By the Rev. T. MACKENZIE FRASER, M.A.
Few are familiar with the lovely scenery on the shores of the Cromarty Firth. The rugged grandeur of the Highlands combines with the softer beauty of the South to produce an almost unrivalled degree of the admiration always effected by strong and striking contrast in nature; while the splendid sheet of water, in which our whole British Navy might ride securely during the wildest gale, forms, from the choiceness of its position and the peculiarity of its shape, perhaps the chief element in the beauty of the scene. Guarded at the entrance by two immense rocks, spaciosly wooded atop, bay after bay disclosing itself in endless succession, skirted in one place by fields of corn, fringed in another by woods of varied green, and bounded in yet another by a line of sand-hills or moorland; at one time discovering a village or burgh town, and at another disclosing, amid the foliage, the mansion-house of some Highland proprietor, or the scarcely less lovely, though more humble, front of some Ross-shire manse; and fenced well-nigh all around by towering mountains, like gigantic sentries keeping watch over the loveliness within, the Firth of Cromarty leaves an impression on the mind of a spectator which is not soon to be forgotten, and creates in the traveller who has just left its scenery an almost irrepressible desire to return to it again.
At the uppermost extremity of this inland sea lies the well-known Ferintosh. Though itself not distinguished by great external beauty, in comparison with the parishes across the water, it is, nevertheless, the scene of an annual assemblage more interesting to me by far than the rarest combination of natural objects—the sacramental gathering in the Burn of Ferintosh.
A Highland sacrament is always a most solemn and interesting sight; but I question whether a spectator could have been at any time so much impressed with the scene, as when it was presided over by Dr. MacDonald in his own parish. The numbers were there swelled to an incredible amount by strangers from the neighbouring parishes and counties—the shires of Ross, Cromarty, and Inverness, and even Sutherland, pouring forth their companies to join the worshippers. It was but once that I was privileged to behold the sight—on the last public sacrament before the Disruption. As there happened to be no service in our church on that particular Sabbath, I rode over to Ferintosh, hoping, should the opportunity occur, to behold for myself a sight of which so many glowing descriptions had been given me. I overtook on the way numbers of gigs and carts with their comfortable-looking occupants, “blue-bonnet farmers,” on their ponies, and hundreds of pedestrians of both sexes travelling in groups of three or four; these last occupied almost invariably in conversing upon some Scripture text, or giving notes of the various sermons they had heard—some weighty word being not unfrequently recalled at a distance of many years. Did a minister happen to pass the travellers, every bonnet was doffed, and many an ejaculatory prayer was whispered, that the presence of the Lord might go with His servant, and that a blessing might rest on the preachers of the day.
I had intended to put up my horse at the manse stable, but found that not only were the stalls filled—three horses being often in one division—but that in the sheds and square every available inch was occupied. I was soon, however, relieved from my difficulty by a boy offering to take charge of the animal, and see it well fed; and knowing that in no possible circumstances could a Highland groom be an expensive one, I had little hesitation in accepting his offer.
At each Highland sacrament there are two congregations—the one composed of the English hearers, who worship in the church; the other, of the Gaelic population, who conduct their services in the open air. Owing to the fervour and expressiveness of the Gaelic tongue, and to the great liberty enjoyed by the preacher who employs it, the outdoor services are always attended by a far larger number than when English is spoken; and, indeed, it would be almost impossible to accommodate within any Presbyterian church an average Gaelic congregation on a Communion Sabbath. But at Ferintosh the number is immense (1842)—being seldom below six thousand, frequently amounting to ten, and on one occasion reaching, I was told, the enormous total of fifteen thousand souls. It reminds one of those glorious days when the cities of Germany poured forth their thousands to hear the Gospel at the lips of Martin Luther; and I question whether, even in that land of deep feeling, and those times of thrilling excitement, there was ever witnessed a scene more solemn and impressive than the gathering at Ferintosh.
The place of meeting seems cut out for the express purpose, by the immediate hand of Him who is at once the God of nature and of grace, and who, as if in anticipation of the scenes of holy interest to be presented by that locality, would appear to have included the very dip of the land and the course of the brook among the “all things” which “work together for the good of them that love Him.” At a convenient distance from the church, the Burn of Ferintosh, often almost dry in summer, descends a deep hollow that forms a large oblong slightly rounded at the upper end, the sides of which slope towards each other, leaving a space of flat greensward between; and under this the waters of the Burn are carried by a drain. The sides of the declivity are deeply furrowed all around, like the parallel roads of Glenroy on a small scale, as if the waters of the Burn had collected in the space, and forced an outlet at different intervals, though much is doubtless owing to manual labour.
These furrows are the seats on which the people rest, line rising above line, in close succession, somewhat like the pews of many of our Free Churches. The appearance of the people as they sat on these Highland benches, was both interesting and uncommon. Hats were pretty numerous among the males, but rarely was a bonnet seen upon a female head—that of the maiden being generally bare, the matron waring a “mutch” (cap), while the elderly women had grey or blue cloaks, with the hoods wrapped round their heads. The snow-white caps of the females contrasted pleasingly with the coarse blue bonnets of the men; and as my eye first caught the congregation, it dwelt with a more delighted gaze upon their homely appearance than even when, after the lapse of a few months, I looked round, at the time of the Disruption, on the vast concourse of gentility at Canonmills. A solemn interest sat on every countenance, the men in particular appearing to drink in with avidity every word that was said; and as the heart-searching address of the minister fell meaningless on my ear (not being a Gaelic speaker) I could have wept at my inability to share their strong emotions. The tent, or temporary pulpit, is placed at the lower end of the open space, which rises slightly towards the upper extremity of the area; and in front of the tent stretched one long Communion table—at which, by the way, a Highlander never seats himself till it is “fenced.”
After the conclusion of the “action sermon” and the “fencing” of the tables, a large number of verses were sung in the plaintive emotional music of the Gaelic psalmody. The precentor who officiated on the occasion was a venerable-looking old man whose voice was heard, even if less distinctly, by the more distant part of the congregation; as he was joined however, by those near him, the sound gradually waxed louder and louder, till the whole eight thousand voices swelled the sacred song, and formed one vast chorus which, in power if not in harmony, in fervour if not in skill, has, since the days of Gustavus Adolphus been almost wholly unsurpassed. (During the war of Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, the whole army, consisting of twenty thousand men, on the eve of battle, used to sing Luther’s favourite psalm—Psalm xlvii.) Still, I confess, I was a little disappointed in the expectations I had formed of the singing; for, though I have never heard so powerful a chorus, yet I had entertained a higher idea of the compass of so many voices than was actually realised. But a Highland congregation never sings loudly; their melody is rather deep than strong; and the greater the solemnity of the occasion, the lower is the tone in which the psalm is sung.
During the singing, the elders—”the men” of Ferintosh—assisted by a few of their brethren from neighbouring parishes, placed on the tables the elements of bread and wine, the communicants coming slowly forward to take their seats. The tardiness of the Highlander in this solemn matter is very striking—each seeming to feel that he is going to meet the Lord, and to tremble lest he should be found eating and drinking judgment to himself; and the officiating minister has to encourage, exhort, and not unfrequently to rebuke the timid believer, ere he will venture to commemorate his Saviour’s dying love. I do not deny that this hesitation is often carried to an unwarrantable extent, the Highland communicant often thinking that his present frame of mind, rather than his personal interest in Christ, is to be the test of his worthiness. But still hesitation is infinitely preferable to haste, affording, as it does, pretty sure indication of a stricter compliance with the injunction, “But let a man examine himself.” At the table, the solemnity was most marked; not an eye was open—each head was hung down; and, save when the elements passed, and the communicants partook of the bread and wine, scarcely a motion was visible along the whole line. It being the fourth or fifth table that I witnessed, Dr. MacDonald did not officiate. He was leaning over the front of the “tent,” watching his beloved flock with a pastor’s eye, and seeming to view with that delight which none but a pastor knows, the refreshment of his people’s souls at the streams of living water.
Blessed old man! Twenty years had elapsed since he sprinkled the water of baptism on my face, and prayed that I might be spared for usefulness in the cause of Him from whom a scarcely-living mother had received me; and as I now stood above him on the alder-skirted bank of the Burn, my heart glowed more strongly than ever with an affection which I shall always cherish for his memory; and right sure am I, that when I then returned his prayer into his own bosom—that he now might be spared for many a useful year—the supplication was re-echoed from the breast of every child of God that had seen the person of John MacDonald, or heard his voice that day. I did not stay long, and about an hour after my departure the congregation dispersed. Suitably rewarding my little groom, I returned slowly to my home, never to forget the scene which I had witnessed in the Burn of Ferintosh.
Nearly seven years have now elapsed since the gathering which I have attempted to describe, and the Elijah of the Scottish Highlands has been taken home to his God. The next Communion in the Burn of Ferintosh will to many be a Bochim indeed! The recollections of years will crowd upon the warm heart of the Highlander, as he seats himself once more upon the well-worn sod; and when the tremulous notes of the white-haired precentor are again heard, and many an eye will look almost instinctively upwards in search of the preacher who used to sit above him in the weather-beaten black “tent,” and instead of the beaming old familiar face, meets the countenance of a stranger—many a spirit will cry in bitterness:—”My father, my father, the chariot of Israel and the horsemen thereof,” and, “the people will lift up their voice and weep.” And on whom has his mantle fallen? Or is he indeed “the last of the apostles.” Porteous of Kilmuir, MacPhail of Resolis, and Lachlan Mackenzie of Lochearrow have preceded him, but who is to take his place? “Help, Lord, for the godly man ceaseth; for the faithful faileth from among the children of men.”
Meanwhile, the history of such a man must not be lost. Being dead, he should yet speak. The Highland public call for a memoir of this remarkable man—the Whitefield of Scotland. I grieve to hear that the Journal which he had kept for a number of years up to 1839, is now nowhere to be found. But surely there is more than one among his intimate friends who can partly supply the deficiency. Can Dr. Mackintosh of Tain do nothing to redeem from oblivion the memory of at least one of the great evangelists of the North? Or may we not look for a life of the father from the biographer of the son? But John MacDonald must still preach to the heart, if his sonorous and powerful voice no longer peals in the ear of the Highlander. And it were deeply to be regretted, if no record should be preserved of one who approached nearer than any living man to the example of Paul—”in journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils by mine own countrymen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren; in weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness; besides those things that are without, that which cometh upon me daily, the care of all the churches.”
The foregoing account is extracted from the Christian Treasury, Dr. MacDonald himself having distributed a large number of copies of that particular issue throughout his parish. Dr. Kennedy of Dingwall has long since supplied the need above emphasised in his The Apostle of the North, copies of which may be obtained from The Northern Chronicle Office, Inverness.—Christian Treasury, 1842.—J. P. M.