Whig matriarchs and tory missionaries: episcopalian women in early nineteenth-century Edinburgh

A Paper delivered to the Scottish Church History Society, 3 November 2018

Edinburgh at the beginning of the nineteenth century: the height of the Scottish Enlightenment, the start of the romantic period. Scotland is enjoying peace after years of Jacobite civil war, but the French Revolution has challenged the idea that progress will be plain-sailing. Science and invention are galloping ahead, but the social implications of industrial revolution are beginning to unfold. Having almost literally died out at the end of the previous century, the Scottish Episcopal Church is enjoying an extraordinary transformation and revival. How did women fit in to this world, and how did they help to shape it? I’m going to attempt to paint a group portrait of some of the women of the episcopal church, and catch a sense of how they conceived their own life and mission. 

Historiography 

Gender history in this period has been dominated by the ‘separate spheres’ debate. Davidoff and Hall argued that men and women in the 1830s had a more rigid idea of gender difference than their predecessors in the 1790s, under the influence of evangelical revival.(1) However, this narrative has been challenged by Amanda Vickery and subsequent studies, whose research suggested a continuity of experience of women and men, based on a shared understanding of the roles and relationships of genders, as of ranks, persisting through centuries, with considerable space for choice and self-expression within this framework. The collection of essays edited by Sue Morgan and Jacqueline de Vries, Women, gender and religious cultures in Britain, 1800-1940, is an important contributor to this revisionist narrative in terms of religious cultures. Closest to our subject is Jane Rendall’s study of the progressive daughters of Scottish Whig professors at the turn of the nineteenth century.(2)

Good ladies and the shadow of a shade

At the end of the eighteenth century, an important group sustaining a moribund Scottish episcopalianism were high-ranking, elderly Jacobite ladies. Whereas men faced business and political penalties for being episcopalian right up to 1792, women, largely excluded from business and politics, were under far less pressure to conform. As a young English clergyman newly arrived in Edinburgh, Daniel Sandford was disconcerted by an old lady ‘in the habit of starting from her knees during the most solemn parts of divine service’, because she maintained that ‘prayer for the house of Hanover […] was little short of sacrilege’.(3) It might have been Margaret Hay, aged eleven when her father was Bonnie Prince Charlie’s treasurer, an ‘old lady kind and venerable’, whose funeral in 1814 took Sandford to the old burial ground of nonjuring episcopalians in Restalrig; or Margaret Urquhart, whose father never ceased to give thanks for the special divine favour which preserved him from slaughter at Sheriffmuir and capture at Clova.(4)

For a generation brought up on David Hume’s political economy, this episcopalian belief in a God who appointed rightful kings (demonstrably unsuccessfully) seemed evident nonsense; for a generation exploring John Sinclair’s Statistics, the idea of divine interventionism was testable and disprovable. ‘Grown up people talked at this time of nothing but the French Revolution and its supposed consequences; younger men of good education were immersed in chemistry and political economy’, wrote Henry Cockburn, explaining how religion had been out of fashion in his youth.(5) In 1807 William Forbes, head of arguably the most important family in Scottish episcopalianism, published an edited collection of anti-enlightenment episcopalian writings. It was reviewed by Francis Jeffrey and Walter Scott, who concluded that the work had been ‘dandled into popularity by bishops and good ladies, […] though made up of such stuff, as we really believe no grown man […] could possibly go through without nausea and compassion.’(6) In the face of enlightenment thinking, episcopalian teachings had come to look childish to university-educated men. The result was, as his successor recalled, ‘The late Bishop Sandford told me that when he first came to Edinburgh […] few gentlemen attended church […] Sydney Smith […] seeing how almost exclusively congregations were made up of ladies, took for his text […] “O that men would therefore praise the Lord!” and […] laid the emphasis on the word “men”.’(7) 

Whig matriarchs

I’ll come back to how the episcopal church responded, but first I want to explore the male chauvanist dark side of the Enlightenment at which the quote about ‘good ladies’ hints. 

Several Edinburgh lawyers and businessmen in the whig Edinburgh Review circle had their children baptised in Sandford’s episcopal chapel, which was not only fashionable, but the most convenient place of worship if you lived in Charlotte Square. But, as Henry Cockburn had said, they were not demonstrably religious. Their worldview was classical republicanism: the ‘Athens of the North’. In public life this meant free exchange of ideas, extension of privilege, and meritocracy: the French Revolution without the Terror. What I found striking about this group, highly educated but not the academics studied by Rendall, was that, while they preached equality, they seemed to be modelling a more patriarchal and gendered way of life than their predecessors, successors or opponents. I found it difficult to find out much about the wives of these men, and what I did find did not provide much support for Jane Rendall’s picture of enlightened women engaged in social improvement and activism. It is not a new insight that ‘liberté, egalité, fraternité’ tended to masculinise politics, by replacing the old aristocratic informal networks of influence with meritocratic processes; but what is perhaps more surprising is the gendering of these classical whigs’ domestic life. 

A group of these young whig Charlotte Square families, keeping Daniel Sandford busy in baptisms, met for dinner at one of their new houses in 1809: ‘Fine country butter and country honey and country bread, slaked with […] cups of tea with cream from our own cow‘ as Henry Cockburn reported they boasted proudly.(8) Cockburn ‘set up his rural household gods’, as he put it, two years later, ‘and’, he wrote, ‘unless some avenging angel shall expel me, I shall never leave that paradise.’ He planted trees and wrote odes in the style of Horace on his Pentland Linn. ‘Every thing […] is my own work, and to a great extent the work of my own hands,’ he wrote.(9) This was the generation associated with agricultural improvement and Scotland’s first reforestation movement. Fruitful fields and a fruitful wife, a lavish landscape and homely hospitality, peace, plenty, and the pursuit of happiness in a promised land: this was the classical ideal of the generation which followed David Hume, in his own Edinburgh just as in America. 

The wives of these whig patriarchs had a clear role: raising their children, and spending their money. Domestic happiness made for numerous children. Elizabeth Cockburn had 11 (‘read Malthus every nine months’, Henry wryly and ineffectually schooled himself as he awaited the eighth and wondered how he would provide for them all). Elizabeth’s sister Isabella, who married Henry’s friend Thomas Maitland, had 9. Another who had been at the ‘cream from our own cow’ party, Helen Tod, had 12. 

Another characteristic legacy, literally, was numerous keepsakes described in loving detail in their wills: ‘my Brussels lace scarf’, ‘the bracelet and locket of Malakite’, ‘my Topaz ring set in pearl’, ‘the portrait of a lady by Georgione’, ‘a landscape by Hobbina’, ‘Blue china jars are Jane’s[,] the hexagons I wish Graham to have’, ‘Your father’s the best likeness I ever saw should be Archie’s’, ‘The bust of my beloved Maitland is Stuart’s, also the china table, the Aberdeen stand, the blue Christening jug and bowl’, ‘The small silver tea pot I give to Graham. The short silver candlesticks I would wish to be given to my dear James’ boy, that if spared he may know he had a grandfather who gave them to his grandmother the day he was made a judge.’(10) These objects, testament to the material success of the whig men, were chiefly important to the women for their associations. As Helen Tod wrote, ‘I think my children will kindly value them as remembrances from me and associated with their early, or home recollections.’(11)

This generation of whigs, buying acres, building houses, filling them with china and paintings, commissioning portraits and sculptures, and dressing in Brussels lace and jewels, were undoubtedly materialistic, but their wealth had a very particular meaning and purpose. It was not for show: in public life they dressed unostentatiously and had a relatively small Edinburgh establishment, and all this luxury was kept hidden in the country. Nor was it for power, which they were ideologically committed to being earned through wit and merit. Rather, it was for its associations: it was the stuff of happiness. One of the Edinburgh Whigs, Archibald Alison, was an episcopal clergyman, slightly older than Daniel Sandford. His essays on ‘Associationism’ made his name as Britain’s leading philosopher of aesthetics. His lesson, which he recognised had the good classical genealogy of Platonism, was that ‘Matter is not beautiful in itself, but derives Beauty from the Expression of MIND.’(12) ‘it was impossible to hear Alison preach without being moved and delighted’, said Henry Cockburn. Alison ‘made me truly see what was before me’.(13) Each of the many objects cherished by these whig families was imbued with happy memories: of a loving relationship, of a happy holiday, of a public success, or a private commitment. 

Tory missionaries

I’ve said lot elsewhere about Daniel Sandford’s work to reinvent that moribund Scottish episcopalianism for this modern society which seemed to be rejecting Christianity in favour of Horace and Plato. This reinvention combined three elements. First, an evangelical emphasis on the equal call of every person to an active mission, in contrast to the old episcopalian hierarchical, mystical providentialism. Second, a sacramentalist reassurance of regeneration through baptism, in opposition to presbyterian Calvinist predestination. Both of these aligned his denomination with the enlightenment mood of optimism, progress and personal fulfilment and choice. Third, a development of the episcopalian traditions of fast, festival, liturgy and sanctuary: structuring the church year, the church service, the church building with poetic, choreographic, musical and architectural elements which reinfused Scotland’s plain, cerebral religious landscape with the art and heart of the romantic movement. 

What my previous papers have not emphasised enough, is how much I think Sandford was the conduit for women’s ideas. His father died in his infancy, and he was brought up by his mother and by her support network who were the original Bluestocking circle. These remarkable women, some of whom lived to great ages, oversaw his upbringing and remained his friends throughout his life. Whereas from the outside, the Bluestockings were regarded with suspicion — too aristocratic, trying too hard to make a point, pretentious, inelegant — Sandford, on the inside, seems simply to have absorbed their worldview. And the lessons I think Sandford learned from the Bluestockings were that women’s minds were just as powerful as men’s; that there was no conflict between religion, enlightenment and art, and that party conflicts were artificial and damaging dualities obscuring unified divine truth. This case deserves a fuller argument, but today I want to move on from the women who influenced Sandford, to the women that he influenced in turn, who went on to amplify his message through considerable influence of their own.

The women of the next generation of Scottish episcopalians, brought up in Sandford’s congregation, left very different wills to those of their whig sisters. Jane Duff, the wife of one of Sandford’s closest supporters, made her will ’trusting in the mercies of my Blessed Redeemer that when I am drawing near to my great change I will be supported by him & that my mind may be free from worldly anxiety’.(14) The wealthy Falconar sisters left legacies to a hundred Edinburgh charities, and a thousand pounds to its two episcopal churches; while Barbara and Mary Walker left their wealth to found Edinburgh Cathedral. Whereas the whig women’s wills look backwards and inwards, to little treasures which recall loved ones and happy times in the past, the tory episcopalian wills look forward: towards heaven for themselves and to the social good that their wealth can do after their death.

It was not just so in wills. When Sandford’s daughter Francis married his curate and they moved to London to become urban missionaries, she was no stay-at-home wife or consigned to the more domestic side of the project: she sought her father’s advice on how best to argue with parishioners who had been reading Tom Paine, while her husband ‘attend[ed] the sick poor, and hear[d] their little story, and relieve[d] their wants.’(15)

Anne and Alice Mackenzie, daughters of a close friend of Sandford, became assistants to their brother when he was made Bishop of Central Africa. Anne, who went on to edit a missionary periodical, looked backwards not to recall fond associations, but to criticise: ‘she doubted whether there was much real religion’ in her family as children, their ostensibly fervent episcopalianism ‘consisting in thinking ourselves superior to our Presbyterian neighbours’.(17)

The aristocratic women whom I discussed in my last paper to this society, who competitively founded tractarian churches south of Edinburgh in the 1840s, seem similarly motivated by a desire to exercise their wealth in shaping the world. 

Catherine Sinclair, daughter of that John Sinclair the statistician, grew up in Sandford’s Sunday School. She became an author of children’s stories filled with lively, mischievous, curious, active, self-critical and high-principled girls and boys who are finding their way to becoming forces for good in the world. 

Margaret Douglas Clephane and Spencer Compton were married by Bishop Sandford in 1815. Both were poets, giving us a glimpse into their thought-worlds. Compton’s poems, for all their romantic imagery of wild Highlands, remained in the arcadian, assocationist tradition. Margaret was more original. Her paraphrase of the opening of the book of Ezekiel might have been inspired by Sandford’s lesson to young people that that the Psalms were ‘inspired compositions of the greatest sublimity and piety’(17)

I saw—and lo! a whirlwind from the North
Came rolling on—cloud above cloud, and fire,
Now flashing dim and lurid through the dark,
Now brightly issuing to enwrap the storm
In one vast blaze!
And high
O’er all—bright as the firmament—invisible
From overpowering brightness—sat the Likeness
Man was created from.(18)

I never like the word feminist, especially when it is anacronistic, but it is difficult to think of another word for Margaret’s major narrative poem Irene, which explores the impact of ‘man’s inconstancy’ on women. 

These ‘tory episcopalian’ women were not content to seek fulfilment in domestic happiness and prosperity. Whereas their episcopalian mothers and grandmothers had longed for the return of the divinely-appointed Bonnie Prince, these women internalised, developed and modelled their own divine, regal mission. 

Conclusion

I argue in line with Morgan and de Vreis, that Davidoff and Hall were right that evangelicalism was transformative for women between 1790 and 1830, but not by putting them in a restricted sphere; rather by making them determined to break out of it. Jane Rendall and I have painted very different pictures of women in early nineteenth-century Edinburgh, based on very small samples. And both our papers focus on the higher ranks: most of the women I encountered in my study of Sandford’s congregation are merely glimpsed struggling to survive life, not musing on its meaning. There is a lot more work to be done to understand their world. 

It is difficult for me to be objective about this history, because I’m a direct product of the world I’ve been describing. I grew up in Daniel Sandford’s church, my father taught at the boys’ school Henry Cockburn founded to teach Greek and Latin, and my own school, St Georges, was founded in 1888 by women who were members of the Edinburgh episcopal church which Sandford revived: Sarah Mair, Charlotte Carmichael, Anne Dundas. The gamble that I have described these early nineteenth-century women facing — between risking imprisonment or happiness in rational materialism; and risking madness or holiness in a restless, heroic mission — precisely reflects the gamble in which I find I frame my own life. How far they have shaped me, or how far I have reshaped them, will be something for the next generation of Edinburgh historians to debate. 

REFERENCES

1.  Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall, Family Fortunes: Men and women of the English Middle Class 1780-1850 (revised edition) (Routledge, London, 2002) p.75.

2.  Jane Rendall, ‘“Women that would plague me with rational conversation”: aspiring women and Scottish Whigs, c.1790-1830’ in Sarah Knott and Barbara Taylor (eds), Women, gender, and Enlightenment (Palgrave MacMillan 2005) PP.326-347.

3. John Sandford, Remains of the late Right Reverend Daniel Sandford, vol. 1, (Edinburgh: Waugh and Innes, 1830) p. 45. 

4. Margaret Hay’s Will, National Archives of Scotland SC70/1/11/583; Francis Grant, Register of burials in the Churchyard of Restalrig 1728-1854 (Scottish Record Society, Edinburgh 1908); James Grant, Old and New Edinburgh (London, Cassell, 1880s) vol.5 p.13; H. Gordon Slade, ‘Craigston Castle, Aberdeenshire’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland 108 (1976), 262–300. 

5. Henry Cockburn, Memorials of his time (T.N.Foulis, Edinburgh and London 1909) p.40-41.

6. [Walter Scott and Francis Jeffrey] `An Account of the Life and Writings of James Beattie, by Sir W. Forbes of Pitsligo’, Edinburgh Review, April 1807 vol.10 pp.171-199.

7. Edward Bannerman Ramsay, Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character (Edinburgh: T.N. Foulis, 1857) p. 57. 

8. Alan Bell, Lord Cockburn: Selected Letters (Edinburgh: John Donald, 2005) p. 28 (Cockburn’s italics). 

9. Henry Cockburn, Memorials, p.242.

10. National Records of Scotland wills: Jane Anderson, SC70/4/107/437; Elizabeth MacDowell; Isabella MacDowell.

11. Helen Duff’s will, National Records of Scotland, SC70/1/164/755.

12. Archibald Alison, Essays on Taste, p.410-11.

13. Cockburn Memorials p.290; Karl Miller, Cockburn’s Millenium (London: Duckworth, 1975) p.162. .

14. Jane’s Inventory National Records of Scotland SC70/1/58/701.

15. Sandford, Remains p.364.

16. Frances Awdrey, An Elder Sister. A short sketch of Anne MacKenzie and her Brother the Missionary Bishop (London, Bemrose and Sons, 1878).

17. Sandford, Sermons for young persons, p.264. 

18. Spencer Compton, Lord Northhampton, The Tribute: a collection of miscellaneous unpublished poems by various authors (London, John Murray, 1837) p.54-57.

Happy 200th birthday, St John’s Edinburgh

St John’s Episcopal Church, Edinburgh, by James Skene, in 1818, the year of its consecration. Courtesy of Edinburgh Libraries.

200 years ago this week, St John’s Church in Edinburgh was consecrated, on 19 March 1818.

This is interesting to me for two reasons. First because I have been a member of the choir of St John’s (which was founded at the same time) for almost a fifth of that time, and second because I have spent much of the past ten years researching the history of its foundation.

In its time, St John’s was truly groundbreaking. Its attention to the authentic detail of gothic architecture, and its revival of the rich Laudian traditions of liturgy, once so controversial, but unexpectedly so relevant to the romantics and industrialists of late-Enlightenment Edinburgh, were ahead of anything taking place in Anglican England, and in fact helped to inspire the Victorian revival of liturgy, architecture and rich spirituality there.

The Choir and Church of St John’s today. The memorial windows, including two to Forbes and Mackenzie, were added in the 1860s.

Having no church establishment to contend with, and a mainstream Calvinist tradition to contrast with, gave the founders of St John’s, Bishop Daniel Sandford, Sir William Forbes, and Colin Mackenzie WS, the freedom and the inspiration to create something extraordinary.

Sandford, Forbes and Mackenzie, the cleric, the banker and the lawyer, may seem an unlikely triumvirate to organise a spiritual revolution. But they were, in a way, simply the administrators of a much wider movement, shaped by people of all kinds of classes, genders and races, just as Walter Scott was simply the transcriber of the diverse voices and verses that populate his novels. These men had a cultural generosity which inevitably would lead to them giving away their power in society.

For Bishop Sandford this took the form of a passionate belief in universal education, for all boys and girls, until the kind of privilege of birth enjoyed by people like himself – unwarranted in the gospels and proved so fragile in the French Revolution – became unnecessary.

Over the coming year, St John’s will celebrate its bicentenary in many ways. Keep an eye on their facebook page for news of the lectures, exhibitions, concerts and special services they are planning, and I’ll be trying to keep up some historical tweeting on #StJohns200 (please join in!). Two particular highlights for me will be my Choir re-creating an 1818 matins on 6 May, and right at the end of the programme, I’m giving a lecture on Bishop Sandford and his successor Dean Ramsay on 21 January 2019.

Meanwhile, here is how Edinburgh’s newspaper of the day, the Caledonian Mercury, reported the consecration of St John’s:

“In our paper of Thursday we mentioned that St John’s Chapel was that day to be consecrated. — at the appointed hour a very great concourse of people attended to witnes this ceremony, which, from its novelty, was no less pleasing to our brethren of the Episcopalian persuasion than to those of the Established Church, a great many of whom were present. — The first, happy to find the dissentions which formerly separated them from their fellow citizens sinking rapidly into oblivion; the last, glad to hear testimony of their good will to all who labour in the vineyard.

We cannot allow this opportunity to escape without saying a few words on the satisfaction which we feel at the rapid progress which edifices of this description have made towards elegance and magnificence. — When we look back on that respectable, but very homely building, distinguished by the name of Peddie’s meeting house in Bristo Street; when we consider the former place of worship used by the Roman Catholics in Blackfriars Wynd, and the little chapel in which Bishop Sandford first administered to his flock, in Register Street, as well as many other places of public worship in various parts of the town, we cannot help feeling gratified in observing the improvements which have taken place within very few years. The Catholics were first to show the example. From a confined private room, as it might be called, they had the spirit to remove themselves to a large and commodious chapel, the front of which not only does credit to the architect, but is an ornament to the city. The next is the Methodist chapel in Nicholson’s Square, a plain, neat, and highly creditable building. Then follow the chapels of St Paul and St John, the one built for the accomodation of the Cowgatte Chapel congregation, the other for that of Charlotte Square Chapel.

The interior of St John’s showing its original orange-tinted clerestory windows with clear glass below, the gothic-style box pews, and the organ in the gallery.

These buildings are built in the Gothic style, and not only do great credit to the architects (Mr Elliot and Mr Burn) but to the meritorious exertions of the individuals who undertook the management of them. It is not our province to enter into any ritical or scientific examination of their merits, but taking them all in all, we consider both equally ornamental and advantageous to our city, and takng off from that sameness, with which our New Town has so frequently been accused. From all points St John’s Chapel is well seen — it is the first object that strikes the eye on enterng by the great roads leading from the north, south, east and west, and is, or perhaps must only say was, one of the most interesting objects from the new road over the Calton Hill. The interior corresponds with its exterior: the roof is of the stile of the florid Gothic of Henry the Seventh’s Chael, and the columns which support it are light and airy; no galleries are yet erected, in the hope that the congregation will be sufficiently accomodated in the body of the church. The windows above are glazed with orange coloured glass, the rest with softened glass, so as to admit the light, without being pervious to vision. The great window over the altar is not yet finished, and some alterations appear to be intended; a good deal of labour and expence has been bestowed in decorating the upper part with a representation of the Annunciation by Edington. The under part is ornamented with coats of arms, the effect of which we cannot praise, and think that good taste would have recommended the plain softened glass of the other window, with a simple border round each compartment. The organ is excellent, and very handsomely fitted up; and we were happy to find that the extent of the building was by no means beyond the extent of the Bishop’s voice, who was perfectly well heard in every part of the chapel.”

“One lamentable error we certainly have committed. are committing, and, so far as appears, will ever commit. We massacre every town tree that comes in a mason’s way; never sacrificing mortar to foliage. A group was felled about the year 1826, which stood to the west of St. John’s Chapel, on the opposite side of the Lothian road, and formed a beautiful termination of all the streets which join near that point. One half of the trees, at the least, might have been sparecj, not only without injuring, but with the effect of greatly adorning, the buildings for which they have been sacrificed.” Henry Cockburn, Memorials of His Time, 1856.

St John’s 200

About ten years ago, the Rector of St John’s Princes Street, the Edinburgh church where I sing in the choir, gathered together a very small group of us interested in history. The question was how to celebrate the 200th anniversary of the church in 2018. All of us expressed interest in different areas.

I was interested in the founding of the church, about which very little was known, and the result was my PhD, The Episcopal Congregation of Charlotte Chapel, Edinburgh, 1794-1818, which studied the congregation from its foundation until the point where they moved into St John’s in 1818.  It turned out to be a far more interesting group of people than I expected, and led me in all kinds of historical directions.

Now, the bicentenary year is upon us, and a much larger committee is organising all kinds of events. The first of these will be an exhibition of stories and pictures of people in the church. Here is a sneak preview of the stories I contributed of the first two rectors, whose acquaintance I very much enjoyed making in my studies.

Keep an eye on the St John’s Facebook and Twitter feeds for more information – and of course we must get a #StJohns200 twitter hashtag going.

St John’s in 1818, by James Skene

Bishop Daniel Sandford, 1766-1830

St John’s founder and first rector

Daniel Sandford was a junior member of a large and important family, the Sandfords of Sandford Hall, Shropshire.

His father died when he was young, and he was raised by his mother who was a member of the bluestocking circle of aristocratic female intellectuals, some of whom remained lifelong friends. Unlike some of their male counterparts in the universities, the female bluestockings never doubted that the intellectual enlightenment was compatible with Christian faith. This conviction became central to Sandford’s ministry.

It was also clear in all his writings that it never crossed his mind that women’s intellect might be in any way inferior to men’s. Of his seven children, four were girls, and his son John recalled how with his daughters he always ‘united tenderness with respect.’ This memoir was the last book read by the elderly Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who was deeply impressed by this aspect of his character, and wrote that ‘I have never met with this remark in any other book’.

Equally formative for Sandford were the years he spent in Christ Church, Oxford. He specialised as a linguist, learning Greek and Hebrew when few clergy did. He retained a reputation for being a linguistic scholar all his life, and his sermons often hinge on the need for attention to linguistic detail to understand the true meaning of a text, instead of rushing to an opinion on the impression of a translation.

Oxford also inspired Sandford’s most lasting legacy. It was where he learned his love of gothic architecture, ancient liturgy, sacred music, the church year. After a 25 year ministry in Edinburgh, Sandford at last had the opportunity to recreate that worship experience, in the unlikely setting of a booming commercial, presbyterian, enlightenment Scottish city.

Sandford suffered from chronic rheumatic pain for much of his life, and perhaps because of this he could be cantankerous, fussy, anxious and unreasonable. Correspondence between exasperated vestrymen or fellow bishops record their efforts to ‘manage’ him in these moods. But he also had a wry wit, and a share in the high Regency sense of fun. He began collecting comic anecdotes late in life, which perhaps inspired his young assistant Edward Bannerman Ramsay to do the same.

Daniel Sandford

Dean Edward Bannerman Ramsay 1793-1872

St John’s second rector

Dean Ramsay is remembered as a ‘moderate’, which is often understood to mean he had no strong convictions. But this is a serious misunderstanding of the man chiefly responsible for building up the Episcopal Church from a tiny and amateurish ‘society’ into a significant denomination, and keeping it together in the face of serious threats of schism.

Between 1830 and 1872, episcopal churches were built all over Scotland, with a professionalised, trained and financially supported body of clergy. And again and again it was the energy, the practicality and organisation, the networking skills, and the detailed legwork of Dean Ramsay which brought these projects to fruition.

One of his last acts was to recruit an energetic and effective new bishop for Edinburgh, and to choose with him a design for St Mary’s Cathedral, which gave the Scottish Episcopal Church a diocesan structure equal to England for the first time.

Through the 1840s and 50s, partisan ‘tractarians’ and ‘evangelicals’ threatened schism if their demands to were not met, or if those of their opponents were. The mud they slung at Ramsay from both sides has damaged his reputation ever since, but his tireless work to keep the church together, and his deep distress at the episode, testify that he was far from a ‘lukewarm’ Christian.

While convinced episcopacy was the best form of Christianity, Ramsay refused to allow it was the only form, and therefore struck up ecumenical friendships and collaboration with anyone who would share the task of Christian evangelisation — beginning as a curate in Somerset with the local Methodists.

At St John’s, Ramsay’s ministry, like Sandford’s, was marked by a passion for education, and a conviction that the best way to preach the gospel was to teach people to think for themselves.

Whereas his most famous work is the Reminiscences of Scottish life and character, his most important was surely his Catechism for the Young Persons of St John’s, which ran into many editions and was used all over Britain. ‘The main object is, to make it the means of forming precise and correct ideas,’ he wrote in the introduction. Children learned through his catechism that to cultivate curiosity, and ask questions back instead of merely learning answers by rote, was to imitate Christ, who was found asking teachers questions as a child in the temple.

Edward Bannerman Ramsay

Business-as-Unusual

The aim of Natural Capital is to engage business, which accounts for the majority of human exploitation of the environment, as a force for valuing and restoring it. It draws on many other ideas such as environmental footprinting and social enterprise. It is based in a recognition that many decades of “traditional environmentalism” — traditionally somewhat antagonistic to business — have demonstrably and spectacularly failed to change anything.

The World Forum on Natural Capital 2015, organised by Scottish Wildlife Trust, took place ten minutes from my house. I was there as a volunteer but managed to participate in almost the whole event, although some frantic last-minute registration meant I missed the First Minister Nicola Sturgeon who, according to all the reports I heard, skilfully name-checked such an incredible number of initiatives that everyone came out feeling special. There were plenty of Scottish participants including SNH; good news of new initiatives especially the launch of the Peatland Code which could have important impacts on the Scottish landscape; and a specific Scottish Natural Capital ‘stream’ of breakout meetings which I hope to hear a report from. I think, however, that the question someone asked about how North Sea Oil fits into Scottish Natural Capital accounting, which wasn’t answered, needs to keep being asked.

I hope that the sceptical environmentalists, of whom there were many present, were won over by the possibilities even if they remained healthily critical of the claims of specific businesses and governments. “In the sustainability sector we love reinventing the wheel and preaching to the converted”, said one speaker welcoming the hundreds of business participants. “Today we have a chance not to do that”. “I’m from a financial background,” said Michael Meehan, “and I’ve been working for this convergence with environmentalism all my life — as I know many people in the business community have”.

We learned about a proliferation of initiatives to turn the theory of Natural Capital into practice. The Inclusive Wealth Index, which combines produced capital, human capital and natural capital and demonstrates that most countries are experiencing serious economic decline; Natural Captains, a Dutch-based coalition of businesses committed to leadership in Natural Capital processes; and Cradle to Cradle, one of the tools they use to improve product design, are just three.

The fact that this multiplication of experiments makes the whole area impossibly confusing especially for smaller businesses was discussed, illustrated by the clip of Robin Williams playing a Soviet immigrant to the US having a melt-down trying to choose from a whole aisle of types of coffee. The launch of the consultation on the first draft of the Natural Capital Protocol was a key event of the Forum which aims to address this issue.

We heard inspiring case studies of state-scale approaches to Natural Capital policy making. A telling graph from Botswana (below) showed how water use in different sectors had been compared to GDP and employment: either agriculture (far left) is using far too much water, or its contribution to Botswana’s society is drastically undervalued, or perhaps both.

Pakistan, a country which is one of the smallest contributors to and one of the biggest victims of climate injustice to date, has used natural capital accounting to implement state-scale strategies for climate change resilience (below), including a project to (I could have cheered at this) plant a billion trees in five years. “Resilience” was one of the key words of the project: it is why biodiversity per se is the most valuable asset we have.

An example from Canada demonstrated how collaboration is required in public-sector policymaking as much as in business: from the mountain behind our town to the sea, said one speaker, a cubic metre of water passes through six different policy regions.

What struck me as the conference went on was how radical the thinking was within the business paradigm, that is, amongst CEOs, accountants, insurance underwriters, who had no intention of closing their operations down, getting out of the way, and waiting for some kind of experiment in social organisation to emerge. “Our challenge is not to monetarise nature but to naturalise the economy” was one phrase I noted down, which was my most-shared on twitter although someone pointed out it needed a good deal of unpacking to mean anything. “We must standardise our Natural Capital accounting in a few years, not the 150 years it took global financial reporting” was another. “It’s my firm belief”, said another, “we are building a better system, which takes genuine account of environmental and social as well as financial value”. “Our current economic models are as unscientific as the flat-earth movement”, said a fourth. “We can and must change our whole concept of money and value”. The urgent need for rapid, profound, fundamental change was everywhere, and the one concept which was completely absent was any possibility of “business as usual”.

What I found most interesting, because I hear the environmental viewpoints all the time, were the contributions from the business side. The ones I noted included these. Natural Capital assets are great assets to have because if maintained properly they maintain their value, never depreciating or having to be replaced. The average life of a business is less than ten years, so the biggest sector to be engaged to create change in 20 or 40 years are businesses not yet started. (I heard a practical way to address this capacity-building issue in another session: get sustainability tools into MBAs.) “I bet he’s a pretty hard-nosed businessman though”, said my forester friend Simon as we discussed Peter Bakker of the CEO-led World Business Council for Sustainable Development. “That thing he said: ‘you can come and talk to me about anything, but you have to tell me which of the Sustainable Development Goals it relates to first'”.

Also inspiring were the large-scale examples of rapid ecosystem restoration. An experiment in creating “no-take” marine zones (initially to the chagrin of local fishermen) showed that it only took three years for fishermen to start increasing their income as the regeneration of fish in the no-take zone spilled out into neighbouring areas. The National Geographic Pristine Seas project is preserving the last remaining unexploited marine ecosystems as priceless examples of how the seas should be, yielding surprising scientific discoveries for example that the biomass of top predators (like sharks) is greater than everything else — as if the African plains had two lions for every wildebeest. “One of the most important stories I’ve ever covered”, said film-maker John Liu (below), describing such transformations in China and Mali, “is that it is possible to restore degraded ecosystems”.

One of the points made in the closing plenary was that these extraordinary stories of nature’s restoration, which inspire people to participate in ‘doing their bit’ are far too rarely told compared to disaster stories which cause people to give up.

I am most personally grateful to the Forum for its coffee breaks where I met all sorts of wonderful people for the first time: Angelika Końko from the Forestry Commission, Maggie Keegan of Scottish Wildlife Trust, James Nikitine of Green TV, Matthew Roy of Greener Leith, Nicky Chambers of the Future Centre and Alex Kinninmonth of Scottish Wildlife Trust amongst others.

What do I hope the Forum will achieve? One small hope of mine is it might provoke the venue, the Edinburgh International Conference Centre, to consider its natural capital management – especially if the Forum takes place there for the third time in 2017. I walk through its environs almost every day and always imagine what it could be like if the piazzas were ‘de-paved’, with more trees, wild-flower beds and flowering shrubs humming with pollinators and birds and soaking up the perpetual puddles which block my path.

I also noticed the EICC lights were halogen, tangibly warming the rooms beneath: when we calculated the energy savings of switching from halogen to LED’s at St John’s Church just around the corner, we found the payback time was so short that the replacement was made instantly. I did, however, love the EICC’s classy tap-water dispensers which I hope appear at all conferences not just sustainability ones — although as someone pointed out, you could make havoc with a bottle of vodka…

I had one reflection as a historian. Most references to “the current system”, our capitalist economy, seemed to assume that it was the problem, an unprecedented new curse creating an unprecedented new crisis. This was the implication of the speaker from the Netherlands, when he put up an image (below) of the charter of the first (Dutch) commercial company in 1606, commenting that this model of business which separates money and ideals was no longer sufficient.

But one speaker gave a different narrative. Every civilisation in human history has met with the fate we face: they over-reached their natural resources and collapsed. The only unprecedented thing about our predicament is that our civilisation is planetary. People nodded sagely at both these narratives, but they conflict. Moreover, the second narrative (which I find much more historically satisfactory) challenges the oft-repeated idea that “traditional cultures” can provide alternative models of human existence we can use. They are not civilisations; and whether we like it or not, we are. Our challenge is to be the first civilisation in history not to destroy itself.

I put this to Nicky Chambers in the final coffee break, and she said, “As a biologist, I’d go further: the challenge is, can we do better than yeast?” The environmental crisis is not just a crisis of civilisation: it is a crisis of humanity. We are at the point where we prove whether we are, or aren’t, in any way more intelligent or moral than yeast, eating up its food source until it runs out and dies. At the World Forum on Natural Capital, every mind was focused on demonstrating that we are.

I hope to hear more reflections, plans, and outcomes of the World Forum on Natural Capital. “I insist you go out of these doors as a leader”, said Jonny Hughes in the final plenary. If the 500+ delegates (not to mention us volunteers) took that insistence to heart, armed with the information and connections we made in the last two days — well, I always said I believed in miracles.

St Johns Edinburgh and the Battle of Waterloo

The congregation of Bishop Sandford in Edinburgh, the subject of my PhD research, built their striking new chapel of St Johns in 1818. So it is not surprising that a few years earlier, when still meeting in their little classical Charlotte Chapel in Rose Street, they should have some Waterloo connections.

Charlotte Chapel, Rose Street, Edinburgh

Mary McLeod, daughter of the chief of clan McLeod, came from Skye to marry David Ramsay, a Royal Navy captain. Now in their sixties, they lived at 24 Dublin Street, a house with “an excellent dining room… an elegant drawing-room… a large room lighted from the street, well-suited for a writing-chamber”,  and “a three-stalled stable and coach house”. Between 1793 and 1808 David had commanded the Queen, the Agreeable, the Pomona, and the Euridice. Since then he had been responsible for overseeing the defence of the Port of Leith, and organising the press-gang. Trinity House presented him with a silver snuff box in recognition of his work in 1813.

Major Norman Ramsay Galloping his Troop Through the French Army
to Safety at the Battle of Fuentes d’Onoro, 1811

Yet, the following years were ones of tragedy. Their daughter Catherine died in October 1814, and was buried by Bishop Sandford. The following February they gave up the house in Dublin Street. In January 1815 their second son Alexander, a Lieutenant in the Royal Artillery, was killed at New Orleans, although news did not reach Edinburgh until March. On 19 June 1815, their eldest son William was killed at Waterloo. finally, on 31 July 1815, their youngest son David, a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, died in Jamaica. David himself died in November 1818. Mary, who still had three surviving daughters, outlived him by ten years. The pride they took in their gallant sons is demonstrated by the monumental tomb they commissioned for them in Inveresk churchyard.

Part of the family of Ramsay of Balnain, David was related to Bishop Sandford’s successor, Edward Bannerman Ramsay, Dean of Edinburgh and St John’s most eminent Rector. However, this was not just a church for those in high society, as its other Waterloo connection demonstrates.

Margaret Mitchell gave birth to a daughter in March 1813, a fortnight before her husband John joined as a Private in Captain Miller’s Company in the Rifle Brigade. The daughter, Eleanor, was baptised by Bishop Sandford the following June. As fans of the Sharp novels know, the Rifle Brigade were an innovative part of the British Army, in which soldiers were highly trained, armed with the accurate Baker Rifle, dressed in close-fitting green uniforms, and expected to operate independently ahead of the main army, with officers and men working closely together. John was wounded at Waterloo, but was invalided home to Margaret and little Eleanor.

A Rifleman’s uniform

Waterloo was, however, a long way from the west end of Edinburgh, where members of Charlotte Chapel were engaged in church wars and canal wars. Bishop Sandfords congregation had recently begun discussing the construction of the new chapel, and on 8 June proposed to the neighbouring episcopal congregation that they unite to build one splendid church. On 12 June, a week before Waterloo, the proposal was rejected by the Cowgate Chapel. The ostensible reason was that one large chapel might “create jealousy against us in the established [Presbyterian] church”, but one suspects that the “very respectable number” of the congregation who were “decidedly of the opinion that the union… is inexpedient” were thinking more about the fact that Bishop Sandford’s congregation contained a lot of riflemen and sea captains, not to mention shopkeepers, nabobs, and suchlike. The Cowgate Chapel congregation was, as its Rector Archibald Alison explained in 1820, “of a peculiar kind… composed almost entirely of persons in the higher ranks, or in the more respectable conditions of society”. It seems likely that the Cowgate congregation, which built St Pauls in York Place, wished to retain its exclusivity. The two churches raced to complete their new chapels in 1818, a little ecclesiastical battle which St Paul’s won, thanks to a huge storm which blew the newly-erected Gothic pinnacles of St Johns tower through its roof, just before it was due to open.

St John’s Chapel, opened 1818

Meanwhile, on the day of Waterloo itself, one of those St John’s nabobs and a future vestry member, Robert Downie, convened a meeting of the Subscribers to the Union Canal. The “Union Line” which Downie was promoting with the support of various members of the Whig party, was fiercely opposed by the Tory city council who preferred an alternative “Upper Line”. Downie, whose immense wealth made his proposals difficult to argue with despite his humble social origins, so the Union Canal through to a successful completion, and gave his name to Downie Place, the section of Lothian Road which overlooked the canal’s terminus, Port Hopetoun.

Downie Place and Port Hopetoun

For the west end of Edinburgh, Waterloo symbolised far more than military victory. After twenty-five years of war, it signified a moment of social, technological, institutional and cultural advance (an anonymous member of the community had just published Waverley and Guy Mannering). The following years witnessed social unrest, economic depression, and ultimately the eclipse of Edinburgh by Glasgow and other industrial cities. Yet, 200 years ago, in Bishop Sandford’s congregation, it might have felt like the optimistic dawn of the modern world.

Sources
“Box, presented to Captain David Ramsay”, National Museums of Scotland
George Caldwell and Robert Cooper, Rifle Green at Waterloo
Caledonian Mercury newspaper
Minutes of St John’s vestry
Sermons of Archibald Allison
Letters of Walter Scott

The Great Blank

I’ve just rediscovered this very funny rant by John Ruskin, speaking in 1853 to the citizens of Edinburgh, about how their architecture was tasteless because they failed to allow themselves to be inspired by nature. You might not agree, but if you compare buildings built in Edinburgh after 1853 to those built before, you’ll see that they took his words to heart.

In your public capacities, as bank directors, and charity overseers, and administrators of this and that other undertaking or institution, you cannot express your feelings at all. You form committees to decide upon the style of the new building, and as you have never been in the habit of trusting to your own taste in such matters, you inquire who is the most celebrated, that is to say, the most employed, architect of the day. And you send for the great Mr. Blank, and the Great Blank sends you a plan of a great long marble box with half-a-dozen pillars at one end of it, and the same at the other; and you look at the Great Blank’s great plan in a grave manner, and you dare say it will be very handsome; and you ask the Great Blank what sort of a blank check must be filled up before the great plan can be realized; and you subscribe in a generous “burst of confidence” whatever is wanted; and when it is all done, and the great white marble box is set up in your streets, you contemplate it, not knowing what to make of it exactly, but hoping it is all right; and then there is a dinner given to the Great Blank, and the morning papers say that the new and handsome building, erected by the great Mr. Blank, is one of Mr. Blank’s happiest efforts, and reflects the greatest credit upon the intelligent inhabitants of the city of so-and-so; and the building keeps the rain out as well as another, and you remain in a placid state of impoverished satisfaction therewith; but as for having any real pleasure out of it, you never hoped for such a thing. If you really make up a party of pleasure, and get rid of the forms and fashion of public propriety for an hour or two, where do you go for it? Where do you go to eat strawberries and cream? To Roslin Chapel, I believe; not to the portico of the last-built institution. What do you see your children doing, obeying their own natural and true instincts? What are your daughters drawing upon their cardboard screens as soon as they can use a pencil? Not Parthenon fronts, I think, but the ruins of Melrose Abbey, or Linlithgow Palace, or Lochleven Castle.

Venice in Edinburgh

In a scaffy corner in the east end of Edinburgh, down the cobbled, dirty-puddled close that is West Register Street, hides a secret treasure: a Venetian Gothic warehouse, built in 1864.

The architect was William Hamilton Beattie, twenty-two years old and still operating under his father’s firm’s name of George Beattie and Sons. He signed the building, there, look, above the first floor window.

The client was 48-year-old James Cowan (1816-1895), member of a successful family firm of papermakers. I think the portraits on either side of the entrance are of his father Alexander (1775-1859) – whose biography is here – and grandfather Charles (1735-1805).

The Cowans had built a great paper industry in Penicuik to the south of Edinburgh, a spin-off industry from Edinburgh’s literary flourishing. They provided the raw material for the Edinburgh Review, Waverley Novels, Blackwoods Magazine and all the rest. During the nineteenth century they prospered, and brought Penicuik with them.

They were also religious and high-minded: idealists who, like today’s social entrepreneurs, believed a business could be both profitable for its owners and beneficial for society in a whole range of ways. Alexander had been Presbyterian but James converted to Episcopalianism, perhaps thanks to enthusiasm for Walter Scott, with whom his father was connected; perhaps to enthusiasm for a Gothic aesthetic and the ethical and religious connections with which thinkers like John Ruskin infused it.

Ruskin had written The Stones of Venice ten years earlier, and the Paper Warehouse proclaims that Cowan and Beattie had devoured it. In this work, through a detailed examination of Venetian Gothic architecture, Ruskin argued that the stones themselves testified to a more just, more expressive, more creative society than nineteenth-century industrial Britain. The recreation of the cosmopolitan cusps and corbels of Venetian Gothic in an auld reekie close is a symbol of a dream of a better society.

Every ornament is different. Star, diamond, circle, cross; different species of plant above each first-floor window; a different composition of birds and reptiles above each of the ground-floor ones, where, as John Ruskin pointed out, the richest carving should go to be clearly seen, from the bird catching a snake to the ferns to the squirrel, a lonely mammal.

All the designs are based closely on observation of nature, all express the freedom and individuality of the artist. Above the main entrance, coloured stone adds polychromatic richness, like heraldry or oriental mosaics – somewhere in there, under the grime.

I discovered the building because of an insult. Cowan was Lord Provost of Edinburgh at the time when the competition to build St Mary’s Cathedral was being run. The English Church Times was amongst Episcopalians in fits of indignation that city officials who were probably vulgar, provincial, tasteless, and Presbyterian were part of the committee choosing the architect. “The grocer’s term of Provostship expired, and his successor, a paper maker, was probably more amenable to reason. Mr Lascelles [Lessels, an Edinburgh architect whose design was inferior] was, happily, relegated to obscurity; and, by a sort of compromise […] Sir G. G. Scott, the safe architect of the present day, has been chosen”. The Church Times could sneer at George Gilbert Scott as much as they liked, but someone wrote in from Edinburgh to defend the papermaker: “The papermaker referred to is an Episcopalian, and member of a firm which has shown some taste and love for architecture in selecting the Venetian Gothic for his place of business”. (Church Times, December 1872).

Like all Cowan’s business, and like the Episcopal church at the time, it is a beautiful dream of a better society. Next time you are passing the east end of Edinburgh, step out of the crowds, away from the glossy shops, and into the dirty close, and catch the dream.

The young Beattie went on to develop his own style and to reshape Edinburgh: he built Jenners and the Balmoral.

Follow me on twitter @eleanormharris

Holy Trinity’s Hogmanay

The Choir of Holy Trinity form the setting for my novel, Ursula, but they don’t get much chance for action themselves, so I thought I would give them a short story of their own.

 

It had all been fine until the bells. It always goes wrong at the bells.

The Choir of Holy Trinity, or at any rate a quorum of six who deemed themselves the essence of that community, finding themselves still in Edinburgh at Hogmanay, and flat and weary after the excitements of Christmas singing, arranged to go into town in search of atmosphere. They all rocked up at their usual drinking den, The Half Mast, at about nine o’clock in expectation of being cheered.

‘Sophie!’ cried Penelope and Portia merrily. ‘Feels like it’s been ages!’ added Portia, whose drink was long and luminous red.

‘Longest week of the year,’ agreed Sophie. ‘What you guys been up to? No, hold that thought: I need a pint.’ She headed for the bar.

‘Hi,’ said her flatmate Dave, who had come in after Sophie like a shadow, and whose glasses had steamed up.

‘Where’s Tom?’ Penelope asked, when they came back with pints.

‘Gone off to spend quality time with his godmother,’ said Sophie. ‘Staying with Ursula’s cousin or something in Stonehaven. God, I need this!’ She sourced a beer mat with the hand not employed in tipping beer into her mouth, before putting the considerably-depleted pint down on it.

‘Oh here’s Matt,’ cried Portia. ‘Matt!’ She leaped up and gave him an embrace of greeting. ‘Merry Christmas! Muah!’

‘How come I never get that?’ said Richard to Penelope.

‘What, from me or from her?’ said Penelope.

‘Either!’

‘Well, from her, because I’d thump her.’

This reply pleased Richard sufficiently that he forgot to ask his girlfriend why he wasn’t ‘muah-ed’ by her, so he just gave her a squeeze and said across her, ‘Cheer up Soph, you’ve got that face on.’

‘She’s grumpy ’cause she won’t get a snog from Tom at the bells,’ said Dave. ‘She’s a godmother widow.’

‘No!’ Sophie disclaimed (probably disingenuously). ‘I’m just worried about this thing tomorrow.’

You’re worried?’ said Portia, sitting back down. ‘I have to play the organ on the radio — you’re only reading your thing — I assume you’ve written it?’

‘Yeah — they won’t know who you are though, and you’re just playing carols everyone likes. They’ll all be listening to me and saying “Who the fuck’s this plonker?”‘

‘I meant to do some practice this week but everyone else at work buggered off so I’ve been chained to the desk,’ said Portia. ‘Och well, as you say, they won’t know who I am. Drink, Pen, Richie?’ She bounded off to the bar.

‘I have a bad feeling about tomorrow,’ said Sophie. ‘How many of those awful red things has she had?’

‘That was only the first,’ said Richard.

‘But we have all been drinking wine and eating pizza since half past five,’ pointed out Penelope.

‘So is this New Year’s Day radio service all your fault?’ said Richard.

‘Kind of. Some BBC person rang up Peter on — whatever day it was that email came out — the day after Boxing Day — I’ve lost track.’

‘That was Monday’, said her flatmate Dave precisely. ‘I know because I went back to work on Wednesday, because we’d had Monday and Tuesday off as Bank Holiday, because of Christmas being on a Saturday.’

‘Useful to know,’ said Sophie sarcastically. ‘Anyway, Rev Pete rang up me, and said they wanted to do a morning service about hope for the planet for the New Year, and could we provide a choir and an environmentalist.’

‘Gift-wrapped,’ suggested Matt.

‘But then it turned out they were also supplying their own environmentalist who’s this guy called Roddy who’s head of Nature Scotland, so I’ve spent the whole week madly emailing him and Peter to agree what we’re all going to say.’

‘So what’s he like, this Roddy guy?’ asked Richard.

‘Ha!’ said Dave, with the knowing glee of one who’s heard the story.

‘Well,’ said Sophie. ‘I met him once at some environmental networking thing, and he said hello, how’d’you do, where are you from what d’you do, you know; and I said, I’m from the church, I run environmental initiatives with Holy Trinity Calton Hill, and he said, ah, the church: you’re that lot who think the floods in Somerset were caused by gay marriage.’

Everyone laughed. ‘He can’t have really thought that?’ said Penelope.

‘I dunno, I couldn’t tell,’ said Sophie. ‘He sounded serious.’

‘I bet he does,’ said Dave. ‘It’s what people think we think.’

‘So how did he get persuaded to do this gig?’ said Penelope.

Sophie shrugged. ‘Chance to get Nature Scotland on the radio. He’s not going to turn it down. He probably only got asked because the heads of Scottish Wildlife Trust, WWF and the RSPB are all getting drunk together in some castle in the Highlands.’

‘Are they?’ said Portia, wide eyed at the image.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Sophie. ‘But that’s what all sensible people are doing, not scrambling around in Edinburgh with the great unwashed.’

‘Admit it, you’d be delighted to be in Edinburgh for Hogmanay if Tom was here,’ said Penelope.

Sophie scowled over the rim of her pint glass, not at the tease, but at the glance of promise which Penelope gave Richard as she finished the sentence.

Conversation moved on to gossiping about other members of the choir, and thence quickly, lubricated by another round of drinks, to singing Christmas carols. It is true that Matt sang the first phrase of Three Kings from Persian Lands afar only because it seemed the best response to the remark that Edith, George and Quentin had booked a holiday in January to Turkey, but when everyone else began singing the chorale underneath, it seemed a shame to stop, and they warmed to the performance. He grew quite operatic in verse two, and after he floated the final phrase, ‘offer thy heart,’ with the smallest of controlled vibrato into the air of the noisy pub, there was a little smattering of applause from the largely unseen people at tables around their alcove. They all burst into laughter. Richard cut into it by singing, ‘Good King Wenceslas looked out?’ in a tone of question, answered by a rousing, ‘On the feast of Stephen!’ and they sang the whole carol in rollicking pub style, stamping their feet and thumping the table. ‘Ding dong merrily’ followed in the same style.

‘Sing Twelve Days of Christmas? shouted a voice from the pub, so they all launched into that, Penelope and Sophie improvising descants, and laughing at Portia who was still forgetting all the words after ‘seven swans a swimming’ even three verses later. Then they sang the Scottish dance-carol, Ecce Novum Gaudium, and then Past Three O’Clock, although that fell apart quickly when no-one could remember the words to the verses.

‘There’s that one about the hinds’, said Matt doubtfully.

‘Cheese from the dairy, bring they a fairy,’ suggested Penelope.

‘And not for butter, money and Rutter,’ said Dave. ‘No, that can’t be right …’

‘It’s half eleven!’ said Matt suddenly.

‘Oh, come on, bells! Bells!’ cried Portia, leaping up and scrabbling for her coat.

‘Calm yourself, woman,’ said Richard.

‘It’s going to be freezing out there,’ said Sophie.

‘Oh for God’s sake, cheer up,’ said Dave. ‘You should have had more to drink.’

‘I’m in one of those moods where however much I drink, I don’t get drunk,’ said Sophie crossly.

‘Oh dear,’ said Dave.

They followed Portia and Penelope, jostling and giggling their way out of the door, into the sudden comparative silence of the traffic-less street.

Portia gasped. ‘Oh, it’s snowing!

‘Oh fuck it,’ said Penelope, who resented Nature its inconveniences. Sophie, in contrast, felt immediately calmed and cheered by this intervention of circumstances beyond her or any human control, as if an act of God.

They skipped and shuffled up the hill through the already-trampled two inches of snow. Portia grabbed Penelope’s gloved hand on one side, and Matt’s, which happened to be nearest, on the other, and led them threading through the crowds towards Princes Street, Richard, Dave and Sophie following in their wake. They found a spot with a view of the castle and a female DJ with the weariness of one who has been flannelling since 9pm broadcasting over a loudspeaker. She audibly cheered up as she realised she only had a minute to go, and a ripple went round the crowd.

‘Here we go!’ said the DJ. ‘Ten!’

The whole crowd, from one end of the city to the other, joined in. ‘Nine! Eight! Seven! Six!’

Sophie suddenly thrilled to the moment. A new year, all fresh and innocent out of the box. Maybe it will be all right after all.

‘Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!’

Edinburgh Castle went white as it stretched its first burst of fireworks like dragons’ wings. Sophie was captivated. The swirling snow filling the air was lit by red and blue spheres. Huge white explosions illuminated the great black rock of the Castle, picked out in snow like an old engraving: a sublime, unreal representation of volcano and blizzard. Snow was getting in her eyes.

‘Bugger me, look at that,’ said Dave between explosions, tugging her sleeve. Sophie startled and looked down, reluctant to tear her eyes away from the fireworks. It took her a while to recognise Portia and Matt, their faces hidden in each others’.

‘Oh,’ said Sophie. She felt sorry for Dave, whom she knew was partial to Portia. She felt even sorrier for herself, missing Tom their first New Year together.

‘Didn’t see that coming,’ said Dave.

No, me neither,’ said Sophie. ‘Well, not before tonight. Portia suddenly seemed to be on a mission.’

‘Oh well — why not bless ’em,’ said Dave. ‘Happy New Year, Soph.’ They embraced, and kissed, as you do at New Year, but forgot to stop. Dave’s mouth was warm, and opened, and Dave’s tongue was alive, and intimate, the only living, intimate, warm thing in that cold, old, unreal engraving of a historic city.

They jumped apart and Sophie looked around. Portia and Matt were still entwined, like amorous slugs. Penelope and Richard had vanished. No-one had seen.

‘Sorry,’ said Dave.

‘No, my fault,’ said Sophie, like polite strangers who had jostled in a library cafe.

‘Time to head?’ said Dave.

‘Yeah,’ said Sophie. ‘Early start.’

Everyone was freezing, and Princes Street was emptying fast. The snow fell.

* * *

‘I set off at six,’ George was saying.

‘Have you walked all the way from Colinton?’ asked Edith. George signified assent with a slight, triumphant smile. ‘Puts us to shame, doesn’t it?’ Edith said to Violet. ‘That must be, what, four miles at least?’

‘Oh more than that — five or six,’ said Quentin.

‘I confess walking from Bruntsfield was quite epic enough for me these days,’ said Violet, who, however, was dressed like an advertisement for ‘countrywear’ and whose walk across town through a foot of snow had left her looking glowing and energised.

‘It’s strange how quiet the city goes, isn’t it?’ said Ben. ‘I came over Arthur’s seat and a great golden dawn was breaking all over East Lothian. It was spectacular. You must have seen it?’ he added to George.

‘Yes, just as I came down the Mound,’ said George. ‘Crackin’, wasn’t it?’

‘Like an egg! You must have set off in pitch darkness,’ said Ben.

‘Well, except that the snow was reflecting the street lights so the whole place was bright,’ said George. ‘It was as quiet as quiet, though. I didn’t see a soul all the way here, actually.’

‘No, nor did I,’ said Edith.

‘I saw one person walking their dog on the Meadows,’ said Violet.

Sophie had stumbled in during this conversation, having discovered her wellies had sprung a leak and, having lost her good hat, wearing an absurd bobble hat with her faded mountaineering coat. Under the absurd hat she had an absurd hangover. The shame of the horrible orange bobble stood proxy for the shame of the knowledge of having kissed Dave, which she could hardly believe was less glaringly evident, although of course nobody knew about it. Dave was taking off his coat and chatting to Quentin with what seemed to Sophie to be unseemly nonchalance. She hated them all, with their smug wax jackets and experiences of sunrises and clear heads and consciences.

‘Ah, Sophie,’ said Peter, dog-collared and official-looking. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Have you met Roddy?’ He presented a tall, thin man with spectacles and a little beard, and a woolly brown jumper with a zip at the collar. Sophie remembered he looked like a meerkat.

‘Oh yes, we’ve met,’ said Sophie superciliously. ‘At the Scottish Green Cities Forum?’

‘Oh — yes,’ said the meerkat, who evidently forgotten it. ‘I think we’ve put a good script together.’

‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it,’ said Sophie, wishing she were still in bed.

‘Where is everybody?’ said Matteo the choirmaster was saying crossly. ‘It’s quarter past eight.’

‘Here’s Penelope and Richard,’ said Dave.

‘So sorry!’ panted Penelope. ‘We’ve just been haring it up Leith Walk. Gosh that snow’s deep.’

‘I don’t suppose you know what’s happened to Portia?’ Matteo asked her.

‘No — what’s happened to Portia?’

‘I don’t know! I was hoping you would. I just work here, nobody tells me anything.’

‘She was out with us last night. Give her a ring.

‘I’ve tried. Her phone’s off.’

‘She’ll be struggling through the snow. I’m sure she’ll turn up. What time are we on? Nine?

‘Yes. And Matt’s not here either. Sorry, Ben.’ Ben was the only other tenor, and not a confident singer.

‘I’m sure they’ll appear,’ said Dave, giving a conspiratorial glance at Sophie. Sophie didn’t want to be involved in any conspiracies with Dave, even ones that only involved third parties’ kisses.

‘Right we may as well have a run-through,’ said Matteo, beginning to dole out little stapled sheaves of photocopies. ‘Everything you need is in this.’

Oh Holy Night?’ said Penelope with incredulous scorn, opening the bundle at random.

‘You’re here to sing it, not to comment on it,’ said Matteo impatiently. ‘Here, have one too — feel free to join in the carols.’ He gave a sheaf to Roddy.

‘Oh — thank you — I don’t know much about –‘ stuttered Roddy inarticulately — as if he had been asked to participate in a Satanic ritual, thought Sophie.

‘This is Roddy, our environmentalist,’ said Matteo, gesturing in a welcoming manner. The meerkat nodded nervously.

‘Hi Roddy,’ said Penelope across the choir, in an awkward one-woman attempt at a chorus of welcome. Everyone else just stared at him.

‘How’d’you do, I’m Ben,’ said Ben, who happened to be standing next to him, and put out his hand to shake.

‘How’d’you do,’ said Roddy, looking tense.

‘And this is Kylie, our Producer,’ said Matteo, gesturing further away to a smiley lady ensconced like a queen wasp amongst the nest of coloured cables and button-spangled steel boxes which had encrusted the area around the pulpit.

‘Hello, everyone,’ called Kylie, who shared with Matteo the task of making this reluctant, hungover, sleepy rabble a conduit of festive cheer to the Nation at 9am on New Year’s Day.

‘Hello Kylie!’ responded a far more respectable chorus of choristers smiling back at her.

Sophie thought, now the meerkat thinks we are rude and posh as well as religious weirdos. She hated him for the prejudices she had projected on to him.

‘Do you want to run through what’s going to happen?’ Matteo asked Kylie.

‘Yes,’ said the queen wasp, deftly stepping forward out of her nest of wires while consulting her own, much thicker, sheaf of pages. She explained to the choir how the service would work, how Peter would begin it from outside, and how Roddy and Sophie would come forward to the microphone to read their spoken sections. ‘Now — do you want to have a sing through some things?’ she asked, batting their shared authority back to Matteo. The choir looked back at him like spectators at a tennis match.

‘Yes, we better had. Where the hell is Portia? I’ll have to play. We’ll start with the first one, Hark the Herald.’ The last sentence was spoken while hurrying towards the organ-loft door, and full-stopped with a bang.

‘Oh God, not Hark the Herald,’ said Quentin, voicing the thoughts of a choir who had sung it at least six times in the past month, and believed they had seen the last of it on Christmas morning.

There was a moment of tense silence, broken by the sound of Matteo’s feet hurrying up the wooden organ-loft staircase. He reappeared in sight, facing away from them, his curly hair flying about as he added a few extra loud stops to the piston setting. ‘My descant, not Willcocks’, he called, and started to play. The choir sang. ‘Skip to verse three!’ he shouted at the end of verse one, and Sophie and Penelope gave each other a slight cross-eyed glance of resignation. A descant with a hangover without having had time to warm up.

‘We sound awful,’ said Richard unconstructively at the end.

‘Dave, you’d better sing tenor with Ben,’ called Matteo.

‘Oh what?‘ said Dave, running his hands through his hair.

Sophie remembered the warmth of his tongue, and thought of Tom, and hated herself.

‘Matt’ll turn up,’ said Richard, confidently.

‘Sorry I’m so useless,’ said Ben.

‘Right, next one, O Holy Night‘, called Matteo. ‘Damn it, Matt was supposed to be singing the first verse of this as well. OK, we’ll have full men, please, unless he arrives.’

He started to play. The men, who had previously only sung the harmony part in verse two, hesitantly sang in dubious unison.

Matteo stopped before verse two.

‘It’s not the most obvious tune, is it?’ said George.

‘How long have we got?’ Matteo called to Kylie.

‘Oh, you can have five minutes yet,’ called the ever-cheerful queen of the wires.

‘Just do that again’, said Matteo, trying to sound as if everything was under control. The men read the tune again, eliminating eighty percent of the mistakes they made first time round, and they made it to the end.

‘Right, quickly, While Shepherds Watched, just the first and last verse,’ called Matteo. Everyone’s voices had warmed up a bit by now, and, with the hungover Dave adding some audible tenor, it didn’t sound too bad. The expression of strangled agony on his face wouldn’t be visible on the radio.

‘You sound great, guys,’ said smiley Kylie, coming forward again as they finished, clutching her photocopies and a pen.

‘We’re singing all the verses in the service, right?’ interrupted George.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Matteo, in the tone of one answering a stupid question.

Kylie, who had stopped with pen poised and smile fixed on her face, unfroze and continued talking. An engineer emerged, troll-like, from the shadows and moved microphones around slightly. Nobody introduced him, but Kylie said, ‘Thanks Jim.’

Kylie gave a few more instructions and Roddy and Sophie read parts of their script so Jim could check the balance. In the organ loft, Matteo was still trying to phone Portia. At three minutes to nine they still hadn’t appeared. ‘Looks like we’re not going to have a conductor. You’ll have to watch my head,’ said Matteo irritably. ‘Just do try remember diction is especially important on the radio. And do try to get the consonants together at ends of lines. I won’t be able to indicate anything, just put them where they’re supposed to be. And please turn the pages quietly.’

Dave clownishly flapped his photocopies noisily. Penelope tittered.

‘OK guys,’ called Kylie, wearing headphones. Everyone snapped into order. ‘Peter, can you hear me?’ She listened, head cocked, for the response from Peter outside, heard only through her headphones. ‘Good — ready? … Right, any minute now … OK — off you go.’

There was tense silence in the church: no-one was sure whether they were on-air or not. They stood poised, clutching Hark the Herald.

‘Jim, can we feed Peter through to here so we can hear him?’ said Kylie. Peter’s disembodied voice suddenly filled the church, mid-sentence, full of good cheer.

‘… Year to you all!’

‘Thanks,’ said Kylie to the invisible Jim.

‘I’m standing on Calton Hill, overlooking the centre of Edinburgh’, went on Peter. ‘After last night’s heavy snow, the city is white and beautiful …’ Kylie pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows in approval: Peter had re-written his introduction to take account of the snow. Sophie, who had a full script, showed it to Penelope next to her. He was supposed to be talking about the busy city waking up, with the sound of buses and traffic in the background, but, because of the snow, there was no sound of traffic. ‘… it seems appropriate to reflect, in the stillness …’ said Peter, getting himself back on-script. Suddenly there was the sound of feet running through snow and loud panting. ‘… on our place in the world, in the order of nature, at time of dire danger and grave responsibility…’ Peter’s voice inappropriately brightened up as he began to speak of the environmental crisis and the recent climate summit in Lima, and the explanation came a moment later as the church door gave a double creak-clunk, once from the outside over the loudspeakers and once in reality on the inside, and Portia and Matt, red-faced and dripping with perspiration, ran into the church. Matteo said not a word, but slipped out of the organ loft as Portia burst in. Matt tried to control his breathing as he looked through the photocopied sheet Ben handed him with a scowl. Everyone glared at the delinquents, except Dave, who looked gratefully relieved at being able to sing bass again.

Jim silenced the end of Peter’s broadcast so as not to interfere with the beginning of the carol in the church, and Matteo glued his eyes to Kylie, who had her head and pen cocked beneath her headphones. She indicated with her pen and eyebrows. Matteo pointed at Portia. Portia began the introduction to Hark the Herald, and they were off.

* * *

‘That was great guys,’ said Kylie, taking off her headphones and stepping out of her wires. ‘I’ll just go and rescue Reverend Peter, he’s been banished to the hall.’ She headed off.

‘Well, that could have been worse,’ said Richard philosophically.

Much worse,’ said Matteo. ‘Thanks guys.’

‘You looked very funny doing your O Holy Night thing,’ said Penelope to him, imitating the way Matteo had conveyed in pantomime that Matt was to sing the first verse solo after all.

‘I was so relieved we didn’t have to sing that,’ said Quentin. ‘What a peculiar tune.’

‘I’m amazed you didn’t know it,’ put in Roddy the environmentalist. ‘It’s the only one I did know.

‘Our confidence is all a front,’ said Richard. ‘We’re actually pretty ignorant.’

‘Once we were singing carols in the Balmoral and a child requested Rudolph the red-nose reindeer‘ said Penelope. ‘We made such a hash of it. We could never decide whether the tune went up or down, and no-one except Dave could remember the words.’

‘Because I’m a legend,’ said Dave ironically, in a hollow Marvin voice. His hangover had kicked in properly and his head hurt.

Kylie came back followed by Peter the vicar, and Ben’s boyfriend Frank.

‘Frank!’ cried Penelope.

‘Happy New Year everyone,’ said Frank. ‘I heard you on the radio in the hall — you sounded fab!’

‘Well, we got through it anyway,’ said Richard, voicing the feeling of the choir.

‘It’s nice and warm in there — and Peter’s got the kettle on,’ said Kylie, as they Happy-New-Yeared Frank.

‘Tea anyone?’ affirmed Peter.

‘Oh I could kill for a cup of tea,’ said Ben. ‘Come on Rod.’

‘I could kill for a bacon roll,’ said Dave.

‘You know what I could kill for,’ said Matteo. ‘An Aberdeen buttery roll.’

‘Oooooh, a buttery!’ said Sophie. ‘I wish you hadn’t made me think of that.’

‘I don’t know what one of those is,’ said Portia.

‘Amazing things you only get in Aberdeen,’ said Sophie.

‘I know where you can get them,’ said Roddy unexpectedly. ‘There’s a wee bakery at the top of Leith Walk.

‘No — is there?’ said Matteo, his eyes widening. ‘How did I never know about this?’

‘Let’s go and get some,’ said Ben putting his coat on. ‘Come on Frank. Where is it?’

Armed with the meerkat’s instructions, Frank and Ben headed out into the snow on a breakfast raid. By the time they returned, the second pot of tea was being brewed.

Ben proffered the bag of butteries to Roddy, saying, ‘You first — that was a good tip!’

‘Thanks,’ said Roddy, adding to Portia, ‘Try one.’

Portia gingerly took out one of the contents of the greasy-looking bag. ‘It looks like a squashed croissant,’ she said. Then, with her mouth full, ‘Oh, wow!’

‘I’d just like to remind everyone this was my idea,’ said Matteo, diving in to the bag.

‘You didn’t know where to get them though,’ said Sophie, following suit and looking with gratitude at Roddy, who had suddenly developed hero status.

‘It’s like … the best hangover cure ever,’ said Portia. ‘It’s so … buttery.‘ everyone laughed at her ineloquence.

‘And salty,’ added Sophie, taking a more scientific approach to its therapeutic properties.

‘I’ve got bacon rolls, too,’ said Frank, holding up a much bigger bag.

‘Oh, good man,’ said Dave, hastening thither.

‘Here, Roddy, have a cup of tea,’ said Peter, handing one into his free hand handle-first. ‘Well done in the service.’

‘Well done all three of you,’ said George, looking at Sophie, Peter and Roddy. ‘It was very well put-together. I wish I’d come to your Light for Lima vigil now.’

‘Ah!’ said Sophie significantly, meaning, ‘let that be a lesson to you’. ‘Still, there’s still time to fast for the climate. Peter’s doing it.’

‘Hang on, didn’t you say you were supposed to fast on the first day of the month?’ said Richard, looking at the second half-eaten buttery Sophie was holding. The guilt of the hypocritical environmentalist washed over Sophie.

‘We’re launching it at Holy Trinity next month,’ said Peter, coming to her rescue. ‘Sophie’s just said so on the radio.’

‘I’m not sure about it,’ said Dave. ‘It looks a bit — like you think you’re going to solve climate change by praying rather than actually by doing stuff.’

‘If you’d listened to what I was saying in the service,’ said Sophie, ‘you’d know it was about solidarity. And it’s being done all round the world by people of all faiths and none.’

‘Hm,’ said Dave, his mouth full of bacon roll. ‘My main concern in the service was staying upright.’

‘What was everyone doing last night?’ said Matteo. ‘You all look like death warmed up.’

The reprobates exchanged guilty glances, except Penelope who said, ‘We all went out for the bells. It was great — bloody freezing though.’

‘Typical Pen,’ said Sophie. ‘You lead everyone astray by trying to get them to keep pace with you, then turn up on time and looking absolutely fine. I don’t know how you do it.’

‘I was steaming,’ admitted Dave. Sophie began to wonder whether he actually remembered the disaster. She hoped not.

‘Very unprofessional. And why were you so late?’ said Matteo to Portia. ‘And you,’ he added to Matt.

‘My alarm didn’t go off,’ said Portia, trying to look brazen like Penelope, and only half-succeeding.

‘No, nor did mine,’ said Matt, looking thoroughly sheepish.

Violet, Edith and George came over, saving them from further interrogation.

‘Well, that’s the year launched,’ said Violet.

‘Shame we didn’t get any decent music to sing,’ said Penelope.

‘You can choose it next time,’ said Matteo crossly. ‘And get more than eleven singers to turn up, on time.’

‘Never mind. Only a week till Epiphany carols,’ said Violet. ‘What are we singing, Maestro?’

‘Er, Bethlehem Down …’ began Matteo.

‘Oh, lovely, my favourite!’ said Edith.

‘And the Leighton. You’re doing the solo by the way,’ Matteo said to Sophie.

‘Lully, lulla!’ croaked Sophie, more witchily than seraphically.

‘Not a drop of alcohol before then,’ said Marcus.

‘What else?’ said Penelope eagerly.

‘Oh — Good King WenceslasThree Wee KingsI Saw Three Ships — anything with the word Kings or the number three you know.’

Roddy laughed. ‘Three Wee Kings?’

‘We three,’ elucidated Ben. ‘Tedious old choir joke.’

‘Then what’s the next excitement after Epiphany?’ pressed Penelope. ‘We need things to look forward to at this time of year.’

‘Well, there’s the wedding of the century,’ said Ben.

‘Oh, who’s getting married?’ asked Roddy politely.

‘Me and Ben,’ said Frank. Sophie almost laughed out loud at the look of shock on Roddy’s face.

‘Instead of bridesmaids we’ll have all the clergy of the diocese in procession pink fluffy stoles,’ said Frank, ‘Coing all along Princes Street and up Calton Hill. It’ll be like that painting of George IV’s visit to Edinburgh, only with more people.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s against canon law to wear fluffy pink stoles in procession,’ said Peter doubtfully.

‘Isn’t it against canon law to marry us at all?’ said Ben.

‘I’m working on it,’ said Peter, slightly grimly. ‘The institutions of our esteemed religion are not always quite up to speed with the rest of society,’ he explained to Roddy. ‘But,’ he added to Frank, ‘when I officiate at your wedding, I shall wear a pink fluffy stole.’

Everyone laughed at the unlikely vision.

‘Right,’ said George, ‘Fortified by my bacon roll I think it’s time to begin the long march back to Colinton. I may be some time.’

‘Farewell Captain Oates,’ said Richard.

‘See you at Epiphany Carols, I hope,’ said Matteo.

‘You have more carols?’ said Roddy.

‘Epiphany’s the last, thank God,’ said Penelope. ‘And not for a week.’

Hobbit‘s on telly at eleven,’ said Dave, who was consulting his phone.

‘Rest of the day: sorted,’ said Peter.

* * *

It was dark already by the time Sophie and Dave listened to the broadcast on iPlayer. They’d both fallen asleep near the end of the Hobbit, then Tom had phoned. He said he and Ursula had been listening and it had sounded great.

‘You should have seen what it was like in real life,’ said Sophie. ‘Remember that farce about the theatre, Noises Off? It was like that.’

‘Did everyone get stuck in the snow?’

‘Oh, everyone: we all had to walk.’

‘Really? Wow. What, Violet and everyone?’

‘George walked from Colinton.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘And we all went out for the bells last night, and Portia got us all pished.’

‘All entirely her fault, I’m sure,’ said Tom wryly.

‘I wasn’t as bad as some,’ said Sophie, glaring at Dave.

‘Sore heads all round?’

‘And, Matt and Portia nearly didn’t make it. Did you hear people running in the background and the door banging, in Peter’s introduction?’

‘No? I was listening to what he was saying.’

‘Listen to it again. That’s them running in!’

‘Really? What — as, in, running in together?

‘Yes! Exactly!’

‘Together together?’

‘Yes! They succumbed to the bells!’ Sophie stole a glance at Dave, but he was fiddling with his phone. She decided he must have been sufficiently drunk to have forgotten.

‘Haha! That’s funny,’ said Tom. ‘I hope it doesn’t cause angst next year — this year. Do you think it’ll last?’

‘I don’t know — I think Portia’s been angling for it, for a while. Ever since Penelope landed Richard at the choir retreat.’

‘Ha — anything Penelope can do, Portia can do better. We’re all getting old and coupling up, Soph. There won’t be wild parties like there used to be in our gay bachelor days.’

* * *

And now Dave and Sophie were drinking mugs of tea listening to the broadcast, agreeing it didn’t sound nearly as bad as they expected.

‘Hope I never meet that ruddy Roddy again,’ said Sophie.

‘I thought he was all right,’ said Dave. ‘Bit quiet. Overwhelmed probably. I’d be a bit quiet if I was thrown into the middle of us lot.’

‘There’s Quentin!’ they both chorused at one point when his distinctive voice stuck out.

‘Portia fluffed that bit,’ said Dave as the organ played a curious inharmonious pedal.

‘I’m astonished she managed to play it at all,’ said Sophie.

‘It is pretty good, considering there were only eleven of us.’

‘Let’s listen to the bit where Matt and Portia run in again.’

Dave spooled the iPlayer back, and found Peter’s voice saying, ‘… it seems appropriate to reflect, in the stillness …’ followed by the sound of two pairs of boots scrunching on snow, audible panting, and the door banging. They both laughed.

‘Who’s sending me emails on New Year’s Day?’ said Dave. ‘Oh — it’s to the choir from Peter.’

‘Oh, what’s he say?’ said Sophie.

Thank you for your efforts bla bla epic journeys bla … I thought you’d be interested to read this email I have just received from ruddy Roddy.

‘He doesn’t say that?’

‘No, he just says Roddy.’

‘What does ruddy Roddy say?’ said Sophie, beyond intrigued.

Dear Peter, many thanks for the opportunity to join Holy Trinity in their New Year morning service …

‘As if we’d have been doing it if it wasn’t on the radio!’

… I hadn’t had the best start to the day as my boiler had broken down the night before …

‘Bloody hell — no boiler this morning, can you imagine?’ Sophie shivered at the thought.

… so I hope I didn’t seem too grumpy! I must say, though, that I was completely cheered up and quite inspired by you and the choir. I’m not used to churches, but the choir were so friendly and welcoming I confess it changed all my expectations…’

‘Awww,’ said Sophie.

‘I bet he didn’t expect Ben and Frank,’ said Dave.

No one expects Ben and Frank!‘ said Sophie, with Pythonesque emphasis.

‘I mean, after his thing about gay marriage causing climate change.’

‘Oh yeah — they must have been a bit of an eye opener for him. Peter in a pink feather stole. Ha!’

‘Do you want to hear the rest of his email? You’ll like this bit.’

‘Go on?’

‘I didn’t know about the Fast for the Climate initiative but I was very impressed by the idea of a global movement of solidarity. I’m thinking of taking part myself, and will see if I can get Nature Scotland officially involved. I’ll contact Sophie in the next few days about whether we might be involved in the launch in February.’

‘Gosh,’ said Sophie.

‘There, thought you’d like that,’ said Dave. And what do we learn from this, Miss Strang?’

‘I dunno — what do we learn?’

‘Don’t go pre-judging people. Judge not, that ye be not judged.’

‘Ah — fuck off Jesus,’ said Sophie, and bombarded him with the screwed-up foil from a chocolate Santa.

* * *

Ursula is available as a Kindle novel for £2.58: search Ursula on Kindle or follow this link. All profits from its sale raise funds for my own eco-project, the refurbishment of a field centre in the Angus Glens, which you can read about here. Penelope would hate it. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas and happy New Year! Eleanor @eleanormharris.

My six Edinburgh things to do this weekend

There are six things this weekend for you to get involved in! Some are self-interested, some are a worthy, most are creative, and all are connected with Edinburgh.

1. Fast for the climate. Could you go without food on the first day of each month in solidarity with people affected by climate change, and to call for a strong international climate deal? I’d really like a few virtual friends to join me in this as frankly going without food is a slightly traumatic prospect. Would you? Find out and sign up at fastfortheclimate.org and let me know on twitter @eleanormharris. Let’s #fastfortheclimate with people round the world on Monday.

2. Souper Saturday postcard art fundraiser, this Saturday 4-7pm, St John’s Church, Princes Street. Help raise vital funds for great project to give homeless people food and love every week. You can also buy original artwork by tremendous Edinburgh artists, and me. More details here.

3. Join the Labour party. Actually, consult your “ain lichts” and join whichever party you prefer: political involvement is the thing in Scotland, even for chronically floating voters like me. But if you join the Labour Party before Monday you can vote for the new Scottish leader, and particularly for my favourite MSP Sarah Boyack whose programme of social, environmental and economic justice, policy of local empowerment, and style of dialogue and collaboration seems to me outstandingly better than anything else around.

4. Buy my Christmas cards. Many involve Christmas carols. Some feature Edinburgh and/or history. Several involve small creatures in Santa hats. And there’s a whole range with spaniels. They’re all in my online shop.

5. Read my novel. It’s called Ursula, it’s funny and thought-provoking, and it’s set on Calton Hill – with jaunts to Morningside, East Lothian, Mull and London – and it costs less than a pint of Deuchars on Kindle. Have a look at the reviews. If you’ve read it, I’d love a review on Amazon or Goodreads, or a mention of it to a friend: it’s indie-published so has no champions but its readers.

All the proceeds from Ursula and the Christmas cards will help me refurbish Blair House, my field centre in the Angus glens, which you can read about here.

6. Visit the Georgian House on St Andrew’s Day, it’s open for free! I am a volunteer room guide on Sunday afternoons so if you come between 1-3pm do hunt me out. Bring your questions on life in the Regency West End (I have a PhD in it!) I’m proud of them just now because today they’ve won a Green Tourism Gold Award, another ambition for Blair House. More info here.

6. Come to Advent Carols. End the weekend in a warm, peaceful, candlelit church and our singing waft you into the new church year. Music by Palestrina, Lloyd, Stanford, Leighton, Rachmaninov and much more. Please blow out your candle before snoozing. 6pm in St John’s Princes Street. And give us a shout-out afterwards at @stjohnschoir.

The First Clergy of St Mary’s Episcopal Cathedral Edinburgh

St Mary’s Episcopal Cathedral, Palmerston Place, Edinburgh was designed by George Gilbert Scott and consecrated in 1879. St Mary’s was funded by the bequest of two sisters, Mary and Barbara Walker, whose fortune as landowners had been made by the housing and railway development of the West End of Edinburgh. How did this new Cathedral understand itself? What identity did its architect provide? Who were its congregation? How did it belong in a Presbyterian industrial city? I begin with a group of eleven clergy who were closely connected with its foundation, and who provided its spiritual vision.

The Clergy

Bishop Charles Terrot and Dean Edward Ramsay of Edinburgh, and John Sinclair were older clergy who had known the Walker sisters, and were appointed by them as Trustees to plann the Cathedral.

In March 1871 Mary Walker died and the will came into effect, but the project was launched amidst a complete change in clerical personnel. Henry Cotterill became coadjutor in 1871 then Bishop on Terrot’s death in 1872. The energetic Dean Ramsay also died in 1872. Cotterill appointed James Montgomery Dean in 1873. Finally Sinclair, last of the old guard, died in 1875.

In 1878 the Cathedral chapter was appointed. Montgomery was made Dean of the Cathedral (an office later re-named Provost) as well as of the Diocese. Sub-Dean John Cazenove and Chaplains William Meredith and Reginald Mitchell-Innes comprised the other full-time staff, while Incumbent Canons Daniel Fox Sandford of St John’s Princes Street, Gildart Jackson of St James’ Leith and William Bird Bushby of the Duke of Buccleuch’s chapel at Dalkeith were senior clergy in the diocese of Edinburgh.

Scottish or English?

The question usually first asked of a Scottish Episcopalian’s identity is, ‘were they Scottish or English?’, but the answers for this group were far from straightforward.

Bishop Terrot’s parents, who met in India where Terrot was born, were both from French Hugenot families. When his father was killed in action his family invited his mother to live with them in Berwick-upon-Tweed. Terrot was educated in Cambridge but holidayed with his uncle, incumbent of the Episcopal Chapel at Haddington, succeeding him in that post and spending his entire career in the diocese of Edinburgh.

John Sinclair, son of the editor of the Statistical Account of Scotland, grew up in Edinburgh, studied in Oxford and became Rector of Sutterby in Lincolnshire, but aged 25 returned to the diocese of Edinburgh for seventeen years, before heading in 1839 for an ecclesiastical-political career in London.
Ramsay, son of the Sheriff of Kincardineshire, was largely educated in England: at Durham and Cambridge, with his uncle in Yorkshire, and as a curate in Somerset where, in charge in the absence of the rector, he was remembered for befriending the local Methodists. He returned to the Scottish Episcopal Church in 1824 and was distinguished by his energy and intelligence, playing an important role in removing barriers between the Scottish Episcopal and Anglican church, and shining as a national literary figure.

Bishop Cotterill was the son of the evangelical Rector of Blakeney in Norfolk and educated at Cambridge. He came to Scotland as Bishop of Edinburgh late in his career, after serving for thirty-five years in Madras, Brighton and Grahamstown in South Africa. Montgomery, grandson of the Baronet of Stobo, made his career in the land of his birth, although he received his theological training in Durham and spent two years as a curate in Dorset before Terrot recruited him as curate for St Paul’s York Place.

Cazenove, from London, had a British Tractarian formation as curate at St Peter’s, Leeds, followed by twenty years as Vice-Provost then Provost of the Cathedral of the Isles on Cumbrae in Argyll, before settling in Edinburgh where he developed a distinguished educational career.

Sandford was a Scot by birth, education, and career. However, he was the grandson of a prominent English immigrant in whose diocese the elder clergy had grown up,  Bishop Daniel Sandford (d.1830), the first Englishman to become a bishop in the Scottish Episcopal Church, assisting it to emerge from post-Jacobite obscurity and into communion with the Church of England. The migrant missionary gene emerged late in his grandson’s life: he became Bishop of Tasmania in 1883.

Jackson and Bushby were English immigrants, as were the young chaplains, Meredith and Mitchell-Innes, who were at the start of careers that would lead both of them further north: Meredith after a period as Vice-Principal of Chichester Theological College returned to Scotland as Rector of Muthill and then Crieff in Fife, while Mitchell-Innes held various diocesan posts in Edinburgh, Glasgow and finally Inverness.

To categorise any individual in this group as Scottish, English or even British would be misleading: collectively, they were Episcopalians of the British Empire. What did they think about theology, Scottish identity, church establishment, social action? What shape did the teaching in the new church take? To find out you’ll have to read my full article. All I need to do is write it.