The Scotter Circuit 1

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Transcription of article published in the Primitive Methodist Magazine by Rev. John Graham

THE pastoral prototype of Scotter in the sacred scriptures is:— “Thou, Bethlehem Ephratah, though thou be little among the thousands of Judah. Scotter is one of the smallest villages in the second largest county of England. It is not a mushroom. Grey hairs are here and there upon it. Two miles westward—on Hardwick Hill—at an early period of the Christian era, was a Roman encampment, and this is rich in memorials of the past. On that hillock guardians of Cesar’s empire kept a strict watch upon the approaches of the Trent, for on those, glittering waters our Saxon forefathers were wont suddenly to swoop from the Humber out of the North Sea. Then, in the Middle Ages, the stalwarts of Scotter were very dexterous. They practised in the meadows day and night to make themselves efficient archers, and be ready to meet the challenge of strangers who came from afar to hold an annual tournament. Again, the manor is particularized in the Domesday Book, and was a rich and highly prized demesne. Later still, tonsured monks, whose headquarters were far away at Crowland, walked those lanes resplendent in summer with wild roses and honeysuckle, and chanted solemn masses within sight of the meandering Eau. That same little Eau wears a real resemblance to the village. It is an obscure river. It is quiet. It is easy-going. It does not love the garish day.

As touching our own Church, the fame of Scotter is well known. The whirligig of time evolves the most biting ironies. It is curious that this mediaeval, monkish village opened its arms so wide to the founders of Primitive Methodism, and played so noble a part in establishing the Connexion. Hugh Bourne and William Clowes dearly loved Scotter. They gave it much attention. They digged deep, and laid a foundation sure and strong. As a consequence, the fame of Scotter renewed its lease by passing into the stream of our history. It is very dear to us. Five generations of Primitives have now succeeded each other there, and a deep love for our cause has been transmitted. The holiest influences have been irradiated. Once upon a time, the evangelistic enterprises of the village embraced distant provinces and even islands of the sea. To-day it is still going strong. Its religious services cover an area of scores of miles of prosperous English territory. Perhaps the chief glory lies just here. It is—it ever has been— the only Scotter Circuit in all Christendom. There are other Methodist Churches in the neighbourhood, but they belong to the Brigg, the Epworth or the  Gainsboro’ Circuits. Wherever men speak of “The Scotter Circuit”—and the story has been carried by her children to lands beyond the seas—it is unnecessary to give such a detail as the denomination. Affection for a circuit is a beautiful thing. One born in her—one whose sole ambition is to continue to serve her till the Master calls, often speaks of “the blessed Scotter Circuit.” It is a happy designation. How sweetly falls the Galilean dialect on the ear!

The village thus celebrated narrowly escapes being a mere hamlet. There is only one long street, and at the ends of it the cottages have roofs of thatch. The physiognomy of the place is primitive. No artificial water supply. No taps. No gas lamps. No lamp-lighters. No white pennons of steam, except in the short threshing season. The sanitary arrangements are ancient and inadequate. The major portion of the wells and pumps deserve certificates for long service. In the winter time the darkness!—ah! it speaks with emphasis. Life goes as softly as the waters of Siloa. Within the bounds of the circuit are two or three small towns, and two lines of railway encompass its borders. The Trent washes and warps seven of the villages named upon the plan, but Scotter itself has neither railway nor waterway. Maybe to city eyes it appears “sleepy hollow.” No wonder! But approach it in the glorious autumn. Descend upon it from the outer world on one of those perfect days when the sun seems to hug the earth to its bosom. You will faintly discern the village across an expanse of golden harvest fields. The two windmills creaking lazily in the breeze are landmarks. Keep going on. You are ten miles from an industrial centre, twenty from the city. The church looms in view—it has no spire. At length the whole village lies in outline, and you ask where does its glory live? Can this be the famous Scotter?

Now burningly it must come upon you that this is it. In this snug, sequestered spot great things have happened. Here in the olden days arrived Methodist preachers on foot—without purse or scrip, old-fashionedly dressed and roughly accoutred —to begin a campaign of evangelism. Here Wesley’s “lovely people” hearkened to the Word of Life. Here the pioneers of Primitive Methodism assembled for a conference in grave anxiety for the continuance of our Zion, and transacted business on the stormy waters. Here “the runners out” of the Connexion were hustled off with scant ceremony. Here movements were initiated that had the felicity of commending themselves to the thousands of our co-religionists. Here many features of our work were fashioned that have become permanent in our Israel, and fruitful of good. Here tremendous battles were fought for the expression of our doctrine and polity. Here the Deed Poll was discussed up and down, in and out, back and forth, moulded into ship-shape, finally adopted and signed. Here documents (happily destroyed long ago) were preserved in a kist that would have delighted an age fond of sensationalism. Here was once the head of a virile district. Here the first foreign missionaries of Primitive Methodism were commissioned and sent off to the continent of America. Here ministers started on their errand to carry the good news to the far away Channel Islands. Here revivals of religion originated that refreshed multitudes, that spread to towns and cities, and that helped to make us what we are to-day. Here a chapel was lost by a flaw in the deed. For the way of man through the world is a zig-zag. There is no enterprise without its mistakes, none minus a traitor. Happy the man who only makes the same mistake once!

The modern Primitive Methodist in this Mecca—plebeian though he be, and living so far from the crowded traverses of life as he does—is never lonely on his native heath. He walks round this –

“Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheers. the laboring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer’s lingering blooms delayed,”

when the day’s work is done—and chews the cud of a religious fancy. His imagination can now people those opulent parterres with stately personages. Who is that dark-featured, shy-looking man, in knee breeches and blue worsted stockings coming along Sands Lane? That is Hugh Bourne, the conversation-preacher, whom we are accustomed to name “the Venerable.” Whose are the voices that he hears in the wind as he halts for a moment on the spacious village green? They are the mighty voices of William Clowes, William Sanderson, Parkinson Milson and others. Don’t they make the welkin ring? What host of black coats and carpet bags is that departing eastwards as he stands on the Eau bridge? Oh! the conference is over. The District: Meeting (not Synod, please) is ended, and these inspired men are away to publish salvation through England’s green and pleasant land. Yes, the mind can conjure cunningly. There is no tax (yet) on the apostolic imagination. We may “Come unto Mount Zion, and unto the city of the living God, to the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of angels, and to the general assembly and church of the first-born which are written in heaven.”

“Brothers we are treading where the saints have trod.”

In the dusk of the yew trees surrounding the Scotter kirkyard the old clock in the tower has beat out the term of many able and learned ministers of our church. So with one—the least worthy of all. Day finis arrived, and farewell had to be said. For Scotter welcomes the coming, and speeds the parting guest. He rose early. He had no gift of au revoir. How sweet the morning! At six o’clock he was off. The others would excel in expressing the farewell. Two miles southwards a sheep stealer of the eighteenth century was hanged, and there he lies buried, and there on a summer’s night the glowworms shine. M. Unworthy stopped his machine. There was a mist. Not on the landscape—much nearer. The things left undone—the things badly done—the things that better never had been done. God be merciful! The village lay behind in early morning summer peace. A verse comforted, the traveller’s mind, and he took the bracketed liberty with the original :—

“Fair (Scotter, in North Lincoln),
To me thou still art dear!
E’en from the verge of heaven
I drop for thee a tear.
Oh! if one soul from (Scotter) .
Meet me at God’s right hand,
My heaven will be two heavens
In Immanuel’s land.”

The machine was re-started, and monsieur went on his way, to the haven by the sea.

References

Primitive Methodist Magazine 1917/533