Pilgrimage of Joy …

THE LAND OF THE THISTLE
W. Carl Ketcherside

On May 10, 1951, I celebrated my forty-third birthday, far from home and in a foreign land. In honor of the occasion we broke open some of the food parcels from home and served a little dinner for the saints in Belfast. Two days later I began my journey by train to Southern Ireland where I was to meet Nell who was coming over on the America. I was especially pleased that my itinerary called for me to spend a night and the greater part of a day in Dublin. I chose as my overnight abode the Four Courts Hotel on the River Liffey.

Four centuries ago it was known as Angel Inn, and became the home of Jonathan Swift, the author of Gulliver’s Travels. A clever and brilliant satirist, he punched holes in the political and religious pretensions of his day. In 1713 he was appointed dean of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, but with the fall of the Tory Administration a year later his political career ended, and he retired to Angel Inn where he died in 1745. When the inn was remodeled, the decorator made lavish use of mirrors and statuary, so that one feels he is staying in a museum.

The original floor of wide boards fastened with wooden dowels has been left throughout, so that one can literally walk where the author of Tale of a Tub trod. There is, among the public rooms, a spacious lounge and writing room with a huge open-grate fireplace. Since I always seem to get more from my reading when I am in the proper atmosphere, I settled down in a leather chair in this room, resolved to read some of the poetry by Swift which I had never taken time to read. It was an evening well-spent. I shall always remember scanning the poem “A Description of a City Shower” while the face of its author stared out at me from its frame.

I cannot forbear saying a little about Dublin, the capital of the Irish Free State. It is a city famous for its educational and cultural background. When I became acquainted with the works of Richard Chenevix Trench, and especially his volume On the Study of Words, I learned that he had been Archbishop of Dublin. This motivated me to learn all I could about the city and especially the Protestant influence within it. I remember having been impressed with the fact that the Alexandrian geographer, Ptolemy, who lived about 150 A.D., had mentioned the original settlement which grew into Dublin.

As I walked the streets I felt like Paul did at Athens when he saw the city wholly given over to idolatry. Images for worship were everywhere. Candle factories were prominent, manufacturing tapers to be lighted before saintly statuary. Clerical garb was everywhere manifest as priests and nuns walked the streets. Advertisements of pilgrimages to Rome and Lourdes appeared on bulletin boards and in shop windows. I read through the long list of obituaries in the paper to see if one Protestant was listed. Apparently the Protestants are extremely healthy. I found not one name. That thousands of Irish had gone to America was evidenced by the number of death notices containing the words: “American papers please copy.”

On May 13, I went to Cork, a train ride of 165 miles to the southwest of Dublin. In the knowledge that I might never be there again I walked as rapidly as possible to cover important areas in this city of more than 80,000. Cork is the home of two cathedrals, one Roman Catholic, the other Anglican. Both are called St. Finbar, after the name of the founder of the city in 622 A. D. It was late when I got to Cobh, and the Hotel Commodore where I was to spend the night.

I arose early the next morning to go to the dock. The America had anchored about four miles offshore before daybreak, and passengers who were to be taken off on the tender were given an early breakfast. I saw Nell as she stepped off the lighter and soon she saw me and waved. But we could not be together until she had cleared customs. What a blessing it was to hold her in my arms again after an absence of months. We had much to talk about on the long train journey to Belfast. When we arrived at the station we heard the beautiful strains of “The Lord’s My Shepherd” being sung to the tune Crimond. The whole congregation was there and their singing stopped even the train crews who paused to listen to every word.

We had one more week in Belfast and our hearts were torn that the time of our departure was so close. The final days created a kaleidoscope of memories. Each day the members vied with each other to show us something of interest. Each night I spoke to a gathering of the saints. A visit to a large linen factory, a trip to the magnificent City Hall, crowned by a view of the private office of the Lord Mayor, through the courtesy of his secretary, a final tour of inland Ireland, a day at Bangor by the seaside, and then the final night and the farewell tea at the meetinghouse.

The chorus sang beautifully. Different brethren made brief talks. We wept unashamedly. We clung to one another, reluctant to take leave. The congregation gave us a lovely picture of the Mountains of Mourne, personally autographed by the painter. Nell received numerous gifts of linen and some of the sisters presented her with treasured heirlooms and keepsakes, out of hearts filled with generosity.

The next evening we had our final tea at the hospitable home of William and Margaret Hendren, and then drove to the docks where we were to board The Royal Ulsterman for the cross-channel trip. Almost the whole congregation was at the dock, and as the ship drifted slowly away from the wharf and out into the darkness, we could hear the strains of “God Be With You Till We Meet Again.” A feeling gripped our hearts that we would never again see these precious ones upon this earth.

I have never forgotten Belfast. I can still envision the children swinging on ropes attached to the street lamps. I can still see the women on their knees scrubbing the sidewalks in front of their homes with reddened hands. I remember the groups harmonizing in song on the street corners at night, the women draped with thick shawls or blankets to shelter them from the cold as they walked to unheated shops, the many pushcarts on the street, the window washers carrying their ladders and buckets. I shared the agony and the ecstacy of a people who had just come through a devastating war and had triumphed and I left a little bit of myself in Ireland.

We were met at the dock in Glasgow by John and Mary McCallum and spent the day resting in their home while catching up on letter writing. It is a good thing we found this little time for relaxation because I was getting ready to go into a hectic schedule without realizing it. The next afternoon we left for Tranent, where I had spent my time exhorting the saints of the Slamannan District, in my final meeting in Scotland four years before. We stopped enroute at the home of Joe and Agnes Kerr where we were to stay all night. They had moved from Harthill to Prestonpans since our visit.

The place was rife with history. The house where the Kerrs lived was on the banks of Red Burn which flowed red with blood on September 21,1745 when the Jacobite forces led by Charles Edward Stuart known as the “Young Pretender” or “Bonnie Prince Charlie” defeated the British under Sir John Cope. The monument to the victory of the wild tartan-clad clansmen still stands on the field of Prestonpans. It marks the high tide of the rally of the Stuarts before their forces were completely routed at Culloden Moor in April, 1746, and Charles Edward became a hunted fugitive.

Just as interesting to me was what had happened here in 1590 when witchcraft became an organized institution. A number of persons who claimed to have seen and conversed with the devil, and who had entered into a compact with him, began to exercise a great deal of influence. Superstition ran riot. Special meetings were held at night in the church building at Old Berwick, and graves were opened by these progenitors of modern spiritualism who collected human skulls and bones to use in their incantations. Some there were who predicted that Satan was preparing to capture the world and this would be his headquarters and the place of his throne.

King James, who became a specialist in witch-hunting, and who defied the curses pronounced upon him, effectively put an end to the ambition of the witches. He had his soldiers gather up a group of them and ordered that they be publicly strangled and their bodies burned. Some of their more ardent followers declared secretly that no fire would be able to burn them. Not only did their bodies burn, but their leader, Dr. Fian, was executed at Castle Hill in Edinburgh on December 26, 1591. This halted the immediate outbreak of superstition, but that it did not completely crush it is evidenced by the fact that the last person to be executed as a witch in England was in 1716, while the last one in Scotland died in 1722.

Fifty Bible teachers from the Siamannan District gathered at Lochside Chapel, which I remembered so well, on this Saturday afternoon, for a discussion of means and methods of improving their efforts. The meeting was ably presided over by John Steel, an art instructor at Airdrie Academy. We sang a hymn, had a prayer, and then sat down together for tea. I recalled that it had been said that Gabriel would have to be careful about when he sounded his trumpet, for if it was at teatime, no Scotsmen would show up. After tea, I spoke briefly and then opened the meeting for questions.

Before we realized it three hours had slipped away. Afterwards a number of folk gathered at the Kerr home and entertained us with Scottish ballads and songs of the Jacobites, as the defenders of the house of Stuart were called. I have never again heard “By Yon Bonnie Banks and By Yon Bonnie Braes” done as effectively as that night. And when I hear “Will Ye No Come Back Again?” my mind reverts to that Saturday night in May. It was an unforgettable time of love and fellowship and genial good feeling.

The next morning Joe and I walked the three miles to Tranent where I was to teach for more than an hour in a gathering of the saints who came early. It was a refreshing walk along a road in Scotland, past the monument to the battle, and with the town always in sight. The “breaking of bread service” as our brethren designate it, began at 11:30 a.m. and continued until 1:00 p. m. I spoke again to the edification of those present, and then Nell and I went to the nearby home of Sister Wilson, and her daughter Jean, for a quick luncheon. In the interval between my trips to Scotland Brother Wilson had departed to be with Jesus. I missed him greatly. Sister Wilson remembered my taste for Scotch oatcakes and had laid in a goodly supply.

I spoke to different groups at 2:00 p.m.; 3:00 p.m.; and 4:00 p.m.; and at the gospel meeting at 6:00 p.m. This was not enough and after I had finished the brethren convened again to hear me for another hour. All of us were tired after we felt our way back through 32 miles of pea soup fog to the McCallum home. It was 1:00 a.m. when we finally retired. Before I could go to sleep I thought back over the entire day. I had a good feeling about the cause at Tranent. A number of younger brethren were identified with the work. The possibilities for growth seemed great. The brethren were firmly grounded in the concept of “mutual ministry” and the utilization of all the gifts.

We had one more week remaining in the “the land of the thistle.” If I were to tell you all that happened this literary effort would be expanded far beyond its worth. There were scenic tours to Loch Lomond along roads lined with colorful rhododendron, while snow-capped Ben Lomond towered high in the distance; to Gareloch, the salt water lake off the Clyde, which was filled with the ships of the famed British Navy; to the mighty Forth Bridge, an engineering wonder; and to the renowned Castle Hill in Edinburgh where kilted sentries paced back and forth.

But even more interesting was the return to congregations we had previously visited and to the homes of saints we had seen four years ago. There was the meeting in Glasgow, the one in Motherwell, where David Dougal had labored with diligence and effectiveness for two months. Then on to Slamannan which gave its name to the district. We went into the homes of folk I had met in Canada. One was the home of a sister whom I had immersed during one of my meetings when she had come over to visit in Windsor, Ontario. It was a rich experience to see her now in her native land.

One day I discovered a huge bookstore on Charles IV Bridge in Edinburgh. It was a half-block long and stocked only used religious volumes, thousands upon thousands of them. I went up one aisle and down another, reading titles and viewing works I had heard about for years and had never seen. I was like a country lad turned loose in a city candy store. I stayed all day until there was just time to go to historic Wallacestone for the evening meeting, after tea in the gracious home of David Dougal.

Our last week in Scotland was spent at Kirkcaldy. I have previously mentioned this as the place where Alexander Campbell had spoken a century before my first visit. Kirkcaldy was the birthplace of Adam Smith, who wrote The Wealth of Nations. He was greatly influenced by his close association with David Hume, and I have often wondered what Alexander Campbell had to say about Smith and Hume while he was in Kirkcaldy. He was familiar with both and expressed opposition to Hume’s theory about the rights of man.

Nell and I stayed again in the hospitable home of the Mellises. On Saturday evening a welcome tea had been arranged at the meeting place on Rose Street, and brethren came from Dunfermline, Leven, Pittenweem, and other towns in “the kingdom of Fife”, as well as from the region across the Firth of Forth. The program was excellent. The hymns of praise lifted our spirits. So did the meat pies and biscuits (cookies) which we ate while talking as rapidly as we could about our marvelous relationship in our precious Lord. It was a season of refreshing from His very presence.

Our final day in “auld Scotia” was the Lord’s Day. It is etched into my memory. I spoke at “the breaking of the bread” and remained to talk to the lads and lasses in the Sunday School in the afternoon. When we came out the rain was pounding the pavement. At the end of the street the sea was breaking against the wall with resounding slaps as the spume and spray leaped high. It was still raining hard at the time for the evening meeting but the house was filled. Some of the older men wore kilts of lovely plaid.

At the close of my talk three precious souls announced their desire to put on Christ in baptism. It was a time of rejoicing mingled with tears of gladness. We said good-bye to one another, and walked out into the rainy night. All of us were aware that we would meet again some day where the light of the sun was not needed and the storm clouds would never rise.