I HAVE in my study some mortal remains of a great divine. They may be all that is left above ground of one of Scotland’s greatest Evangelical preachers. Robert Murray M’Cheyne died in 1843, in Dundee, still a very young man, after an extremely brief but, nevertheless, stellar career, in an age when preachers were the communication centres of their communities, commanding enormous respect and huge congregations.
What I have is two small locks of his hair, in a tiny envelope, 9.5 × 5.5cm, simply labelled “R. M. M’Cheyne Died Saturday 25 March 1843. aged 29.” The locks were evidently cut off by his medical attendant, Dr Gibson, whose wife is linked to the Scottish side of my family. My father found the envelope and recognised the name with some excitement when tasked with clearing the cluttered London home of two elderly Gibson cousins, sisters who departed this life back in the 1960s. They were of the generation that lost its men to the trenches of the First World War.
To keep a lock of hair from someone who had died was a commonplace in times past. There are many Victorian rings, brooches, and lockets to be found today in which are encapsulated locks of hair from children or other close family members lost heartbreakingly early. They would have been commissioned by the bereaved, who wanted a particularly physical memento of their loved ones.
Although this was something done within families — who also sometimes set up their deceased children, fully dressed, to be photographed (at least they wouldn’t fidget) — Dr Gibson’s hasty scissor work was probably out of order, even back in 1843. For a doctor to keep a souvenir of a deceased high-profile patient would probably have been frowned on then. Any GP doing such a thing today would most certainly be immediately struck off, and rightly so.
IF IT all sounds a bit mawkish to our ears, it is worth remembering that something a little similar is widely advertised today. The bereaved can have the ashes of their partners — or even their pets — hydraulically compressed into industrial-grade diamonds, to be mounted in rings or other jewellery; so maybe things haven’t changed all that much. (I suspect the word “squeezed” is never used in the adverting blurb, but that’s what happens.)
Denied the benefit of extremely powerful hydraulic presses, the Victorians — as epitomised by their Queen herself — went to town with their mourning, as well they might, surrounded as they were by rampant but as yet unconquered diseases.
Infant-mortality statistics were horrific; and overcrowded, insanitary cities were frequently ravaged by cholera and typhus outbreaks on a level that today’s strident anti-vaxxers could not possibly comprehend. Sadly, it was typhus that took Robert Murray M’Cheyne, after an evangelistic sortie to the north-east of England; and his loss to Dundee was huge. Some 7000 people lined the route of his funeral cortège, and he is buried in the graveyard of St Peter’s, in the city. His health had never been particularly strong, but, had he lived a full span, his record of achievements in his twenties suggest that he might have become one of the really great Christian movers and shakers of his age — along with the likes of his contemporary William Wilberforce.
I have described the locks of hair in the envelope as “mortal remains”, and so they are. But, technically, it might be more accurate to describe them as “relics”.
We know how the medieval period loved its religious relics. There were, apparently, enough bits of the “genuine Noah’s ark” distributed around the cathedrals of Britain and Europe to build something big enough to transport London Zoo, cages and all. The same sort of thing happened with the remains of ancient saints and apostles. There were enough desiccated fingers, femurs, skulls, and other bits and bobs to keep a medieval Dr Frankenstein happily occupied indefinitely. Relics of the saints were money-spinners, appealing to the superstitious of their day — and some still do.
I FIND myself keen to honour the memory of a grand servant of God whose words and pastoral diligence touched so many lives 200 years ago that his books are still in print and appreciated today (Comfort in Sickness and Death is M’Cheyne’s study of Lazarus, still in print 180 years after his own demise). So, the question for me now is: What should be done with those little physical reminders of Dundee’s famous preacher?
A museum perhaps, or a church archive? He certainly belongs to Dundee; but where he goes after me has yet to be decided. For the time being, I am custodian of these frail, light brown locks, containing the DNA of an extremely distinguished figure from British Evangelical history who is currently enshrined in my study.
I say “enshrined”, but his reliquary is no splendidly carved, gilded, and inlaid container: it’s merely a fireproof document strongbox, in which sits the tiny envelope, tucked inside a paperback edition of the Andrew Bonar biography that my father bought to research M’Cheyne’s life.
A humble resting-place, I know, and it would be good to find a more appropriate home. But, in the mean time, I’m quite sure that R. M. M’Cheyne rests in peace, and has most certainly risen in glory.
The Revd Mark Rudall is a retired journalist and former director for communications.