SCOTTISH DIVINES

It may astonish my friends who know me for my sometimes abrasive atheism, but a fact is a fact. In my final school year in Edinburgh, aged 17, I carried away the prestigious Rogerson Prize for Divinity, for which an essay on a religious subject was required. My essay was on Presbyterianism, the main form of church government in Scotland, and my effort was the usual mishmash of prejudice, expatiating on the merits of the Scottish way with many an unecumenical dig at Anglicans and Catholics. I did not move on to take holy orders – The Church of Scotland rather lacks the requisite pomp and while I hardly qualified as an embryo Cardinal, I would have enjoyed lolling on the red cushioned benches of the House of Lords as a mitred Anglican Bishop with lawn sleeves – but, alas, it was not to be. Yet I retain an interest in ghostly matters and my native Scotland has produced over the centuries a talented bunch of divines, some of whom I here recall.

My first divine is certainly obscure: William Kethe (died 1594) was a Scots Protestant clergyman, of unknown provenance, who lived for many years in exile in Germany and Geneva. His fame rests on his translation of the Psalms into English; he is credited with the words of the famed Old Hundredth (Psalm 100), to the tune by Louis Bourgeois, later updated by Ralph Vaughan Williams:

All people that on earth do dwell,

Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice.

Him serve with mirth, His praise forth tell;

Come ye before Him and rejoice.

The long-enduring Scottish Metrical Psalter of 1650

Calvin’s Geneva church introduced the idea of congregational hymn-singing, hitherto the preserve of chanting clergymen. Kethe also translated Psalm 104 but his version was adapted and popularised in the 1830s by another Scotsman Sir Robert Grant, (1779-1838) a prolific hymn-writer and member of the evangelical Clapham Sect who became Governor of Bombay. His hymn is thought by many to be the very finest;

O worship the King all-glorious above,
O gratefully sing his power and his love:
our shield and defender, the Ancient of Days,
pavilioned in splendour and girded with praise.

O tell of his might and sing of his grace,
whose robe is the light, whose canopy space.
His chariots of wrath the deep thunderclouds form,
and dark is his path on the wings of the storm.

A more intellectually challenging Scottish Divine was Thomas Reid (1710- 1796). He was born in Strachan (pronounced “Strawn”), near Banchory, Deeside and, (like me!) attended Aberdeen Grammar School. He became a Church of Scotland minister and taught philosophy at Aberdeen University. He succeeded Adam Smith as Professor of Moral Philosophy at Glasgow in 1764. His Inquiry into the Human Mind and the Principles of Common Sense was a major contribution to the remarkable 18^th century Scottish Enlightenment and he was the founder of The Scottish School of Common Sense. This philosophic school remained influential, especially in the United States, throughout the 19^th Century.  

Thomas Reid, looking pinched

Reid was impatient with the paradoxes of Locke, Berkeley and Hume; he did not accept Locke’s notion of “ideas”, no more than Berkeley’s idealism and rejection of the familiar world and Hume would dispute his distinction between sensation and perception. Reid was technically “an epistemological externalist” accepting the reality of the world as generally perceived. He was later attacked by Kant and most European philosophers turned their backs on him though Schopenhauer praised him and he enjoyed a revival in the writings of G E Moore. He saw no contradiction between debating the finer points of perception and a craggy belief in the Christian God.

A decidedly odd religious enthusiast was Alexander Cruden (1699-1770). Born into a well-to-do merchant family in Aberdeen, he was yet another alumnus of Aberdeen Grammar School and graduate of Marischal College, Aberdeen. Cruden published his famed Concordance in 1737. The Concordance cross-references every word in the Bible (there are 777,746 words in the King James Version). The amazing fact is that Cruden completed this task in less than 2 years, working entirely alone without patron or financial support. To produce such a work has been described as scaling “a Himalaya of tedium” and in medieval times would have employed some 50 monks but Cruden was an obsessive type and applied himself entirely to this task. His work has never been out-of-print and still graces many a clerical library.

Obsessive Alexander Cruden

Sadly Cruden was unbalanced and was confined to asylums on four occasions. He paid wholly unsolicited addresses to several unmarried ladies or widows, in a manner we would now call “stalking”. His Sabbatarian beliefs were fanatical and he carried a sponge about him to erase graffiti he found offensive. He was litigious and wanted to stand for Parliament – a sure sign of madness! Although often a figure of fun, he was honoured by his old university and endowed a modest bursary there, which happily is still awarded.

The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want;
  He makes me down to lie
In pastures green; He leadeth me
  The quiet waters by.

I end with everyone’s favourite Psalm, the 23^rd. It is usually sung to the tune “Crimond” and it is attributed to Jesse Seymour Irvine (1836-83) whose father was a Church of Scotland minister flitting between the parishes of Peterhead, Dunottar and Crimond-the-Town, all in my native North-East of Scotland. How the memories flood back at this great psalm!

SMD

28.12.15

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2015

OUR FRACTURED WORLD

While Christmas is supposedly a time of peace and harmony, our feeble old world has not received this message, or if it has, fails to act upon it. Conflict and discord are much in evidence; we need to be happy within our own skins and that is as true of political as it is of personal matters. A patient and civilised approach could resolve many of the clashes which so bedevil us and usher in that elusive time of sweetness and light.

We Britons have been beset by regional discontents and yet now once ultra-violent Northern Ireland has been relatively peaceful for 10 years. Scotland demonstrated that it wants more independence and this has been in large part granted. The SNP professes to be dissatisfied but I believe most Scots are happy with the autonomous arrangements.

The emerging 2016 controversy is Britain’s continuing membership of the European Union. About half the UK wants the country to stay a member, the rest favour “Brexit”. I belong at present to this latter camp. The EU direction of travel, with more integration leading to common economic, foreign and defence policies is not in Britain’s interest. Britain is far from perfect but our open economy with its global market is unlike those on the continent, our parliamentary institutions are well respected, our judiciary is almost too independent and our executive is uncorrupt. Proud and jealous of our sovereignty, we do not need some Brussels overview of our affairs nor strait-jackets manufactured by Paris or Berlin.

                            

                                            

Juncker and Cameron: seldom a meeting of mind

As for the Euro, we remember Nicholas Ridley’s prophetic words in 1990 (before being forced to resign from Thatcher’s cabinet): A German racket designed to take over the whole of Europe. The impoverishment of Mediterranean Europe to the benefit of Northern countries duly followed and the failed dogma of Austerity was rammed down the throats of weaker states. The banking crisis in 2008, the near-collapse of Greece and the crass mismanagement of the migrant crisis undermined any residual confidence in the good sense of the bloc. Cameron, with his very limited and irrelevant “re-negotiation” has missed the depth of feeling engendered by European claims of supranational rights. The mischief of Europe is not simply a matter that can be resolved by opt-outs, sleight of hand or modifications in procedure. Only substantive repatriation of powers will meet the bill: we wish no less than to reclaim our birth-right.  I earnestly hope Britain votes for exit and then negotiates an amicable divorce from the European Union.

We wish Europe well, but we simply do not fit in. A centralised Europe with common fiscal, banking and political institutions may well prosper and overcome her present stagnation. Inevitably the constituent nations will steadily lose sovereignty as decisions are taken on a majority basis and economies of scale make their demands. Britain’s presence would be desirable for Europe at one level but disruptive at another and we are mutually better out of it.

ISIL on the march

The highly destructive war in Syria defies much hope of a rationally negotiated solution. Assad is a blood-stained dictator (like most Arab leaders) and deserves to fall but ISIL is even worse and it must be eliminated or emasculated. Only Syrians and Iraqis can achieve this; the West belongs on the military side-lines and cannot become more deeply committed. Russia, Turkey, Iran and Saudi Arabia should concentrate on active diplomacy with the other powers. The Muslim world used to be relatively tolerant and certainly Sunni and Shia lived alongside each other. In recent years there has been a wholly unnecessary polarisation of the confessional divide which has existed 1,400 years. Only Muslims can resolve this. More ominously for Christian minorities, only yesterday the Sultan of Brunei announced criminal penalties on those observing their faith, a most retrograde step but a straw in the Islamic wind.

It takes a tragically long time for enmities to be overcome. Israel and Palestine are still at daggers drawn, India and Pakistan are not reconciled, Korea is still divided, China and Japan view each other with visceral suspicion. Yet France and Germany embrace, the US moves towards Cuba and South Africa bravely aspires to be The Rainbow Nation. I believe Obama will be succeeded by a Republican President (not Trump, I pray!) and the Republicans tend to be more pro-active in foreign affairs. Let them use US influence for the promotion of international cooperation and may 2016 herald a safer and more free world.

SMD

23.12.15

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2015

JOHN "SPANISH" PHILLIP, ARTIST

The fleeting nature of fame is well illustrated by the fate of Victorian painters. Prolific and talented, held in public esteem, many are disparaged or quite forgotten now. This neglect is undeserved and I here celebrate John Phillip whom no less than Queen Victoria rated as the finest portrait painter in the land and whose wide-ranging works found an admiring public.

John Phillip, self-portrait

John Phillip (1817-67) was born in my home-town of Aberdeen, the son of a poor retired soldier turned shoemaker. He showed early promise as an artist and he found a patron in Dundee-based Lord Panmure, who generously sent him to learn portraiture under Thomas Musgrave Joy and paid for his artistic education at the Royal Academy in London. In the late 1830s Phillip joined The Clique, a group of artists who were critical of Classical academic art. The Clique was led by Richard Dadd, the painter of supernatural subjects who was committed to Bedlam in 1843 and then Broadmoor after murdering his father whom he believed to be the Devil. Unwisely in 1844 Phillip married Dadd’s sister Maria, who also went mad after a few years (trying to strangle their infant son) and she was confined from 1855, comfortably enough, in an Aberdeen asylum until her death in 1893.

Phillip soon earned a good living as an artist, initially of Scottish subjects;

Presbyterian Catechising

Baptism in Scotland

By 1850 Phillip had come to the attention of Queen Victoria and he started to receive royal commissions – about 50 – and the Queen also bought some of his paintings. Albert was patriotically portrayed in a rather lurid kilt (dig that sporran!) and royal weddings had to be commemorated.

Albert, Prince Consort by John Phillip

     

These commissions made Phillip rich but he was not artistically fulfilled and he needed to escape his matrimonial troubles.  In 1851 he made the first of many visits to Spain whose vibrant colours and outside life-style enchanted him. The contrast with solid but grey Aberdeen or misty if imposing London must have been striking. Over the years he travelled in Seville, Cadiz, Murcia and Valencia, often depicting low-lifers, gypsies and busy street scenes. He soon became known as “Spanish” Phillip and his fame burgeoned.

Life among the Gypsies in Seville

The Dying Contrabandista

La Bomba

La Gloria (a Wake for a Dead Child)

Phillip considered La Gloria his finest work and his Spanish works were received with great enthusiasm at the Royal Academy exhibitions. Phillip died, aged 50, of a stroke while visiting a friend’s Kensington studio in 1867.

One of Phillip’s friends in The Clique was Augustus Egg. Evelyn Waugh, who collected Victorian paintings, thought Egg was a supreme painter: I’d put him among the highest. Who today has heard of Egg? Phillip is equally neglected and his works are obscurely hung in provincial galleries. Waugh reckoned that there was no “real” painting after 1870 but Waugh was famously reactionary. Yet there is no doubt that the artistic community began to lose its popular following by the late 19^th century – a tragedy for national culture, which should never be elitist and must always seek to touch the heart of every citizen.

SMD

15.12.15

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2015

PETROL-HEADS

OMG, he’s not going to write about cars is he?  John Betjeman’s caustic 1937 lines, referring to clerks, in Slough summed up the social stigma involved with devastating accuracy.

It’s not their fault that they don’t know

The bird-song from the radio

It’s not their fault they often go

To Maidenhead, and talk of sport and makes of cars

In various bogus-Tudor bars

And daren’t look up and see the stars

But belch instead.

Accordingly I hesitate to talk of makes of car as I know I will stray into the territory of the vulgar and the banal; but the fact remains that the car often exerts a powerful, almost intoxicating, spell over our family and no doubt many other families in the land.

I totted up the grand totals; in my time I have run 24 cars (although 10 were generously provided by my grateful employer) and my 3 sons have had a further 16 cars financed by me. Although I began with a Mini and end currently with a Smart, in between there has been a glittering parade including Rovers, BMWs, a Range Rover and a selection of Jeeps. The high-spot was my two swish Bentleys from which I traded down (sic!) to an Aston Martin Virage. My sons have had Fiats and Golfs but a clutch of glamorous TVRs and Jaguars too. The family is gently divided into the petrol-head group comprising my lovely wife and my two car-mad younger sons ranged against dourly rational me (though I had a rush of blood with the Bentleys!) and my supremely sensible eldest son. I freely acknowledge that owning cars is a matchless way to waste money.

A Bentley Brooklands - my pride and joy

But let’s talk of the pleasures of motoring. Observe the sleek lines of the impeccable machine: smell the dizzying aroma of the polished leather: enjoy the satisfying click as the door closes true: hear the warming-up ritual, sometimes a fearsome roar but better a quiet purr like that of an alert panther. Then we are off! 0 to 60 in 5 seconds, passing dodderers in their jalopies, cutting up Sunday drivers, tooting the horn aggressively, taking on the boy-racers, terrorising pedestrians, arch-enemies of adrenalin-saturated motorists! We may indeed have a prang, we may do a ton on the M1, but for sure we get our kicks on Route 66. I may exaggerate a tad but what a wonderful macho experience!

There are also profound psychological factors at work. You are not just keeping up with, but effortlessly eclipsing, the Joneses: I recall driving through Hyde Park in my first Bentley and receiving yearning and admiring glances: yes, a fine car is a penis extension, a honey-pot, a statement of rampant masculinity. Vanity is flattered too: how ready was the Savoy Hotel in London to allow my sparkling, bright red, white-wall-tired Bentley to park in front of their main entrance as we patronised the Oyster Bar, and how easy it was to park for polo at Windsor and racing at Ascot. Swollen self-esteem is the delightful product of all this. I fear I may be a late re-incarnation of Peter Simple’s J. Bonnington Jagworth, leader of the Motorists’ Liberation Front, driving his Boggs Super-Oaf at alarming speed and quaffing champagne from his gold-plated hub-cap!

All good things come to an end and my current car is as modest as they come. I see that single car ownership is rather anti-social, putting pressure on global resources, polluting the environment and that I really ought just to take a bus. Maybe after my time “Beam me up, Scottie” will become a reality and motorways, traffic lights and street furniture will be a distant memory. Until that day dawns, discreetly enjoy a reliable, functional, comfortable and economical car and do not allow the manifold excitements to tempt you over the top. Good motoring!

My modest but trusty Smart

SMD

7.12.15

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2015