Cottages in the glen—Their structure—The occupants—Old
Saunders Gray—Domestic piety—Christian charity—Its effect.
In the bosom of one of the sweetest pastoral glens in the
south-west of "wild traditioned Scotland," stood a cluster of cottages, of
which, and of their occupants, we mean to speak. The stretch of the glen is
about eight miles, in the winding length of which a limpid stream pursues
its course, and gathers in its way a number of affluents on the right and on
the left. These tributaries tend much to enliven the sweet scene, by means
of the dark gorges which they have scooped out in their rapid descent adown
the steep hills on either side. These gorges are, for the most part, choked
to the brim with dark natural wood, and densely entangled copse, sprung from
the stems of decayed trees that have grown on the spot, age after age. These
murky ravines have their own tales and wild traditions that have clung to
them time out of mind. The beautiful green heights, whose velvet slopes are
dotted with the Meeting lambkins that gaily frisk around their dams, stand
in towering majesty as guardians of the fairy glen.
It was in the deep bosom of this glen where stood the
cottages which we have mentioned. These lowly huts were perfect specimens of
the hovels of the peasantry of the olden times. The timber part was of oak,
which abounded in the primeval woods of the glen, and which, it seems, every
one was at liberty to appropriate as he saw fit. The couples were attached
to strong beams that were deeply and firmly moored in the ground, and on the
cross spars on the roof were placed rows of turf and heather, which even the
modern slated roof cannot equal. The interior generally consisted of two
apartments, a kitchen and a spence; while the fire of peats blazed exactly
in the middle of the floor, and sent its tardy smoke in a dense column
straight up through the aperture in the roof. In certain states of weather,
the smoke formed a thick cloud above head, so that the joists and rafters
were frequently varnished black and glossy, like a looking-glass. The
comfort within, in the shivering days of winter, was much greater than, in
modern times, we may be ready to suppose.
One cottage in particular to which some degree of
interest was attached, was situated close on the margin of a crystal rill
that purled from the steep face of the height above, and which, in great
spates from the dark thunder cloud, sent its contribution in full and muddy
gush down to the main stream that traversed the vale beneath. Behind, in a
semi-circle, grew the old trees and brushwood which, in the winter, afforded
shelter from the surly blasts that descended from the hills, and poured from
the outlets of the narrow ravines with destructive force, as from the mouth
of a cannon; and in the sweet months of summer, this sheltering woodland was
filled with flocks of songsters, whose merry throats poured forth a flood of
the sweetest melody. The cottage was one of a cluster which, in those times,
were common in the glens, and even in the remote solitudes; for where,
now-a-days, we find only a lonely shepherd's shieling, there were dwellings
that studded the localities in every quarter. In the glen to which we now
refer there were, in the last generation, nearly a hundred straggling
cottages and small hamlets, whereas, at present, we cannot count above a
dozen, so extensive have been the clearings within the memory of the people
living. In traversing the moorlands and solitary glens, we stumble on the
foundations and ruins of old buildings, the very names of which are entirely
forgotten. We say the cottage was not alone; there were others near it,
exactly of the same structure, and inhabited by persons of the same
condition in life; so that in those simple times, and apart from towns,
there was no want of sociality and neighbourly intercourse; and as we shall
see in the history of the cottage, the inhabitants were orderly in their
habits, and consistently Christian in their deportment.
The occupant of the cottage was a person of the name of
Saunders Gray, a man well advanced in years, and a native of the glen, as
his ancestors were generations before him. Till of late we could count in
these glens and moorlands families, the descendants of persons who hare
wonned on the same spot for hundreds of years, and others for scores on
scores of years; but almost all such occupancy is now extinct. Saunders was
one of the old school, as we are in the habit of terming it; but he was a
substantial Christian, and well versed in the truths of the gospel. He
delighted in the works of the old divines, and was a great stickler for
orthodoxy. He was not too tolerant of those who did not exactly chime in
with all his sentiments, but he was not uncharitable. He knew he was but a
man liable to err as well as others, and that here we see only as through a
glass darkly. He was firm, but not dogmatic, and could patiently listen to
what might be advanced on the other side, and never allowed differences of
opinion to interrupt neighbourly fellowship. He had drunk too deep into the
spirit of the great Master to permit the extinguishment of the charity that
thinketh no evil. No person of his acquaintance ever doubted for a moment
his genuine godliness. His Nathaniel-like temper was too transparent to
admit of any suspicion of his integrity, and his genuine kindness and
obliging turn secured him the love of all. His deportment from his boyhood
had been blameless—none could ever point to any external blot in his
character, although he had his infirmities like other men. He never laid the
slightest claim to perfection; and, indeed, the sense of his sinfulness, as
a fallen creature, superinduced a contrition and a penitence of a more than
ordinary kind. This astonished some persons who did not seem to experience
so vivid a sense of the evil of sin as he entertained, which induced a
friend to say to him one day, "Saunders, we are amazed that so good a man as
you are should cherish such lowly thoughts of yourself." "Ah," said he,
"little do you know of the evils within, for though the Lord has in mercy
preserved me from any flagrant sin in the life, the unseen heart is depraved
in all men, and I am no exception; and though the Lord has been pleased to
renew me by His grace, and to wash away my sins in His precious blood, which
was shed on the cross as an atonement for human transgression, I still have
been a sinner, and am a sinner; nay, I may say with Paul, I am the chief of
sinners, and if I am not saved by free grace through the great sacrifice, I
am undone for ever. All my righteousness is as filthy rags in my own sight,
and how much more in the sight of Him who is infinite—purity itself. My hope
is all in Christ."
Saunders was a shining light, and even though he had
never uttered a word on divine things, the lustre of his sanctity would have
preached an impressive and a practical sermon. We cannot tell how much
influence for good the life of a saintly man may shed all around him.
Richard Cecil says, "that the very sight of a godly man passing along the
street before his window, used to send him to his prayers." "Let your light
so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your
Father which is in heaven."
The occupants of the cottage were Saunders, his wife, and
two daughters. Barbara Fowler was, what in the language of those times was
termed, a gracious woman— a God-fearing person who, like her husband, had
been a believer in Christ from her youth. It was the mutual attraction of
genuine piety, as well as of personal liking, that ultimately made them man
and wife. Barbara was a pattern to all the wives in the glen, and at that
time there were not a few. Her personal tidiness, and the snod and cleanly
manner in which she kept her household, was the admiration of some and the
envy of others. The slovenly housewives regarded the spouse of Saunders
Gray, or, as he was called, Saunders of the Glen, as a standing critique on
their sluttishness, which was the occasion of many reproachful whispers, and
of much secret grudging and spitefulness. All this she knew, but she
resolved to maintain her position, and to conduct herself in a kind and
gentle manner toward all her neighbours, and more especially toward those
who, she knew, were in the habit of speaking lightly of her. Her maxim was
to render good for evil, and she found that this was not without its due
effect, for some of her enemies ultimately became her best friends, and
imitated her example in domestic matters, and, what was better far, became,
through her pious conversation, decided Christians. This was eminently the
case in one instance. A neighbour, named Eppie Page, a woman of a very
irrasible temper, and of a somewhat fiendish disposition, and one who
cherished a strong aversion to Barbara, and who distinguished herself both
by word and deed as her foe—Barbara, well aware of all this, never showed
the least resentment, but conducted herself in every way toward her as if
she had been her friend. Eppie was born in . the glen, and her husband was a
native of the same place. The cottage which they occupied stood in a
pleasant nook, and they had been long its inmates, and consequently felt an
ineradicable attachment to the hut and its enchanting neighbourhood. It
happened that the rent due for their little cottage had not been forthcoming
at the proper time, and, besides, there being an accumulation of arrears, it
came to this—that they must either pay or quit the place. This was sad news;
they had a numerous family; they knew not where to lay their head. At last
they resolved to solicit help from their neighbours, humbling to their
pride, as it might be. Their efforts, however, were in vain: the neighbours
were all of them poor like themselves, and had little to spare beyond their
own necessities; and even those who pretended to be their friends, showed
the greatest coolness. There # was now no help for it, they must flit and
leave the pleasant glen for the first time, and, perhaps, for ever. As Eppie
and her husband, and the children around them, were sitting weeping before
the hearth, a gentle tapping was heard at the door. "Come in," was the
response, and there stood before them Barbara Gray; as if a thunderbolt had
fallen at their feet, they could not have been more astonished. Eppie shook
from head to foot, and that both through anger and terror; for she imagined
that she whom she so bitterly traduced, had come with a charge against her
before leaving the glen. Willie rose to his feet, and the children stood
bathed in tears. Eppie alone continued sitting, and regarded the intruder
with a malignant scowl. "I have come, dear friends," said Barbara, "I have
come under the cloud of the evening to tender you some assistance in your
distress, and now X have to say that you need not
leave the glen if you will accept help from an old neighbour, and one who
wishes you well. Here is as much as will pay your rent, and the bygone
deficiencies into the bargain." Poor Eppie gazed in bewilderment—she was
confounded, she was spell-bound, her heart began to swell, the tears gushed
from her eyes, she covered her face with her apron, and rocked her head from
side to side. At last she looked up, and exclaimed, "And all this from one
whom I have so long treated as an enemy! what shall I say? God be merciful
to me a sinner." "And," said Barbara, "it is just because He is
merciful, and has shown mercy to me and mine, that I have been led to
administer this little kindness—a kindness which is, indeed, due from one
neighbour to another, when it is in our power; for, you know, the blessed
Scriptures say, 'Bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you,
and pray for them that despitefully use and persecute you.' We have, through
industry and careful management, been enabled, from time to time, to save
small sums, so that when more than ordinary is needed, either by our own
family, or by others of our acquaintance, we might have something to give.
We heard of your distress—for my husband concurs with me in this gift—and we
considered that if the case had been so with us, we would have felt the same
reluctance to leave this sweet glen which our ancestors have occupied for
generations before us. And now, dear friends, we make you welcome to this
small sum, and we are happy that it is in our power to bestow it, for,
indeed, as the great Master hath said, "It is more blessed to give than to
receive.'"
