The Kirk Above Dee Water X.
James Dodson
A Galloway Herd’s Sunday: Old Style. 113
X.
A GALLOWAY HERD’S SUNDAY: OLD STYLE.
A HERD, as every Scottish reader knows, is a shepherd, and in Galloway the parish ministers have been known as “Galloway Herds,” ever since a certain witty but irreverent schoolmaster composed some racy verses on the eccentricities of the local clergy. The long string of rhymes known to the people of the Stewartry by the name of the “Galloway Herds,” and still crooned over by the older inhabitants, contains references to such clerical peculiarities as parsimonious habits of life, “nearness” in money matters, fondness for good cheer, and the like. Some of the nicknames invented by the disrespectful rhymer stuck to the ministers through life. One in particular, who was noted for his habit of “dropping in” at farmhouses just when a sheep had been killed, and readily consenting to share the farmer’s mutton, became familiarly known as the Gled. We can remember but the first line of his verse—“Gled Gorrie! Gled Gorrie, though braxy ye worry !”* It need scarcely be explained that a gled is a bird of prey not fastidious in his feeding, and braxy is the flesh of a sheep which has been killed just in time to forestall the fatal issue of some disease.
A Galloway Herd has no sinecure, as a rule, seeing his parish generally measures a few score of square miles. A
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* [Idiomatically: “Gorrie, you greedy hawk—even if all you prey on is diseased sheep!” ED.]
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great deal of walking and driving can be done in such a space in the work of visiting the cottages and farms. Very often, as in the case before us now, the “kirk” is placed at one end of the wide parish. Churchgoing becomes a serious problem on wet or stormy days. Several times in each year the homely tabernacle may be almost empty when its tinkling old bell announces that the minister is about to enter the pulpit. In many cases, and in ours for one, a bell is tolled an hour or two before service—probably the survival of some prior service now discontinued, or perhaps a signal to the cottagers hard by that it is time to dress for church. Here there is no village nearer than three miles, by a steep and winding “kirk road,” lying among desolate hills and peat mosses, and flanked by a deep, still loch. Towards noon, on a fine day, a few groups of decently-dressed church-goers may be seen trudging over this path in the direction of the “Auld Kirk.” As they go they discuss the news of the week—how the laird drove through the village last Thursday with a party of shooters [gossipers], how Mrs Whiggam has had another “cheeper” [“baby”] (for so a new-born child is styled in the quaint parlance), how the Free Kirk minister and “oor man” [“our man”] are “gey thrang the noo, but I wuss it may conteenie” [“very busy just now, but I wish it may continue”]; how the minister was “very clever last Sabbath,” how Jock Smith and Maggie MacSoutar seem to be “terrible pack thegither” [“very close together”, i.e., romantically], and perhaps the “cries hae been gi’en in for the day” [“banns of marriage have been given in”].* Such sober gossip beguiles the way till the rustic and rusty belfry of the Church appears at the foot of the hill, and the wayfarers halt to make a slight adjustment of their dress ere descending. Beyond the little square whitewashed
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* [The gossip includes: idiomatically, “that Mrs. Whiggam has had another baby; that the Free Church minister and our own minister are very busy just now, and the speaker hopes it continues; that the minister preached very well last Sabbath; that Jock Smith and Maggie MacSoutar seem to be very close/courting; and perhaps that their marriage banns have been announced today.” ED.]
A Galloway Herd’s Sunday: Old Style. 115
building rolls the sluggish river, as wide in this part as a loch, and nearly as still. At the side, the homely Manse is embosomed in trees and shrubs, and a lazy smoke curls from the chimneys. In the kitchen, the old servant is bustling about among two or three cronies, who rest here awhile before going up to the church. She is putting the last touches to the Sunday dinner, for the good man must have a comfortable hot meal after his exertions. Soon, she will exchange her clogs [wooden-soled shoes] or pattens [raised wooden/metal-soled footwear worn over ordinary shoes to keep them out of mud and wet] for the “Sabbath shoon” [“Sabbath shoes”], and get herself ready for service.
The minister is just closing his tiny Sabbath school. Twenty little children are all that the scanty population can send him at this point, but in other stations he gathers in as many more for their simple lessons. Each child has said his “ticket,” containing a short verse of Scripture; has repeated a few lines of some simple hymn and a “question” in the Shorter Catechism; and has helped to puzzle out a chapter, verse by verse, sometimes word by word. The minister says a benediction, and dismisses the little gathering. Then he hurries down to the Manse to put on the “cloak,” for there is no vestry to this primitive building. Soon, he is summoned forth by the tinkle of the bell, and proceeds gravely through the churchyard. Here, many of his flock still linger to exchange a last remark, but as they see him coming, all but a few hurry into the church. The old “bethral” [“beadle”] opens the door wide for the minister, and then follows him to the pulpit, where he finally shuts him in, and departs to his own pew.
The service is of an improved order, for the Church Service Society is abroad even in Galloway. Still, a few
116 The Kirk above Dee Water.
old people keep their seats grimly during the praise, and cast a look of little favour at the unassuming harmonium and the choir. At prayer they stand up open-eyed, and follow the solemn sentences with a critical air. The sermon is of course the chief centre of interest. Galloway folk listen well, and there are few sleepers, especially if the minister is at his best. But, like most Scottish hearers, they prefer a discourse delivered “wanting the paper,” and they will stand a long one of that kind. They love dearly a bit of poetry in the sermon, and they cling to the old-fashioned mode of dividing it into heads.
The kirk “scales,” and there is a rush for “machines,” for many have driven the long distance from their homes. At the Manse stables, one gig after another receives its load of two, sometimes three, persons, and the restive little pony darts off at full speed. He knows as well as any one that the service is over, and that he is going home to dinner. The Laird’s landau and pair roll off in more leisurely fashion. The Laird has stopped to shake hands with the minister, and exchange a few words on parish affairs. The minister talks for a few minutes to his elders, who are busy counting the small “collection.” Perhaps a session meeting must he held, for poor Jinnet MacSweetie is in trouble, and desires to “stand the session” [“to appear before the kirk session for discipline, confession, rebuke, or restoration”]. She has been at church as a matter of course, although no “cuttie-stool” [stool of repentance, a low stool or seat on which public penitents sat before the congregation while being rebuked or restored] is now employed for such penitents [i.e., the discipline has grown lax]. Jinnet is sadly altered from the sprightly lass we knew a few months ago.* She is pale and heavy-eyed, and her dress is less neat than of old. The minister’s solemn but kindly admonition makes her weep; but she will never marry the faithless Saunders, whose confession she produces, written in very uneven and schoolboyish
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* [She has fallen into moral scandal, in this case, fornication, for which she submits to the discipline. ED.]
A Galloway Herd’s Sunday: Old Style. 117
characters. “Na! na!” she says, firing up amid her tears, “I wudna hae him noo gin he were to ask me on his knees!”* So the session closes, and poor Jinnet trudges sadly home over some weary miles. The minister says good-bye to his elders and retires to the Manse.
A couple of hours after the minister’s man brings round the “machine,” and they start for a distant schoolroom, where Sunday school is taught. At the close the usual “preaching,” ensues. Perhaps forty or fifty people attend from the village and neighbouring farms. An old precentor guides the psalmody here, and the dreamy strains of many an old tune, major and minor, are heard. At such meetings the “Free Kirk folk” come out regularly; even the Free Kirk pastor himself has been seen joining in the worship, and hearkening to his Erastian brother’s discourse. The meeting ended, the minister gets word from a kindly neighbour, that old Tammy Broon is very bad, and Mrs Tamson “geyly ailing” [quite unwell]. He walks off to their cottages, and he will doubtless pray at each bedside; for it is no “veesit” without a prayer. It is now seven p.m., and the Galloway Herd is pretty well used up. But the Laird has asked him, as a special favour, to take family worship at the “big house,” and old “Welshman,” the minister’s pony, is turned up the gloomy avenue, where night is already settling. Servants, lodge-keepers, gamekeepers, grooms, along with the Laird’s family and guests, are assembled in the dining-room, and the minister conducts a brief evening service. “Abide with me ; fast falls the eventide,” is the closing hymn. Probably the tired “Herd” will dine with the family, and then quietly drive homeward through the deserted roads. Every cottage door is closed. The
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* [“No! no!” she says, flaring up through her tears, “I would not have him now even if he were to ask me on his knees!” ED.]
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lamps are out and silence reigns, only disturbed by the rattling wheels, or an occasional restful lowing from cattle lying out in the shadowy fields. The minister has spoken to perhaps three hundred souls out of a population of eight hundred; he has driven twelve or fifteen miles, and delivered five addresses; and he has visited several sick persons. Who can deny him, after the day’s duties, a quiet pipe before he goes to bed? He locks his door, puts out the “study” lamp, and, candle in hand, seeks his chamber. Before lying down to a deep and dreamless sleep he takes a last look out at the shining slow river. The water is murmuring among the rushes of the broad marshy banks. The little belfry stands out boldly in a clear moonlight. The church is dark and silent, and round it the silent dead keep guard. It will be a fine day to-morrow, and the farmers will be able to “lead” their harvest. The minister’s harvest is more distant, but let us hope not less sure. At any rate, he has laboured all day in the field, and may surely now rest awhile.