Taken from the Northern Ensign – Dated Tuesday June 19th 1894.

Death of the Rev. James Cumming – 1894 – 33 years ministry in Melness.

Many in Sutherlandshire and Caithness will learn with deep regret of the death of the Rev. James Cumming Free Church Minister, Melness. Mr. Cumming had been in declining health for sometime, and at the Free Church Assembly last week arrangements were sanctioned for calling a colleague.

He had a severe attack of influenza about three years ago, from which he never fully recovered, and which probably caused the heart affection from which he latterly suffered. He was going about until last Wednesday, when he became unconscious, and he died at three o’clock on Friday Morning. On a future occasion we hope to be able to give worthy notice of this most estimable man and greatly respected minister. He stood out prominently among his contemporaries as an original thinker and an able and conscientious preacher and pastor. His faithful and self-denying labours were conspicuously shown in the constancy and cheerfulness with which he discharged the hearty duties which devolved upon him as minister of the two congregations of Melness and Erribol at which latter place he preached every third Sabbath.

He was never absent, unless under stress of circumstances, from Presbytery or Synod meetings. He was Clerk to the Presbytery of Tongue; and many of our readers know how welcome his presence was, and how telling and racy and full of quaint humour his speeches were are the annual meetings of Synod. However much his opinions might differ from those of others – on such questions, for example, as disestablishment – he always fearlessly expressed them, and everyone who knew him will endorse the testimony of one who made the remark the other day that he never knew a more courageous, honest, straightforward, and unselfish man than Mr. Cumming. He was distinguished for his kind heartedness and generosity and often sacrificed him self for the sake of others. By speech and pen he advocated the cause of the crofters many years ago; and it may be claimed that he was the pioneer of land law reform in Sutherlandshire. There was no where a more loyal Highlander or one who was better acquainted with the history of the Highlands and the religious and social conditions of its people, as the columns of the Ensign often testified.

Mr Cummings was born at Rangag in the Parish of Latheron, more than Seventy Years ago. He was educated at Latheron Parish School and afterwards at Edinburgh, where he studied both Arts and Divinity, In his earlier years he spent some time in teaching. After completing his theological course and assisting at Bruan, Strathy and other places, he was in 1861 ordained minister of the Free Church Congregations of Melness and Erribol. In the following year he married a daughter of the late Mr. William Gow, Merchant, Pulteneytown. Mrs Cumming died about five years ago. There is a family of four daughters, who ministered with tender devotion to the comfort of their father in his declining years.

Also from a Correspondent

A mighty Spirit is eclipsed
A power hath gone from day to darkness,
To whose hour a light no likeness is bequeathed
No name.

The Rev James Cumming, Melness, passed away this (Friday) morning, and we know of no one to whom the above lines are more applicable. How many ideas worth preserving have died along with him! It is true that a pamphlet and a few of his lectures have been published, and it is equally true that many of his thoughts are indelibly inscribed on the memories of the people of Melness, but how few know of the depth and originality of his thinking! His Synod speeches ate no criterion – they were delivered offhand and unpremeditated. No one except those intimately acquainted with him has any idea of his power as a thinker, or his character as a man. For over Thirty years the people of Melness had the privilege of listening to him, and there are undeniable proofs that they benefited from it; but we doubt very much if they appreciated their privilege as they might have done. The late Professor Robertson Smith worshipped in Melness Church Two years ago, and was greatly struck with the power and originality of Mr. Cumming as a preacher.

We will not undertake to describe Mr. Cummings’ manner in the pulpit, it was so entirely different from anything as have seen. Sometimes he had a quiet talk with his audience, remonstrating with them for their sins, or elucidating some subtle theological point, and just when one would think that he was making his subject too plain and even tedious, he would throw out some brilliant thought, get enraptured with his theme, and with thrilling eloquence convey his enthusiasm to his hearers so that he would himself be the first to remember that time was passing and that the usual hour for dismissing had arrived.

We need not tell readers of the Northern Ensign that he was the first in this district to take up his pen on behalf of the people – the Land Leaguerism dated further back than John Murdoch’s and like the late Prime Ministers? (Benjamin Disraeli? 1868 and 1874 - 80 Conservative). His radicalism increased with his years. Like the other ministers he differed from the people in 1886, but he never retracted a single sentence which he uttered in connection with the relation of the people to the soil. On ecclesiastical and theological questions he was very advanced.

Today (the 8th) was “Question Friday” in Tongue and no better proof of Mr. Cummings’ popularity could be given than the many kind references to him were made by the “Men”. The Rev. Mr. Calder, Strathy, presided and intimated before commencing the service that, “Their friend was dead”. Most of the congregation, (700 people) heard of the sad event for the first time and the intelligence cast a gloom over them which was evident to the most careless observer.

Someone has remarked that Hugh Miller was the last of the Real Scotch men. In the same sense could it not be said that James Cumming was the last of the Highland Ministers? “Help Lord, because the godly man ceaseth”


The Scripture quote was not identified, but it is from Psalm 12. Put your mouse over the maroon text to read the Psalm! The poetry quote was not acknowledged, but I tracked it down and it is taken from: Monody on the Death of the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan (1816) by George Gordon Lord Byron. Read the poem below

When the last sunshine of expiring Day
In Summer's twilight weeps itself away,
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower?
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes
While Nature makes that melancholy pause ---
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime---
Who hath not shared that calm, so still and deep,
The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep,
A holy concord, and a bright regret,
A glorious sympathy with suns that set?
'Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,
Felt without bitterness --- but full and clear,
A sweet dejection --- a transparent tear,
Unmixed with worldly grief or selfish stain ---
Shed without shame, and secret without pain.
Even as the tenderness that hour instils
When Summer's day declines along the hills,
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes
When all of Genius which can perish dies.
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed --- a Power
Hath passed from day to darkness --- to whose hour
Of light no likeness is bequeathed --- no name,
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame!
The flash of Wit --- the bright Intelligence,
The beam of Song --- the blaze of Eloquence,
Set with their Sun, but still have left behind
The enduring produce of immortal Mind;
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon,
A deathless part of him who died too soon.
But small that portion of the wondrous whole,
These sparkling segments of that circling Soul,
Which all embraced, and lightened over all,
To cheer --- to pierce --- to please --- or to appal.
From the charmed council to the festive board,
Of human feelings the unbounded lord;
In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied,
The praised --- the proud --- who made his praise their pride.
When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan
Arose to Heaven in her appeal from Man,
His was the thunder --- his the avenging rod,
The wrath --- the delegated voice of God!
Which shook the nations through his lips, and blazed
Till vanquished senates trembled as they praised.

And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm,
The gay creations of his spirit charm,
The matchless dialogue --- the deathless wit,
Which knew not what it was to intermit;
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring;
These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought
To fullness by the fiat of his thought,
Here in their first abode you still may meet,
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat;
A Halo of the light of other days,
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays.
But should there be to whom the fatal blight
Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight,
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone
Jar in the music which was born their own,
Still let them pause --- ah! little do they know
That what to them seemed Vice might be but Woe.
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze
Is fixed for ever to detract or praise;
Repose denies her requiem to his name,
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.
The secret Enemy whose sleepless eye
Stands sentinel --- accuser --- judge --- and spy.
The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain,
The envious who but breathe in other's pain---
Behold the host! delighting to deprave,
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave,
Watch every fault that daring Genius owes
Half to the ardour which its birth bestows,
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie,
And pile the Pyramid of Calumny!
These are his portion --- but if joined to these
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease,
If the high Spirit must forget to soar,
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,
To soothe Indignity --- and face to face
Meet sordid Rage, and wrestle with Disgrace,
To find in Hope but the renewed caress,
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness: ---
If such may be the Ills which men assail,
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail?
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given
Bear hearts electric --- charged with fire from Heaven,
Black with the rude collision, inly torn,
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne,
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst
Thoughts which have turned to thunder --- scorch, and burst.

But far from us and from our mimic scene
Such things should be --- if such have ever been;
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task,
To give the tribute Glory need not ask,
To mourn the vanished beam, and add our mite
Of praise in payment of a long delight.
Ye Orators! whom yet our councils yield,
Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field!
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three!
Whose words were sparks of Immortality!
Ye Bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear,
He was your Master --- emulate him here!
Ye men of wit and social eloquence!
He was your brother --- bear his ashes hence!
While Powers of mind almost of boundless range,
Complete in kind, as various in their change,
While Eloquence --- Wit --- Poesy --- and Mirth,
That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth,
Survive within our souls --- while lives our sense
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence,
Long shall we seek his likeness --- long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man,
And broke the die --- in moulding Sheridan!

George Gordon Lord Byron
(1788-1824)