Pilgrimage of Joy . . .

WHEN THE SNOW FELL IN SCOTLAND
by W. Carl Ketcherside

Glasgow was cold and gray and dirty from soot. The stores were without heat and the girls who clerked in Woolworth’s wore heavy coats. One who waited upon us wore woolen gloves. The war years had depleted supplies and a large department store such as Lewis’s had little to offer. At the close of our first day in the city I spoke to the little group of saints meeting in a storefront building on Hospital Street, located in the heart of a festering and decadent slum. Their faith in such a depressing area was to me a shining beacon in a bleak world. On every side of them paganism reared its ugly head, but they were not discouraged.

The following day five of us journeyed to Pennyvenie, by way of Ayr and Dalmellington. We visited the thatched-roof cottage of Robert Burns and I had a difficult time tearing myself away from the nearby museum with its many originals of the poems which had made the bard famous. At Dalmellington we sat down to tea in the hospitable home of Edward Jess. He was one of God’s noblemen. There were but twelve of us present in the little schoolhouse at Pennyvenie, on a raw, cold night, but the warmth of fellowship will never grow dim in my memory.

On Wednesday afternoon we went to Slamannan and were received into the home of Brother Wilson for tea and scones. We were talking every minute. The house was one in which Adam Bruce, whom we knew in Windsor, Canada, once lived. The village had also been the home of our beloved Harry Topping whom we knew in our own land. As darkness descended the men in our party walked down Station Road to the meetinghouse. It was a cold, crisp, snowy hike. The brother who presided over the meeting asked Albert Winstanley to sing a solo, and then requested Nell and me to sing. We used “Give Me The Bible” as our number. Later I spoke for forty minutes and then answered questions for an equal period of time.

Slamannan had been a center for the work of James Anderson, who was born near Airdrie in 1837. As a humble evangelist he had left a mark upon the whole district, .planting congregations, defending the faith, and proclaiming the Word for more than half a century. John Anderson, in whose home we stayed in Glasgow was a worthy son of James Anderson, and served to tie together for us the history of the work in Scotland for a hundred years. It was a saga of labor and suffering, of smiles and tears, of sorrow mingled with hope.

When we prepared to say farewell to the Andersons they presented us with a replica of their tartan, and every time we look at it we recall the glorious fellowship with these members of a genuine clan. We went by bus to Blackburn, near Bathgate, to be received for tea into the home of John and May McCallum. After a satisfying meal of fish and chips we were off to the meetinghouse at Blackridge, where the heating pipes were frozen and we had to hold the meeting wearing heavy coats. When John McCallum arose to preside, his steaming breath ascended in a cloud. Despite the shivering experience the meeting was prolonged by questions and we left the gathering edified and strengthened, to spend the night with Joe and Agnes Kerr, who lived in a new pre-fab in Harthill.

I had written to Joe several times before we left the United States and it was a great blessing to meet him face-to-face. Agnes was a Burns enthusiast and entertained us with “Tam-o-Shanter” and several other poems, all delivered in a delightful Scottish brogue. The next morning, Joe, Albert Winstanley, Nell and myself took the early bus into Edinburgh so we could see a little of the city before going on to Kirkcaldy, across the Firth of Forth. We walked down Princess Street, one of the most beautiful avenues in the world, and paused to look at the remarkable memorial to Sir Walter Scott, and the statue of Livingstone, the great missionary.

We climbed the steep hill to the great castle which frowns down as a lonely sentinel from the huge rock in the very center of the city. It was like moving into a world of a thousand years ago, for some of the buildings are that old. We tore ourselves away reluctantly to descend to street level and to the railway station. Joe Kerr returned home but Albert went with us as our train crossed the great Forth Bridge, that mile-long cantilever marvel constructed by Sir John Fowler and Sir Benjamin Baker, and finished in 1890.

I was anxious to get to Kirkcaldy which the natives call Lang Toon (Long Town) because it stretches out so far along the Forth. I knew it was the home of the great Nairn Linoleum factory, and that Congoleum had originated there, but one could have guessed that from the odor of linseed oil which hung over the city. At the station we were greeted by our genial host Dave Mellis, and his son Stanley. Dave was a “Wagon Inspector” for the L.N.E.R. lines, and in his home we found a hospitality which was warm and gracious.

The American restoration movement owes more to Kirkcaldy than most of us realize. In 1763, Robert Carmichael and Archibald McLean were conversing together in Glasgow when the subject of infant baptism arose, and each revealed he had some doubts about it. They agreed to study the scriptures on the matter and by 1765 Mr. Carmichael and five others were convinced they should be immersed. There was not a single baptist in Scotland to assist them, so they wrote to the eminent Dr. Gill in London, whom Alexander Campbell later labeled an able expositor and critic, and asked if he would come and baptize them. He wrote that his age would not permit him to make the trip, but suggested that Mr. Carmichael come to London and be immersed and then baptize the others upon his return to Scotland.

Mr. Carmichael was baptized by Dr. Gill on October 9, 1765, and immersed the other five on the day of his arrival back in Scotland. In November he baptized two more, and when Mr. McLean moved from Glasgow to join them there were nine. They banded together to observe the Lord’s Supper each week and to edify one another. They were called Scotch Baptists, not because of the country, but to distinguish them from the English Baptists. The latter all embraced the one-man minister plan, whereas, according to a historian who wrote in 1883, “The church in Scotland was organized on the scriptural plan of mutual ministry, and a plurality of elders.”

The first baptist in Kirkcaldy was a mole-catcher. He communicated his views to a Mr. Cooper who was baptized about 1784. They began to meet together and the work grew until the congregation was set in order November 15, 1798. In 1819 two brethren, Messrs. Tosh and Arthur, whose property joined, each took a piece of his rear garden and deeded it to the con gregation for a building lot, and began erection of the Rose Street meetinghouse in which I was privileged to speak. Exactly one hundred years before I spoke from the platform of this building, Alexander Campbell spoke from the same spot. When he finished the congregation resolved to no longer call themselves after an ordinance but to become Christians only. They marched outside and took down their sign and erected one which read “Christian Meetinghouse.” That was the sign which I saw as I entered the building.

We had a busy time in Kirkcaldy. On Saturday, March 8, the brethren held their annual social with 183 present, representing a goodly number of congregations. The next day I spoke at “the breaking of bread service,” the afternoon children’s meeting for “the wee ones,” and at the gospel meeting at night. The congregation had an excellent choir trained and directed by Sister Glass. They always sang at gospel meetings which also had a solo or two, in addition to the congregational singing.

On Monday we visited in the home of John and Agnes Wotherspoon in the country, before returning to town so Nell and I could speak at a meeting of the women of the congregation. The visit with the Wotherspoons impressed me greatly. They were set for the defence of the faith and knew the Word of the Lord. Their house had been built over a coal shaft originally, but had been moved. John had fixed it up himself and it was furnished with lovely antiques. There was a grandfather’s clock which was huge, and there were two heavy mahogany chairs, beautifully carved, which had once been in the captain’s quarters of a ship which sailed the route to India.

On Tuesday we went on a little trip which made our entire journey worthwhile. A bus from Kirkcaldy to Leven connected with the Anstruther bus which made its way through the narrow streets of villages squatting along the Firth of Forth until it came to a veritable story-book town called Pittenweem. We were met in this ageold fishing village by our brother, Neil Patterson, a leader of the little group of saints who met in the “Toon Hall” as the brethren called the Town Hall. We left the bus on a paved square in the upper part of the town. Narrow walkways bearing such picturesque names as Water Wynd, School Wynd, and Cove Wynd led from the brae down to the waterfront.

The harbor was filled with fishing boats, one of which belonged to Brother Patterson. Fishermen were working on their nets. Gulls strolled about bravely on the cobblestones just out of reach. The breakers rolling in crashed against the sea wall. We walked to the home of the Pattersons where delicious homemade shortbread topped off the tea. Neil stood in front of the cheery ingle, and in a voice made strong by long years in a small dory upon the open sea sang hymn after hymn for us. Then in the company of Jimmie Hughes we visited the home of every member and prayed in each home. In the home of Sister Strachan her aged father regaled me with stories of more than fifty years of salt water fishing for a living.

The next day was to be our last in the “Kingdom of Fife” for Kirkcaldy lies in Fifeshire. It was a memorable day since it gave me an opportunity to meet Bro. Alfred H. Odd, an aged stalwart of the faith who began publication of a monthly journal The Interpreter, the year before I was born.

The January 1908 issue listed 45 congregations in Scotland. At 6:00 p.m. we attended “Sunshine Corner” held every Wednesday for boys and girls, under the able direction of Sister Glass. I spoke for 20 minutes to the “wee bairns” and later to the older saints at the regular prayer meeting. It was late when we arrived at the Mellis home for fish and chips, but later yet when Walter Hoggan came in. This tall, handsome policeman was on night duty but was free to share with us. He was deeply concerned about preservation of the concept of mutual ministry and was fearful that with men coming from the states the Scotch brethren might be seduced into adoption of the one-man system. We talked until long after midnight.

The next morning a blizzard was raging. Snow was drifting and some train service was curtailed. But we said a sad farewell to those who came to see us off and boarded the train for Waverly Station in Edinburgh where we arrived at noon. The double-decker bus which took us to Newtongrange that Thursday had to plow through accumulating snow. That night Albert Winstanley and I walked two miles back to town where I addressed a meeting of the sisters. Forty of them had braved the storm. Later I walked the two miles back alone. It seemed strange indeed to be hiking along a road in Scotland by myself at night. Overcome by emotion I stopped in the middle of the road with the swirling snow shutting off vision and fervently prayed aloud for many minutes that men would come to revere the name of Jesus and that malice and hatred be driven out of our hearts so that we might love one another. Uncle John and Aunt Mary Pryde were sitting with Nell in front of a welcome fire when I banged on the knocker, and we continued to talk, unwilling to draw the curtains on this peaceful scene until the large clock struck the hour of one o’clock in the morning.

The Minister of Education in Edinburgh has sent a letter approving my visits to the Council Schools under his jurisdiction and on Friday afternoon I went to the first. The headmaster, Mr. Lamb, received me graciously, and I spent several hours talking to teachers and pupils. I could write a book about my impression of the contrast with American schools. At night I spoke to the children at “Sunshine Corner” and when we dismissed a number of boys and girls followed us to the bus stop where they formed a circle and held an open air chorus, singing lustily for twenty minutes with the snow sifting down upon us all. Pedestrians walking to their homes stopped and joined in.

On Saturday afternoon I conducted a two hour analytical study in the Philippian letter and spoke at the gospel meeting in the early evening. We lingered over the supper table at the home of Bro. George Robertson until 10:30 p.m. when Nell and I caught the last bus to Newtonloan Toll from which we walked a half-mile to Gorebridge where we were staying.

On Sunday at Newtongrange the children gathered at 10:30 a.m. for Bible Study, but the “breaking of bread service” began promptly at noon and continued until 1:30. From 3:00 to 5:00 p.m. I conducted the analytical study, and at 6:00 o’clock we began the gospel meeting. The audience was the largest in the memory of most of the brethren, and our hearts rejoiced when two precious souls resolved to put on Christ. We walked home in a driving rain which turned the snow into slush. We retired at 11: 00 o’clock, the earliest we had gone to bed since leaving the states. But we were tired.

The cold rain proved Nell’s undoing and she became quite ill from a heavy cold. I had to go on alone, first to Bathgate, where a goodly number of saints had assembled in an upper room. I was impressed by the depth of their spirituality, and by the hospitality in the home of Brother Fleming, a great man of God. Next I was scheduled at Wallacestone, so-called from the stone which legend says was the one upon which the Scots hero, Sir William Wallace, sat in 1298 as he watched his men engage the forces of Edward I of England, in the broad valley below. As we climbed the steep hill toward the village my brain was echoing the words of the poem I had learned in elementary school:

“Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled—

Scots, wham Bruce has often led—

Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victorie!”

Albert Winstanley and I were entertained in the home of another Scotch hero, David Dougal. An American, an Englishman, and a Scotsman sat down to tea, one in spirit through Christ Jesus. David was sincere and studious, and an able proclaimer of the gospel, as was Albert. To be with them was for me “a season of refreshing from the presence of the Lord.” When David arose to open the gospel meeting the house was full. We were all uplifted in heart.