taken from the autobiography of john paton (b.1824) , missionary to the new hebrides near australia..
'there (in torthorwald, scotland) , amid this wholesome and breezy village life, our dear parents found their home for the long period of 40 years. there too were born to them 8 additional children making in all a family of 5 sons and 6 daughters. theirs was the first of the thatched cottages on the left, past the 'miller's house', going up the 'village gate', with a small garden in front of it and a large garden across the road; and it is one of the few still lingering to show to a new generation what the homes of their fathers were. the architect who planned that cottage had no ideas of art, but a fine eye for durability!
it consists at present of 3, but originally of 4, pairs of 'oak couples', planted like solid trees in the ground at equal intervals and gently sloped inwards till they meet or are 'coupled' at the ridge, this coupling being managed not by rusty iron, but by great solid pins of oak. a roof of oaken wattles (note: a number of poles laid on a roof to hold thatch) was laid across these, till within 11-12 feet of the ground, and from the ground upwards a stone wall was raised, as perpendicular as was found practicable, towards these overhanging wattles, this wall being roughly 'pointed' with sand and clay and lime. now into and upon the roof was woven and intertwisted a covering of thatch, that defied all winds and weathers, and that made the cottage marvellously cosy, -being renewed year by year, and never allowed to remain in disrepair at any season. but the beauty of the construction was and is its durability or rather the permanence of its oaken ribs! there they stand, after probably not less than 4 centuries, japanned with 'peat reek' (note: smoke from the constant burning of peat for cooking and heat) till they are literally shining, so hard that no ordinary nail can be driven into them, and perfectly capable of service for 4 centuries more on the same conditions. the walls are quite modern, having all been rebuilt in my father's time, except only the few great foundation boulders, piled around the oaken couples; and part of the roofing also may plead guilty to having found its way thither only in recent days; but the archtect's one idea survives, baffling time and change - the ribs and rafters of oak.
our home consisted of a 'but' and a 'ben' and a 'mid room', or chamber, called the 'closet'. the one end was my mother's domain and served all the purposes of diningroom and kitchen and parlour, besides containing 2 large wooden erections, called by our scotch peasantry 'box-beds'; not holes in the wall, as in cities, but grand, big airy beds, adorned with many coloured counterpanes (note: dictionary says 'quilt or coverlet' in older usage) and hung with natty curtains, showing the skill of the mistress of the house.
the other end was my father's workshop, filled with 5-6 'stocking frames', whirring with the constant action of 5 or 6 pairs of busy hands and feet and producing right genuine hosiery for the merchants at hawick and dumfries.
the 'closet' was a very small apartment betwixt the other 2, having room only for a bed, a little table, and a chair, with a diminutive window shedding diminutive light on the scene. this was the sanctuary of that cottage home.
thither daily and oftentimes a day, generally after each meal, we saw our father retire and 'shut the door'; and we children got to understand by a sort of spiritual instinct (for the thing was too sacred to be talked about) that prayers were being poured out there for us, as of old by the high priest within the veil in the most holy place. we occasionally heart the pathetic echoes of a trembling voice pleading as if for life, and we learned to slip out and in past that door on tiptoe, not to disturb the holy coloquy. the outside world might not know, but we knew, whence came that happy light as of a new-born smile that always was dawning on my father's face: it was a reflection from the Divine Presence, in the consciousness of which he lived. never, in temple or cathedral, on mountain or in glen, can i hope to feel that the Lord God is more near, more visibly waling and talking with men, than under that humble cottage roof of thatch and oaken wattles. though everything else in religion were by some unthinkable catastrophe to be swept out of memory or blotted from my understanding, my soul would wander back to those early scenes, and shut itself up once again in that Sanctuary Closet, and hearing still the echoes of those cries to God, would hurl back all doubt with the victorious appeal, 'he walked with God, why may not i?'
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