people are fond of inflicting on themselves willingly the penance of controversial prayers and interminable sermons. There is a falling off in the amount of the flock.—My friend, the weaver, became a convert from conviction. Another of the converts joined the cause in the decline of life, not without suspicion of discontent, because his gifts had been overlooked by the minister of the parish kirk, in a recent nomination of elders. He was fond of argument, and seemed not unwilling to admit the potent auxiliaries of sword and gun on behalf of the cause. On one occasion, he grew wroth with the ready wit of a neighbouring peasant, on the great litigated point of patronage—and seizing the readiest weapon of his wrath, a hazel hoop—for he was a cooper—exclaimed, "Reviler—retire—else I'll make your head saft with this rung." On another time, he became exasperated at the irreverent termination of an epigram on a tippling blacksmith, which was attributed to Burns, who then resided within sight—at Elisland.
On the last day,
When sober men to judgment rise,
Go drunken dog, lie still incog.
And dinna stir if ye be wise.
The honest Covenanter, after three days and three nights meditation, brought forth his expostulation with the mighty bard of Caledonia. It commenced thus—
Robert Burns ye were nae wise
To gie to Rodds sic an advice.
It has lost all its attraction since the voice of its author is mute, for who can repeat it as he did—the pithy preliminary remarks on the great poet's morals—the short Cameronian cough—the melodious trail of the tongue—and the frequent intrusion of explanatory notes, which the uninspired could not always distinguish from the poem itself, all these things are departed and passed away, and the verses sleep as quietly as the dust of the poet. Two other occasional converts scarcely deserve notice—one of them was saved from thorough conviction by the well-timed exaltation to a neighbouring precentorship, and the other has returned to his seat in the kirk, since the dark-eyed daughter of an adjacent Cameronian gave her hand, and it was a white one, to one of the chosen who was laird of an acre of peat-moss—and I have not heard of any other damsel of the covenant having caused him to relapse.