The Scotter Circuit 2.

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

THE sturdy yeomen of the Scotter Circuit win a subsistence from the land by unremitting toil. At the northern end of the Circuit there are iron-ore quarries, and smelting furnaces, and in them many of our people find employment. Elsewhere the general pursuit is agriculture. The region round is littered with implements of husbandry, with potatoes, and carrots, and celery, and cereals. It is pleasing to see the undulating fields, whether lying fallow in winter, newly-planted and tolled in springtime, freshly greening and mellowing in summer, or fading in the sere and yellow leaf in autumn. Fruit trees, of all kinds indigenous to English soil, are dotted everywhere. The mind is gratified by the vision of fertility. Nature is a lavish mother, and pays good dividends. Every year the word of the Psalmist stands out in living green and gold:—

“Thou visitest the earth, and waterest it: Thou greatly enrichest it with the river of God which is full of water: Thou preparest them corn, when Thou hast so provided for it. Thou waterest the ridges thereof abundantly: Thou settlest the furrows thereof: Thou makest it soft with showers: Thou blessest the springing thereof. Thou crownest the year with Thy goodness: and Thy paths drop fatness. They drop upon the pastures of the wilderness, and the little hills rejoice on every side. The pastures are clothed with flocks; the valleys also are covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing.”

The bulky stacks of corn in the garth, the mammoth potato pies over the roadside hedge, the great heaps of carrots by the waterways, and the immense piles of celery packed on the carts loudly proclaim the goodness of God to these toilers of the fields.

The heavy waggons, with spacious raves, and resplendent in red, roll along the lanes. The horses cast a warm influence on you as they pass, with their bright eyes and shiny coats. The meek-eyed cows stand in the verdant meadows munching clover, and making milk. The frisky calf arches his tail, and gallivants over the glebe. The foal stretches himself on the sward as his dame refreshes herself with the delicious grass; and does she ever tread on him? The sheep circle in a cluster, or recline on the sunny slope to lay on the mutton. The geese waddle along, with a patriarch ahead, and quite oblivious that Christmas is coming. The ducks stand on the verge of the pond preening themselves, and soon cut the water when an enemy approaches. The cochins cackle in chorus in the farmyard, and that is a sure sign that each of them has enriched the commonwealth with an egg. No cinematograph can be so entertaining as the life around the homestead. The house itself is usually picturesque. It stands shaded with towering trees—an nd in an ocean of green. Within there is sumptuous furniture, spotless cleanliness, and sweet content.

Farming is followed here on the grand scale. The acreage may be big or little— it is well cultivated. To this end was the farmer born, and he lives for this purpose. He plans liberally, and executes to scale. He casts his bread upon the waters, and puts faith in sun and shower. Not a foot of land is impoverished or wasted. The plough dives into the hedge bottoms. The hedges are low and thin, a mere streak on the landscape. This husbandman seems to stint nothing. He works on the maxim: “Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, shaken together, pressed down, running over.” He tends ceaselessly, and cultivates with care. He is prodigal of labour. He wages war on weeds. So the remunerating crops rotate in regularity. First, the hay, then the corn, then the tubers succulent and sweet. 

As already hinted, labour knows no respite in the Scotter oasis. The men, as also the kindly women folk, spend their strength in this Arcadia. Truly the toil is incessant; from morn till eve, from year’s end to year’s end. There is no discharge in this war. In the autumn when the harvest is ready, the day-schools close, and the elder scholars co-operate with father and mother. The district is then a hive of industry. Gangs of workers hasten hither and thither, and the heavily-laden vehicles bear away the produce to the railways. Then the garden must needs be tended. For every man has his little plot whereon to grow cabbages, onions and what-not. On the margin of it flourish gooseberry, black and red currant bushes, and raspberry canes. A pig is kept, and in the short December days its loud squeals indicate that it is being roped for the slaughter that will soon transform it into a frameless picture to hang upon the kitchen wall. Poultry is a common perquisite, and every housewife has a resource in eggs. Rabbits abound; there are actually thousands of them. They stot over the roads like india-rubber balls, and scuttle into the sandy soil for security.

As is meet and fitting, destitution is here practically unknown. Incomes are not so high as in the centres of commerce, but neither is living so costly. These homely folk are industrious and frugal. They live modestly. Their habits are plain and simple. They follow no expensive fashions. The women are very skilful in household management, and thrifty in ways and means. They keep the spending less than the earning, and that way lies wealth and happiness on this old, globe. Every penny that is won at Scotter has a drop of sanctified sweat upon it, and is well and wisely spent. These folks would have been eulogised by the father of Methodism, for they make all they can, save all they can, and give all they can. They support the cause of Christ nobly. Their backs may and do ache with labour, but they will stand by the little chapel of the village to the last copper. Generosity and even beneficence flows from them. They give a portion to seven, and also to eight. In other words, after they do all that mortal man could expect, they do a little more. They are so devoted and loyal.

The hospitality of Scotter is apostolic, for the people are given to it. That is to say, they insist on it, and delight in it. It is importunate hospitality. One dare not say that it exceeds the hospitality of any other circuit in the Connexion, but one can affirm that few men desire or deserve any better. “Lavish” is the word. It is offered with spontaneity, and accompanied with good-will. Mine host and hostess beam with such pleasure. The ministers are treated royally. Woe to the witless wight that tampers with the tradition of tea-time! Blessed is the pastor that fares forth early in the afternoon! He will be welcomed. Tea will be ready in a richly-furnished parlour. The table will be loaded with luxuries, Near the good man’s plate will stand a white and gold cruet, and invariably the seasons through, four fresh eggs in four dainty cups. Now his fibre will be tested. For the lady of the manse will have trained him to be content with one egg, and use is second nature. He will experience Isaiah’s alleged martyrdom, being sawn asunder between a desire to please a gracious hostess and an ambition to preach eloquently. Let him make an, instant choice! He must turn a deaf ear to the fable that the more a man eats the better he preaches. Alas! the present writer has tried to scale Parnassus that way with fatal issues. He now kindles a kindly beacon.

Speaking generally, these good folks are stamped with the gentler virtues and graces of the English character. They are modest, they are deferential in deportment, they are soft spoken, and unaggressive. They stand, perhaps, a, little too much in awe of broad cloth and soft felt hats. A clerical collar melts them. They put every minister of religion on a pedestal, and look upon him as a demi-god. It is rather a disconcerting experience. For dear fathers and mothers in Israel do it, and it crushes a sensitive soul. It is nevertheless beautiful, and strikes the mellow side. Neither are they tuned to motor speed. Every movement is sluggish, and that is accounted for by long hours of labour, and constant contact with nature.

They are a trifle superstitious, too. Many of them believe in ghosts and hob-goblins. Some of their ideas are old-fashioned and clung to pertinaciously. They have laughable cures for diseases. They are rich in weather lore. They can read the language of the moon. The wind in the chimney has a voice. A black cat on the path is an evil portent. They threaten the bairns with the bogie man. But they are as guileless as the light of morn. They are easy to be entreated, tractable, and docile. They are marked with singlicity (to coin a needed word), of purpose, and absolute candour. “Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honourable, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report”—they think on these things, and inquire for Zion with their faces thitherward.,

References

Primitive Methodist Magazine 1917/650