FROM the numerous traditions which I have heard respecting Mr. Lauchlan M’Kenzie, the eminent minister of Lochcarron, Ross-shire, I give the following, on the authority of a late eminently godly minister in Ross, who was an eyewitness of the principal scenes, but has since been taken to join his brother, to rejoice in his glory, and to share his reward.
Not far from the Manse of Lochcarron there lived a wicked old sinner, who was supposed to have been guilty of every crime forbidden in the Decalogue, except murder. Owing to her masculine dimensions, this woman was commonly known by the name of “Muckle Kate.” “She was an ill-looking woman,” Mr. Lauchlan used to say, “without any beauty in the sight of God or man.” It is not surprising to hear that such a character never entered a church, and that every effort on the part of the minister failed in inducing her to give even an occasional attendance at the Gospel preaching. Plan after plan was tried, but in vain; entreaties, tears, innumerable visits, and appeals to her conscience almost without end, ―all failed to move the heart of one who seemed to have reached that fearful point spoken of by the apostle, when he declares respecting those who have been wholly given over by the Spirit, that “they cannot cease from sin.” At length, Mr. Lauchlan adopted a plan which could have occurred only to an original mind, but which sets before us in the strongest light the intense desire of the devoted minister to save an immortal soul.
It was customary among the Highlanders during the last century to assemble at nightfall in each other’s houses, and spend the long winter evenings in singing the wild old Gaelic melodies, and relating to each other the legendary stories of the district. This practice is not yet extinct in some parts of the country, though, like most of the other old Highland customs, it is gradually wearing away. The women brought along with them each her distaff and spindle, while the men were sometimes employed in mending their brogues, or weaving baskets and creels. This is called “going on kailie”; and Kate used to devote herself to the practice with all the eagerness of an old gossip.
Well acquainted with Kate’s evening habits, Mr. Lauchlan, who had a great turn for poetry, composed a Gaelic song, in which all Kate’s known sins were enumerated and lashed, with all the severity of which the composer was capable. This song Mr. Lauchlan set to music, and privately sending for some of the young persons who were known to “go on kailie” with Kate, he took great pains to teach them the song, instructing them to sing it in her hearing on the first opportunity. It was a strange, and, as some may perhaps think, an unwarrantable way of attempting to win a soul; nevertheless it was successful. The appeal went home to the old woman’s conscience, backed with all the force of astonishment; the suddenness of the stroke, coming as it did from so perfectly unexpected a quarter, gave both point and poignancy to the blow; the shaft had found the joint in the harness, and, driven hard home by the Spirit’s own hand, it sank deep down into that old and withered soul, which had hitherto resisted every impression.
Kate’s conviction was now as extreme as her careless hardihood bad once been. Her agony of mind was perfectly fearful. The bleak scenery of Lochcarron was in strange unison with her feelings. Among the dreary mountains of that lonesome western wilderness runs up the small estuary from which the parish derives its name; and as the long Atlantic billows break upon its shores, and the brown hills stretch on behind in one interminable sea of heath, the traveler scarce knows whither to turn, that he may relieve his painful sense of solitude—to the waste of waters that stretch before him till shut in by the frowning heights of Skye, or to the lonely moors that undulate behind him, dark, and desolate, and bare. It was among these dreary wilds that Kate now spent the greater portion of her time. And why did she seek these wilderness retreats? She sought, like Joseph, “where to weep.” The solitudes of Lochcarron were heard to resound for hours together with the voice of wailing, and well did the inmates of the lone bothies amid the hills know from whose lips those cries of agony were wrung. They were uttered by the solitary mourner of the moors—the once hardened “Muckle Kate.” She had looked on Him whom she had pierced, and now she mourned for Him as one mourneth for his only son, and was in bitterness for Him as one that is in bitterness for his firstborn.
A long and fiery ordeal was appointed to the reclaimed profligate. Deep as her conviction was, it never seemed to subside; weeks, months, and even years passed away, and still the distress of the convicted sinner was as poignant and fresh as ever. “Never breathed a wretch like her; there might be hope for others, but oh! there was none for Muckle Kate!” This was wonderful indeed in one whose age was between eighty and ninety at the time of her conviction; for those who know anything of human nature are aware that, of all spiritual cases, the most utterly hopeless is that of one who has grown old in sin, whose conscience has become impervious to the truth, and whose whole soul is unimpressible by either the Gospel or the Law. To awaken feelings that have been dried up by age and sin, require a miracle in the world of grace. Kate’s was, indeed, a special case; she was “a wonder to many”―a wonder to her neighbors, a wonder to unbelievers, a wonder to the Church, a wonder to her astonished minister, and, most of all, a wonder to herself. But all has not yet been told. Are my readers prepared to hear that she wept herself stone-blind? Yet this was actually the case. Poor Kate! Those sightless eyeballs weep no more; the wail of thine agony no longer rings amid the solitudes of thy native hills; for God Himself hath wiped away all tears from thine eyes; and when the green graves of Lochcarron shall have disgorged thy blessed dust, thou shalt tune with ecstasy thy voice to the harp of God, as thou standest on that crystal sea in the place where there shall be no more pain, neither sorrow nor crying; for the former things shall have passed away.
The excellent minister on whose authority I relate this story stated that he was called on to assist in dispensing the Lord’s Supper at Lochcarron, on one occasion during Kate’s long period of darkness. While walking with Mr. Lauchlan among the moors, he heard at a distance the moaning’s of a female in great distress. “Hush!” said the stranger minister, “do you hear that cry? What is it?” Mr. Lauchlan knew it well. “Never mind,” replied he; “that woman has cost me many a tear, let her weep for herself now.” He kept his eye on her ever afterward, however, and was exceedingly kind to her, watching like a father over every interest of the old woman, for time as well as for eternity.
During one of her visits to the Manse kitchen, while waiting to converse with the minister, it is said that her attention was attracted by the noise of a flock of ducklings which drew near the place where she sat. Not aware of the presence of any other person, the poor blind woman was heard to exclaim, “Oh, my poor things, ye’re happy, happy creatures―ye haena crucified a Saviour like me; it would be well for Muckle Kate to be a duck like you; for oh, then she would have no sin to answer for―no sin, no sin!” The anecdote may appear frivolous; not so the feeling which it expresses, for many is the awakened sinner that has shared in blind Kate’s desire, and would gladly have exchanged being with a dog or a stone, for then he would have had “no sin to answer for―no sin, no sin!”
In the third year of her anguish Mr. Lauchlan was exceedingly anxious that she should sit down at the Lord’s Table, and accordingly urged every argument to induce her to commemorate the dying love of Christ. But nothing could prevail upon her to comply. “She go forward to that holy table! she, who had her arms up to the shoulders in a Saviour’s blood! Her presence would profane the blessed ordinance, and would be enough to pollute the whole congregation! Never, never would she sit down at the table; the communion was not for her!” The minister’s hopes, however, were to be realized in a way that he never anticipated.
The Lord’s Day had arrived, the hour of meeting drew nigh, but Kate’s determination still remained unchanged. I am not acquainted with the exact spot where the Gaelic congregation assembled on that communion gathering; the tables were, however, spread, as is usual on such occasions, in the open air among the wild hills of Lochcarron. Did any of my readers ever witness the serving of a sacramental table at which there sat but one solitary communicant? yet such a sight was witnessed on that long-remembered day, and poor Kate and Mr. Lauchlan were the only actors in the scene.
The tables had all been served, the elements had been removed, the minister had returned to “the tent,” and was about to begin the concluding address, and all were listening for the first words of the speaker, when suddenly a cry of despair was heard in a distant part of the congregation―a shriek of female agony that rose loud and clear amid the multitude, and was returned, as if in sympathy, by the echoes of the surrounding hills. It was the voice of “Muckle Kate,” who now thought that all was over―that the opportunity was lost, and would never more return! The congregation was amazed; hundreds started to their feet, and looked anxiously towards the spot whence the scream had proceeded. Not so the minister; Mr. Lauchlan knew that voice, and well did he understand the cause of the sufferer’s distress. Without a word of inquiry he came down from the tent, stepped over among the people till he had reached the spot; and taking Kate kindly by the hand, led her through the astonished crowd to the communion table, and seated her alone at its head. He next ordered the elements to be brought forward, and replaced upon the table; and there sat that one solitary blind being, alone in the midst of thousands―every eye of the vast multitude turned in wonder upon the lonely communicant―she herself all unconscious of their gaze. Oh for the pen of Bunyan or of Boston, to trace the tumult of feelings that chased each other through that swelling, bursting breast! The secrets of that heart have never been revealed; but right confident am I, that if there be one text of Scripture which more than another embodies the uppermost emotion in her mind during that hour of intense and thrilling spiritual excitement, it must have been the sentiment of one who knew well what it was to have been humbled in the dust like Kate: “This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I AM CHIEF.”
The words which Mr. Lauchlan chose as the subject of his address were well-nigh as extraordinary as any part of the occurrence; they were the words of Moses to Pharaoh (Ex. 10:2626Our cattle also shall go with us; there shall not an hoof be left behind; for thereof must we take to serve the Lord our God; and we know not with what we must serve the Lord, until we come thither. (Exodus 10:26)) “There shall not an, hoof be left behind”—a manifest accommodation of the words, “Those that Thou gavest Me I have kept, and none of them is lost.” The leading idea was, that all who had been given in covenant by the Eternal Father to the Son, were as safe as if they were already in heaven, and that not one soul should be forsaken or left to perish― “No, not so much as Muckle Kate!” This extraordinary service was ever afterward known as “Muckle Kate’s table”; and it is said, that by that singular address no fewer than two hundred souls were awakened to spiritual concern, which ripened in many instances into deep and genuine piety. The minister to whom allusion has been made was himself acquainted with nine of these inquirers, who traced their earliest impressions to that table service, and all of whom were at the time of his acquaintance with them, eminently godly characters. “Muckle Kate” herself lived about three years after her first communion, possessed of that “peace which passeth all understanding,” and manifesting all the marks of a close and humble walk with God.
Her death is described as having been peculiarly happy. Not only was she satisfied in regard to her eternal safety, she had attained that enviable point at which assurance had become so sure that she ceased to think of self; and so wholly was she absorbed in the glory of her Redeemer, that even to herself she was nothing―Christ was all in all. The glory of Christ was her all-engrossing motive. The inexpressible joy that was vouchsafed her served but to quicken her departing soul to more rapturous commendations to others of that Saviour whom she had found; and when at length the welcome summons came, and she stood upon the threshold of eternal glory, ere yet the gate had fully closed upon her ransomed spirit, the faltering tongue was heard to exclaim, as its farewell effort in Christ’s behalf, “TELL, TELL TO OTHERS THAT I HAVE FOUND HIM.” Lay the emphasis upon the “I,” and behold the world of meaning condensed into those dying words. Compress into that “I” those ninety years of sin, and you catch its full force. “Tell them that the worst of sinners―the drunkard, the profligate, the Sabbath―breaker-tell them that I, even I, have found a Saviour’s person, even I have known a Saviour’s love.” “This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to SAVE SINNERS, OF WHOM I AM CHIEF.” T. F. M.