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 WHEN
I was a little girl, my home was in a large old-fashioned house close to
the ruins of the Cathedral at St. Andrews (Scotland). It was a picturesque
old place, standing in its own courtyard and garden, which were surrounded
by high walls. These were our only defence against the inroads of our
somewhat troublesome neighbours "the Fishers," whose dilapidated dwellings
formed at that time the east end of North Street, except where the line
was filled up by our stretch of high walls. From our upper windows I had
ample opportunity of observing the doings, and compassionating the misery
of swarms of the fisher children, the dilapidation of whose clothing was
only rivalled by that of their dwellings. Our chief meeting-place,
however, was the open sunny space between our gate and the Cathedral,
which was the favourite play -ground of our troublesome neighbours. Our
gate itself was a curiosity, for over it were the Douglas arms - the
bleeding heart—and, if it could have spoken, might have told many a tale
of all who had come and
gone beneath its arch, since the days
of its original possessor, the celebrated Gawaine Douglas, Bishop of
Dunkeld, and Dean of St. Andrews, before the Reformation days—whose mother
is credited with lack of ambition for her son’s education in the following
distich :—
"Thank Heaven, ne’er a son
of mine
But Gawaine e’er could pen a
line."
While the fisher children took their
noisy pleasure in the open space
aforesaid, our favourite playground was within the precincts of the ruined
Cathedral, where my brother and I played happily many a summer’s day
beside an old and highly respected friend, who united in his own person
the functions of custodian to the Cathedral, and factotum to my father. So
it came to pass that in our baby days our favourite stories were told us
by David about the Protestant Martyrs and John Knox, with certain gruesome
details which we were enabled to realize more vividly by an occasional
visit to the neighbouring Castle, with the window still remaining where
Cardinal Beatoun looked out at the spectacle of George Wishart burning in
front of the Castle gate, and at which window he himself speedily met with
the retribution due. We would then cross the Castle yard, and with fear
and trembling look down into "the
Bottle," [This vault or dungeon is what is known as an
Oubliette
of which there are few now extant, but in the dark ages
it was a common instrument of cruelty. It was of considerable size and
very deep, and in shape exactly like a great bottle, with no aperture save
the narrow neck, down which the victims were lowered by chains, in all
probability never to return to the light of day.] in which so many victims
of ecclesiastical tyranny were immurel until death put an end to their
sufferings. Who can wonder that I grew up a staunch Protestant?
So matters went on until I was about
twelve years old, and one of my brothers, a young soldier, came home from
abroad, deeply impressed with the importance of eternal things, who lost
no time in speaking to me about my soul, and the need of salvation, and
the ingratitude and heartlessness of going on neglecting such a Friend as
our Saviour; but I sturdily resisted all such appeals with all the little
strength and obstinacy of twelve years old;
A. short time
after this a dear elder sister, thirteen years older than I was, who had
been for long in delicate health, was called by the Lord in a very
remarkable way, and having found peace in believing Him, naturally at once
tried to lead me to Him too, but as it seemed without success. The effort
did not last long, for she was summoned to leave earth for heaven just a
fortnight after her conversion, and died after a few days’ illness,
rejoicing in her newly found Saviour, but not before she had spoken many
loving and earnest words to me, and induced me to read to her constantly,
during her illness, from her little Testament she now found so precious,
that she could not do without frequent reference to it. But it was not
until the day after her death that I took refuge in the Testament too, and
in the 17th chapter of St. John found the Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,
and before the sun set that evening, was rejoicing in Him who thus called
me out of darkness into His marvellous light. It is a long time ago now,
but He has never failed me since, and I believe soon began to use the
child He called then, as a means of helping other children.
 As
soon as the Lord had thus brought me to Himself, He made me wish to do
something for Him, and the people most within my reach were the fisher
children in the adjoining street. These now became the object of my life,
and to prove the sincerity of my interest, I may mention, it
overcame my former hatred of plain sewing, and one of my great pleasures
was to make what I could, in the way of clothes, for them.
When I was old enough to undertake
the duties, I was permitted, to my great delight, to become a visitor at
the Fishers’ School close by, where I worked first as a visitor, and
afterwards as hon. sec., for about fourteen years, until disabled by the
accident which laid me on the sofa for nearly six years, and from the
effects of which I have never entirely recovered.
In 1876 I had gone to live in the
neighbourhood of Edinburgh, the result of turning a corner in my life,
when by my mother’s death, my old home had been broken up.
I was somewhat of an invalid, having
been, as I said, lamed by an accident six years before, and this, I think,
has been the secret of my desire to save young children from like
suffering, and possibly of my knowing how to nurse them when in pain. I
was a good deal alone in the world, felt my weakness keenly, and often
wondered whether I would ever again be of any use. I often asked God to
give me something to do for Him. I could not help it. It is so sad to feel
of no use. |
