TAMMAS BROWN, ex-provost of the ancient burgh of Drumscondie, held a most unique position in the little commonwealth. For many years he had filled the civic chair; his tenure of the office was still proudly remembered, and his opinions quoted, by the burgesses of the “toon.” It was he who bore the cost of restoring the steeple which for over a century had carried the bell that rung the “curfew.” The “auld provost,” as he was called, was a notable man in the community. While he never now interfered openly in civic affairs, he was kept well posted as to all the doings of the “Cooncil,” and it was well known that to attempt any scheme which did not have his approval was to court certain failure.

His successor was a “hairmless, haverin’ bodie,” not overstocked with prudence, and certainly not over-burdened with wisdom; and, had there not been sometimes the unseen influence of Tammas Brown at work, things would not have gone as smoothly as they did.

Speaking of Willie Dundas, the provost in my day, I am reminded of an amusing incident that well illustrated his crass ignorance and self-conceit. He had gone to spend a day or two in his native village of Friockheim, about twenty miles from Drumscondie. On his return he was met at the railway station by a member of the “Toon Cooncil,” and the two men walked home together, discussing current events. During his absence there had been a solar eclipse, which caused quite a commotion among the villagers.

“Aye, Provost, an’ did you see the eclipse?” said the Cooncillor.

The great man was amazed at the question, and replied in a tone that was meant to crush the questioner:

“Man, Donald, I wonder at ye speerin’ sic a thing; hoo cud I see the eclipse, an’ me at Friockheim?”

Nothing so uplifted Willie as to have to preside at any public meeting in the Toon Hall. For a day or two previously he would be in such a state of excitement that any work in his shop, short of a coffin to be made, was entirely out of the question. Several times a day he would have to “gang doon the toon on business,” which meant on each occasion one or two bottles of ale, with cronies, at the inn; and it generally happened that by the time he came to mount the platform, he was prepared to make a speech that would take the palm as the most amusing item on the programme. One Hallowe’en night a party of musical folks had given an entertainment in the “Hall,” in aid of some contemplated local improvements. The Provost rose to thank the visitors for their kindly help. “Gentlemen an’ ladies,” he said, “A’m sure we’re a’ vera muckle obleeged to the freens that’s fushen ye here the nicht. Ye’ve gien us a concert that couldna be beaten in the big toon o’ Aiberdeen. I howp we’ll a’ gang hame like gude bairns, an’ be thankfu’ that we leeve in sic an enlichtened toon. There’s a heap mair I could say aboot it; but—but—I mean—I think we’ll draw the meetin’ to a con—con close, wi’ a verse o’ the netteral anthum. Whaur’s the precentor? Oh! ye’re there, are ye, Rob? Just strike up—“God Save the Queen.”

Tammas Brown’s remarks on his successor were more forcible than polite.

“What in a’ the worrld gars the useless, bletherin’ cratur stand up and mak’ a fule of hissel’ an’ the Toon Cooncil? He fair bates a’. Gin I had a neep (turnip)—big eneuch, I could mak’ a better man oot o’t wi’ my knife.”

Tammas was an Episcopalian of a type that is fast passing away, more’s the pity. In his young days he had received his religious training under a succession of clergy who had imbibed freely of the teaching of the great Oxford Revival. Church doctrine was set forth with no uncertain sound; but, there was no attempt at anything of the nature of ceremonial. The services in St. John’s were plain but reverent. There was no chanting of the Psalms—priest and people read them antiphonally, Tammas leading the people’s part in clear stentorian tones. He had a perfect horror of anything that savored of ritualism.

During my first winter there the heating arrangements of the church were not of a very satisfactory kind, and on several occasions we were nearly frozen out. I had contracted a severe cold in my head, and to protect my bald pate had taken to wearing a small silk skull-cap. For several Sundays no notice was taken of this; but one day the storm burst. I was taking off my surplice in the vestry when the door opened and Tammas stood before me. His face was severe; my greeting fell unheeded. He pointed to the cap, and said sternly:

“We want nane o’ thae Popish things here, Maister Gray. Thae bannets may do a’ vera weel among the puir craturs in Edinbro that ken nae better, but they’ll no do here.”

I assured him that our own Bishop himself wore one; but that argument was worse than useless.

“What kens he about the auld sufferin’ Scottish Church? He’s only an Englishman. We’re no oonder the English Church, although we’re in communion wi’ her. We have a history that gangs as far back as hers, an’ we’re no to get the fashion set by a wheen mim-moothed bits o’ curates that introduce a’ kinds o’ trumpery to please idle weemonfolk.”

Here was a storm in a teacup. I saw it was no use discussing the question, so I quietly replied:

“Well, well, Provost, I’ll be very glad to follow the example of godly Bishop Jolly, who wore a full-bottomed wig. How do you think that would suit you?”

He was too serious about the matter to take a joke, so I put the cap in my pocket, and assured him that I would not permit such a trivial thing to give him any worry and here the matter ended.

For a clergyman to wear a straw hat or anything except the orthodox clerical head-gear was to him almost sacrilege; indeed, any change from the conservative fashions of his youth met with his strongest censure. It took me a considerable time to sound his depths, and understand his idiosyncrasies; but when I at last succeeded in getting into touch with him, I learnt to esteem him highly.

The first glimpse I got of his real inwardness was on the occasion of a visit which he and I paid to Glasgow to attend the annual meeting of the Church council. It was his first visit to the west, and I did my best to make it a pleasant one. I took him through the grand old Gothic cathedral and pointed out its beauties as best I could. It was a wonderful revelation to the old man. He said very little until we were just about to leave the building. One last look he must have; and, as he stood in the centre of the nave and gazed up at the finely moulded arches and the lovely tracery of the windows, he exclaimed in a voice quivering with emotion.

“No man need ever tell me that this place was biggit for cauld Presbyterian worship. Na, na, the men that biggit this worshipped God in the beauty of holiness. Aye, Maister Gray, thae forebears o’ ours had a wonnerful grip o’ the Faith, an’ they’ve left their belief in the walls, an’ roof, and even in the foondation o’ this grand biggin’. It’s a pairfit pictur’ o the speeritual temple that the Maister wants us to raise. The foondation taks the form o’ the cross, to teach us that oor real life maun be based on sacrifice; there’s the sacred number three—teepical o’ the Trinity—in the three aisles leadin’ up to the altar; an’ syne, there’s the nave—that’s the Church Militant—an’ the choir—that’s the Church in Paradise—an’ the sanctuary—that’s the Church Triumphant. There’s a heap mair, if a bodie only took time to find it oot. Lang, lang syne, I mind on the dean tellin’ us aboot a’ this in a sermon; but I never had ony idea before hoo it could a’ be set furth. I wad na hae missed this graund sicht for onything.”

How short-sighted I had been in my estimate of the “auld provost!”

I could hardly believe that the simple countryman who stood before me, his face aglow with enthusiasm, pointing out with a keenness of perception that was wonderful the beautiful teachings of Gothic art, was the man whom I had hitherto supposed to be devoid of emotion. To say that I was thunderstruck but feebly expresses my feelings. Now I knew him as I had never known him before. Now I knew that under the reserve of his cold, austere outer shell there was a depth of devotional feeling to which he rarely gave vent in words.

Had he lived in the days of the Nonjurors, when it was a crime in Scotland to be an Episcopalian, he would have been one of the staunchest of the “faithful remnant.” Of his own personal religion he would have said little; but, when necessity arose, he would have been ready with a reason for the faith that was in him.

Now I could see that the “auld provost” was one of those who kept the precious things of the spiritual life locked up in the sacred repository of his heart, and who with Lady Nairne, the poetess, felt that “religion ought to be a walking and not a talking concern.”

The vestry of St. John’s, in whose hands lay the management of the temporal affairs of the parish, consisted at this time of four members, with myself as chairman. All the four were men worthy of note.

The “auld provost,” of whom I have been speaking, was secretary and treasurer.

The Honorable James Stewart, the laird of Strathfinlas, was of Scottish birth and upbringing, but a graduate of the English University of Cambridge. Succeeding to the estate after he had passed middle life, he had set himself to carry out the principles of Christian Socialism, which he had learned at the feet of Kingsley, Maurice and Fawcett. His neighbor lairds smiled at his enthusiasm, and looked on him as a harmless faddist; but he went on his way, and very soon gained the esteem and affection of the tenantry, as well as the retainers on his lovely demesne.

Andrew Blair had been for many years a successful railway contractor, but even in his busiest times had never ceased to maintain a warm interest in all that concerned the best welfare of the ancient Scottish Church. Now that he had taken to the quiet life of a farmer his interest in church affairs was intensified.

Adam Skene was a tradesman in the village of Dunluther, on the southern side of the cairn. His flowing beard of snowy white marked him out as one of the fathers of the congregation; but, in spite of advancing age, it was something of very grave import which would keep him at home on the weekly day of rest. Staff in hand, he trudged the seven miles of hill road, Sunday after Sunday, in order that he might worship with the brethren of his father’s faith.

Many an earnest discussion did these four worthies have in the dear old parsonage at the quarterly meetings of the vestry. Seldom was there anything of the nature of friction, although sometimes I had to exercise some tact to keep the provost and Andrew Blair from misunderstanding the somewhat novel ideas put forth by the laird.

When I proposed a weekly celebration of the Holy Communion at an early hour, Mr. Stewart warmly supported me. Adam Skene, who was always willing to be led by those better educated than himself, raised no objection. Andrew Blair had sent his sons to one of the schools of the Woodardian foundation, where they had received careful instruction in sacramental life, and so he knew somewhat of the stirring among the Church’s dry bones. He was at least willing to hear all that could be said in favor of the proposed innovation.

The provost alone was in opposition. He listened while the others expressed their approval—and, then, in awe-inspiring tones, he gave his verdict:

“I’m no sayin’, Maister Gray, but what ye mean weel in what ye propose, but, for my part, I think ye’d better leave things as they are. I wadna mind noo an’ then, on the greater feasts, maybe, haein’ what ye ca’ an early celebration, but tak’ ye care lest ye mak’ sacred things ower common. When the auld dean was preparin’ me for my first Saycrament, he spak’ a heap aboot oor preparation for the ordinance, an’ I would just be feared that your new plan micht lead some o’s, speecially the young fowk, to gang forrit oonprepared. I dinna doot that what ye say aboot the early Chistians is true eneuch; but, ye maun mind that there was less risk o’ them dishonorin’ the Lord’s Body than wi’ maist o’ us. The very persecution they had to thole frae the heathen was eneuch to keep them richt. But nooadays we’re free frae ony interference, an’ can worship as oor conscience tells us; an’ maybe we’re juist ready eneuch to tak’ things easy. For ma pairt I’ll e’en be content wi’ the auld way that my father had afore me.”

My youthful zeal made me inclined to slight the old man’s caution. I carried out my proposal, and, I feel sure that it was wisely done, even if it was the cause of a little coolness, for a time. The Auld Provost was not unreasonable, and I think he saw the good that had been effected.