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ON a beautiful Sunday in
July I once again sat down at the foot of the old Iona-cross in the
churchyard of "the Parish." It was a day of perfect summer glory. Never
did the familiar landscape appear more lovely to the eye or more
soothing and sanctifying to the spirit. The Sound of Mull lay like a sea
of glass, without even a breath of fitful air from the hills to ruffle
its surface. White sails met their own shadows on the water; becalmed
vessels mingled with gray islets, rocky shores, and dark bays,
diminishing in bulk from the large brigs and schooners at my feet to the
snow-white specks which dotted the blue of the sea and hills of Lorn.
The precipice of Unnimore, streaked with waterfalls, rose in the clear
air above the old Keep of Ardtornish. The more distant castled
promontory of Duart seemed to meet Lismore. Aros Castle, with its ample
bay, closed the view in the opposite direction to the west; while over
all the landscape a Sabbath stillness reigned, like an invisible mantle
of love let down from the cloudless heaven over the weary world below.
It was Communion Sunday
in "the Parish."
Few of the people had as
yet arrived, and the churchyard was as silent as its graves. But soon
the roads and paths leading to the church from the distant glens and
nearer hamlets began to stir with the assembling worshippers. A few
boats were seen crossing the Sound, crowded with people coming to spend
a day of holy peace. Shepherds in their plaids; old men and old women,
with the young of the third generation accompanying them, arrived in
groups. Some had left home hours ago. Old John Cameron, with
fourscore-years-and-ten to carry, had walked from Kinloch, ten miles
across the pathless hills. Other patriarchs, with staff in hand, had
come greater distances Old women were dressed in their clean white
mutches," with black ribands bound round their heads; and some of the
more gentle-born had rags of old decency—a black silk scarf, fastened
with an old silver brooch, or a primitive-shaped bonnet—adornments never
taken out of the large wooden chest since they were made, half a century
ago, except on such occasions as the present, or on the occasion of a
family marriage feast, or a funeral, when a bit of decayed crape was
added. And old men were there who had seen better days, and had been
"gentlemen tacksmen" in the "good old times," when the Duke of Argyle
was laird. Now their clothes are threadbare; the old blue coat with
metal buttons is almost bleached; the oddly shaped hat and silk
neckerchief, both black once, are very brown indeed; and the leather
gloves, though rarely on, are yet worn out, and cannot stand further
mending. But these are gentlemen nevertheless in every thought and
feeling. And some respectable farmers from the "low country," who occupy
the lands of these old tacks-men, travelled in their gigs. Besides
these, there were one or two of the local gentry, and the assisting
clergymen.
How quiet and reverent
all the people look, as, with steps unheard on the greensward, they
collect in groups and greet each other with so much warmth and
cordiality! Many a hearty shake of the hand is given; and many a
respectful bow, from old gray heads uncovered, is received and returned
by their beloved Pastor, who moves about, conversing with them all.
No one can discover any
other expression than that of the strictest decorum and sober
thoughtfulness, among the hundreds who are here assembling for worship.
It has been the fashion
indeed, of some people who know nothing about Scotland or her Church, to
use Burns as an authority for calling such meetings "holy fairs." What
they may have been in the days of the poet, or how much he may himself
have contributed to profane them, I know not. But neither in Ayrshire
nor anywhere else have I ever been doomed to behold so irreverent and
wicked a spectacle as he portrays. The question was indeed asked by a
comparative stranger, on the Communion Sunday I am describing, whether
the fact of so many people coming from such great distances might not be
a temptation to some to indulge overmuch when "taking refreshments." The
reply by one who knew them well was, "No, sir, not one man will go home
in a state unbecoming a Christian."
The sentiment of
gratitude was, naturally enough, often repeated:—"Oh! thank God for such
a fine day!" For weather is an element which necessarily enters into
every calculation of times and seasons in the Highlands. If the day is
stormy, the old and infirm cannot come up to this annual feast, nor can
brother clergymen voyage from distant Island Parishes to assist at it.
Why, in the time of the old minister, he had to send a man on horseback
over moors, and across stormy arms of the sea, for sixty miles, to get
the wheaten bread used at the Communion! And for this reason, while the
Communion is dispensed in smaller parishes and in towns every six
months, and sometimes every quarter, it has hitherto been only
celebrated once a year in most Highland Parishes. At such seasons,
however, every man and woman who is able to appear partakes of the holy
feast. No wonder, therefore, the people are grateful for their lovely
summer day!
The previous Friday had
been, as usual, set apart for a day of fasting and prayer. Then the
officiating clergy preached specially upon the Communion, and on the
character required in those who intended to partake of it; and young
persons, after instruction and examination, were for the first time
formally admitted (as at confirmation in the Episcopal Church) into full
membership.
The old bell, which it is
said was once at Iona, began to ring over the silent fields, and the
small church was soon filled with worshippers. The service in the church
to-day was in English, and a wooden pulpit, or "tent," as it is called,
(I remember when it was made of boat sails,) was, according to custom,
erected near the old arch in the churchyard, where service was conducted
in Gaelic. Thus the people were divided, and, while some entered the
church, many more gathered round the tent, and seated themselves on the
graves or on the old ruin.
The Communion service of
the Church of Scotland is a very simple one, and may be briefly
described. It is celebrated in the church, of course, after the service
and prayers are ended. In most cases a long, narrow table, like a bench,
covered with white cloth, occupies the whole length of the church, and
the communicants are seated on each side of it. Sometimes, in addition
to this, the ordinary seats are similarly covered. The presiding
minister, after reading an account of the institution from the Gospels
and Epistles, and giving a few words of suitable instruction, offers up
what is called the consecration prayer, thus setting apart the bread and
wine before him as symbols of the body and blood of Jesus. After this he
takes the bread, and, breaking it, gives it to the communicants near
him, saying, "This is my body broken for you, eat ye all of it." He
afterwards hands to them the cup, saying, "This cup is the new testament
in my blood, shed for the remission of the sins of many, drink ye all of
it; for as oft as ye eat this bread and drink this cup, ye do show forth
the Lord's death until He come again." The bread and wine are then
passed from the communicants to each other, assisted by the elders who
are in attendance. In solemn silence the Lord is remembered, and by
every true communicant is received as the living bread, the life of
their souls, even as they receive into their bodies the bread and wine.
During the silence of communion every head is bowed down, and many an
eye and heart are filled, as the thoughts of Jesus at such a time mingle
with those departed ones, with whom they enjoy, in and through Him, the
communion of saints. Then follows an exhortation by the minister to
faith and love and renewed obedience; and then the 103rd Psalm is
generally sung, and while singing it the worshippers retire from the
table, which is soon filled with other communicants; and this is
repeated several times, until the whole service is ended with prayer and
praise.
Let no one thoughtlessly
condemn these simple services because they are different in form from
those he has been accustomed to. Each nation and church has its own
peculiar customs, originating generally in circumstances which once made
them natural, reasonable, or perhaps necessary. Although these
originating causes have passed away, yet the peculiar forms remain, and
become familiar to the people, and venerable, almost holy, from linking
the past with the present. Acquaintance with other branches of the
Christian Church; a knowledge of living men, and the spirit with which
the truly good serve God according to the custom of their fathers; a
dealing, too, with the realities of human life, and Christian
experience, rather than with the ideal of what might, could, would, or
should be, will tend to make us charitable in our judgments of those who
receive good, and express their love to God, through outward forms very
different from our own. Let us thank God when men see and are guided by
true light, whatever may be the form or setting of the lens by which it
is transmitted. Let us endeavour to penetrate beneath the variable, the
temporary, and accidental, to the unchangeable, the eternal, and
necessary; and then we shall bless God when among "different communions"
and "different sacraments," we can discover earnest believing souls, who
have communion with the same living Saviour, who receive with faith and
love the same precious sacrifice to be their life. I have myself, with
great thankfulness, been privileged to receive the sacrament from the
hands of "priests and bishops" in the rural churches and hoary
cathedrals of England, and to join in different parts of the world, cast
and west, with brethren of different names, but all having the same
faith in the One Name, "of whom the whole family in heaven and earth is
named." I am sure the "communion" in the Spirit was the same in all.
Close behind the
churchyard wall I noticed a stone which marked the grave of an old
devoted Wesleyan minister. He was a lonely man, without any "kindred
dust" to lie with. It had been his wish to be buried here, beside a
child whom he had greatly admired and loved. "In memory," so runs the
inscription, "of Robert Harrison, missionary of the Lord, who died 29th
January 1832. 'I have sinned; I have repented; I have believed; I love;
and I rest in the hope that by the grace of God I shall rise and reign
with my Redeemer throughout eternity."' Beyond the churchyard are a few
old trees surrounding a field where, according to tradition, once stood
the "palace" of Bishop Maclean. The bishop himself lies under the old
archway, near the grave of Flora Cameron.
Was it
"latitudinarianism" to believe, as I do, that could Wesleyan missionary
and Episcopalian. bishop have returned to earth, neither of them would
have refused to remember Jesus with those Presbyterian worshippers on
the ground of "schism?"
When the service in the
church was ended, I again sat down beside the old cross. The majority of
the congregation had assembled around the tent in the churchyard near
me. The officiating minister was engaged in prayer, in the midst of the
living and the dead. The sound of his voice hardly disturbed the
profound and solemn silence. One heard with singular distinctness the
bleating of the lambs on the hills, the hum of the passing bee, the lark
"singing like an angel in the clouds," with the wild cries coming from
the distant sea of birds that flocked over their prey. Suddenly the
sound of psalms arose from among the tombs. It was the thanksgiving and
parting hymn:—
"Salvation and immortal
praise
To our victorious King!
Let heaven and earth, and rocks and seas,
With glad hosannas ring.
To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
The God whom we adore,
Be glory, as it was, and is,
And shall be evermore."
So sang those humble
peasants, ere they parted to their distant homes,—some to meet again in
communion here, some to meet at a nobler feast above. So sang they that
noble hymn, among the graves of their kindred, with whose voices theirs
had often mingled on the same spot, and with whose spirits they still
united in remembering and praising the living Saviour.
Some, perhaps, there are
who would have despised or pitied that hymn, because sung with so little
art. But a hymn was once sung long ago, on an evening after the first
Lord's Supper, by a few lowly men in an upper chamber in Jerusalem, and
the listening angels never heard such music ascending to the ears of God
from this jarring and discordant world! The humble Lord who sang that
hymn, and who led that chorus of fishermen, will not despise the praises
of peasant saints; nor will the angels perceive the songs of the loving
heart as ever out of harmony with the noblest chords struck from their
own golden harps, or the noblest anthems sung within God's temple of the
sky.
As I now write these
lines where so many beloved faces pass before me, which made other years
a continual benediction, and as I hear their familiar voices greet me as
of yore, in tones which will never more be silent to me, but mingle with
my holiest, happiest hours, I cannot conclude my reminiscences of this
dear old parish, which I leave at early dawn, without expressing my deep
gratitude to Almighty God for His gift, to me and to many, of those who
once here lived, but who now live for evermore with Christ—enjoying an
eternal Communion Sunday. |
