So feeling that he had nothing to do and only one thing to think about, he wandered further through the old burgh, past the lingering fragment of its once mighty cathedral, and down to the bridge which, with its one Gothic arch as old as the youth of Chaucer, spanned the channel, here deep and narrow, of the long-drawn Highland river. Beyond it lay wintry woods, clear-lined against the pale blue sky. Into these he wandered, and was going on, seeing nothing, thinking nothing, almost feeling nothing, when he heard a voice behind him.
“Hillo, bantam!” it cried; and Alec did not need to turn to know who called.
George MacDonald – Alec Forbes of Howglen, CHAPTER LXVI.
How I Discovered George MacDonald
by Pearl Seeker
I write pieces for the George MacDonald and the Condition of Mind Substack, which engages with the work of George MacDonald as a springboard for ideas and reflections.
I focus here on the Scottish aspect of my unconscious preparation for and discovery of George MacDonald. Of course, there are many other aspects of my indebtedness for what I have received and continue to receive from MacDonald. And one could say that I continue to discover him.
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Somehow I found myself in Aberdeen. It was as if it had chosen me, rather than I it. Chosen to be there. The granite city, of sea and mists, long sandy beaches and dunes, a city embraced by the two rivers, Don and Dee, of beautiful parks, roses, three cathedrals, an ancient university. Of cool, clear, dry air – apart from when the haar comes in, of course.
I was studying medicine and music – the latter unofficially, but I was no less immersed in it, in organ- and fiddle-playing, choral singing, and learning how to direct a choir.
I lived, studied and worked in Aberdeen for seven years, and came to love it dearly as my adopted home for that time, along with its environs of sea and coastline, and the nearby hills, and also the Doric dialect. But there was something I did not know, something missing, that was only later to infuse my memories of Aberdeen with deeper evocations when living far away.
Years afterwards, a Persian friend, a Muslim, asked me if I knew George MacDonald. I did not. But he recommended him highly, and we began to read his works aloud to each other, and this has continued over the years. I was bowled over from the first. But how could I have not known about MacDonald and his deep connection with Aberdeen while I was there? And how many others there, native Aberdonians and Scots in general, as well as those arrived from other parts, have never heard of him, and have no idea of him?
Reading certain of MacDonald’s Scottish novels for the first time, every now and again I would be caught up with delight – Oh, that’s Gallowgate in Aberdeen (or Widdiehill, where Gibbie would support his reeling and gyrating drunken father on his way home).[1] That’s Brig o’ Balgownie (where Alec Forbes and Beauchamp struggled with each other).[2] There’s dear old St. Machar’s Cathedral.[3] That must be Lochnagar.[4]
Coming across, too, MacDonald’s descriptions of organ music[5] and fiddle-playing,[6] and the life of an early 19th century medical student at Aberdeen, in the form of Alec Forbes,[7] all added their share of meaningfulness for me.
From many aspects and different levels, this pumped new life blood, and brought new associations, into the old memories, which, valued and full of life as they already were, yet now were lifted into a higher sphere in their influence on my daily life. But, for all the combination of the drama of MacDonald’s stories with real known places, along with his characters, it is the finer thread that MacDonald is always weaving in his writing, that through his generosity and insight I too can weave into the fabric of my own life, and following which I am guided and inspired in my own journey home.
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As he approached the granite cathedral, the only one in the world, I presume, its stern solidity, so like the country and its men, laid hold of his imagination for the first time… The whole aspect of the building is an outcome, an absolute blossom of the northern nature…
…May the reviving faith of the nation in its own history, and God at the heart of it, lead to the restoration of this grand old monument of the belief of their fathers.
George MacDonald – Robert Falconer, Book II, CHAPTER XII, THE GRANITE CHURCH
[1] Sir Gibbie, CHAPTER V, GIBBIE’S CALLING.
[2] Alec Forbes of Howglen, CHAPTER LXXI.
[3] E.g., Robert Falconer, Book II, CHAPTER XII, THE GRANITE CHURCH.
[4] E.g., Sir Gibbie, CHAPTER XII, GLASHGAR.
[5] E.g., Robert Falconer, CHAPTER XV, THE LAST OF THE COALS.
[6] E.g., Robert Falconer, CHAPTER IX, A DISCOVERY.
[7] Alec Forbes of Howglen, e.g., CHAPTER XLI.