HISTORY OF NEWPORT AND THE PARISH OF FORGAN ; AND RAMBLES ROUND THE DISTRICT, by J. S. Neish, 1890
KILMANY
Of all the various places of interest in the neighbourhood of Newport, none will so well repay a visit as the quiet secluded hamlet of Kilmany, with its quaint Church, now famous from its having been the scene of the early labours of the celebrated Dr. Chalmers. The parish of Kilmany adjoins the parish of Forgan on the south-west, and the Parish Kirk lies inland, about five miles distant, in a south-westerly direction, from Newport. There are several roads leading to Kilmany from Newport, any of which the tourist may select, and either of the routes will be found agreeable for a drive or a pedestrian tour. The most direct road, however, is by West Newport, and to those who prefer to 'drive their own pair' the journey can be easily accomplished in the course of a summer afternoon; and a more enjoyable half-holiday could not well be spent.
Making Newport pier the point of departure we pass through West Newport, with its neat cottages, elegant villas, and stately mansions, covering the steep slopes for more than a mile along the southern bank of the Tay. On elevated and commanding situations are the princely mansions of Westwood, the residence of Mr. Harry Walker; Kinbrae, the residence of Mr. John Leng; and Balmore, the residence of Mr. W. Robertson, ex-Provost of Dundee. A charming walk of a mile brings us to Woodhaven - the West Water ferry of former days - with its quaint old harbour and pier, and a few primitive cottages, the homes of the hardy boatmen of the Tay. Before it was eclipsed by its more fortunate rival Newport, Woodhaven was the chief ferry on the Tay. In the 'good old times' it was a lively place, but it is now silent and deserted. Almost the only traffic that is carried on at its pier is by the boats of the Mars training ship, which lies at anchor about half a mile off the shore. The stately old vessel, with its tender and floating bath, form conspicuous objects on the river. There is a farmhouse and some old granaries at Woodhaven, and once there was a flourishing hotel, but the latter is now converted into a private house, and is presently occupied by Captain Scott of the Mars. The next place of interest is Wormit Bay, rendered famous by the Tay Bridge, which has been often described. On the left is Wormit Hill, on the northern side of which is built the reservoir for the Newport water supply. From Wormit the road takes a southerly direction, and by a series of gradual ascents you reach the summit of the ridge that forms tile southern 'rim' of the Tay basin. You pass St Fort station on the left, to which there still attaches a melancholy interest in connection with the Tay Bridge catastrophe. The woods and policies of St Fort extend away to the left beyond the railway; a road branching off to the eastward passes through the woods close to the mansion house, and again branches off to Tayport, Leuchars, St Andrews, &c.
The route from this point presents no feature of particular interest. After crowning the ridges, it dips gradually into a valley lying north and south, and sheltered on the east and west by low ranges of hills. The Moultry, a small stream, a tributary of the Eden, flows through the eastern side of the valley, and the road which leads to Cupar, and other parts of the 'kingdom', runs along its western side. The scenery is pleasing, but it presents no striking features. The hills are of that soft and rounded character peculiar to Fifeshire, and the lowlands generally. They are bare and green, and invariably cultivated to their summits. Snug farmhouses, peeping out from clumps of trees, dot the valley and hill sides, and altogether the district appears to be in a high state of cultivation. As you advance the valley gradually narrows, and about its centre an old road branches off to the left The road we have been pursuing continues its course southwards, passing Rathillet, while the old route strikes off at right angles to the east, crosses the Moultry by a primitive bridge, and winds over the eastern ridge, making a short cut to the county town. On this old and now almost deserted thoroughfare, close by the banks of the little stream, stands the village and Church of Kilmany.
The church and churchyard, surrounded by fine trees, occupy the summit of a small knoll overlooking the village. The parish church is a small, mean, and homely-looking edifice, the walls are whitewashed or 'harled' with a mixture of lime and gravel, and the only architectural ornament to distinguish it from a barn is a pigmy-looking belfry surmounted by a weathercock.
Through the kindness and courtesy of the church officer, we were allowed to inspect the interior. If the outside was 'old and mean' the inside was severely plain, but clean and comfortable notwithstanding. You enter by a small plain-looking door at the gable end, and find yourself in a little dark porch formed by a wooden partition, and meant to shelter the interior from outside draughts. Another door opening from the wooden partition admits you into the church, a long, narrow, low-roofed building with a small gallery at each end. The pulpit stands in the centre against the north wall, while the pews, with the exception of a few short ones on the right and left of the pulpit, run parallel along the centre of the church facing the pulpit. In this small primitive-looking sanctuary the eloquent voice of Scotland's greatest preacher was heard exhorting the rustic congregation from Sab- bath to Sabbath for twelve years. The church is but little changed since Chalmers left it. In 1861 it was reseated, new flooring was laid, and some necessary repairs were executed on the roof and walls, but the old pulpit - Chalmers' pulpit - was allowed to remain. Was it to preserve a relic of the great divine, or was it from a spirit of parsimony on the part of the heritors? We hope it was for the better motive. It is a small plain rostrum devoid of architectural ornament, but it is the only memorial left to perpetuate his memory. A portion of the dark oak panelling which formed the walls of the church before its renovation has also been left on the north wall on the right of the pulpit, and another relic of the past is the precentor's chair, which is said to be a memento of Reformation times. The chair is made of dark oak, lined with crimson silk, and is a quaint specimen of the cabinet work of former days. This chair has a history of its own, if we can credit the legend concerning it. It is said that it formed part of the furniture owned by the Rev. Alexander Henderson, the leader of the second Reformation, and that it was purchased at his roup in Leuchars, where he was for twenty years parish minister, before he went to Edinburgh. This relic was presented to the kirk of Kilmany by Mr. Horsburgh of Lochmalonie, near Cupar.
Thomas Chalmers was ordained minister of Kilmany in May, 1803, when he was only twenty-three years of age. His fame as a preacher spread far and wide, and in the latter years of his ministry here the little church was crowded Sabbath after Sabbath with strangers who flocked from Dundee, St Andrews, and Cupar, and surrounding parishes, drawn thither by the power of his eloquence. In the year 1815 the Town Council of Glasgow called Chalmers to be minister of the Tron Church in that city, and from that time he rose to the high position he afterwards filled in the Church of Scotland.
In the early years of his ministry Chalmers was an enthusiastic student of science; mathematics, astronomy, and chemistry were his favourite pursuits. His simple-minded parishioners were often amazed at the learning and wisdom of their young minister. Some of the more superstitious believed he 'was no very canny', whatever that may mean. On one occasion he was making some experiments in chemistry in the 'smiddy' when he nearly frightened the old smith out of his wits. Eppie Nicholson, his housekeeper, did not hold his talents at such a high estimate as other people did when she told him very coolly one day that 'clever as he was he was nae sae clever as to be able to mak' porridge without meal'.
It would seem that the larder at the manse had not been very carefully attended to at times. One day in the autumn of the year 1811, Mr. R. Mudie and Mr. Duncan, two teachers in the Dundee Academy, great friends of the Doctor, paid him a visit at Kilmany to spend a day with him. The
gentlemen from Dundee had come without warning or invitation, but though the visit was unexpected they were none the less heartily welcomed. After the first friendly greetings had been exchanged the Doctor left his guests and went to the kitchen to inquire of the housekeeper what she had for dinner. To his dismay he was informed that there was nothing in the house except two parcels of salt fish. This was rather annoying, but Chalmers was equal to the occasion. He gave orders to the housekeeper to boil two portions, one from each parcel, and have dinner ready by a certain hour. He then joined his friends, and after enjoying a ramble around the country, they returned to the Manse to dine. The table was laid with taste, and at each end of it was placed a large covered dish, which promised something good.
'Now, gentlemen', said Chalmers, after the covers were removed, 'here is variety. This dish is salt fish from St. Andrews, and that is hard fish from Dundee'.
The twelve years of Chalmers' sojourn at Kilmany were marked by some of the greatest events in the history of Europe. Napoleon the Great was then in the full tide of his ambitious and bloodthirsty career. The thunder of war was heard all over the world, and the heart of the British nation throbbed with patriotic ardour as the alarm of a French invasion spread over the country. Quiet citizens laid aside their peaceful pursuits and took up arms to defend
their hearths and homes. Chalmers was then a young man, and, with characteristic impulse, he threw himself into the movement with all the zeal and ardour of his noble nature. Rousing and eloquent patriotic appeals were frequently introduced into his pulpit utterances. But he not only preached patriotism, he set his hearers an example by enrolling himself in a volunteer corps, and donning the scarlet uniform of a soldier. On one occasion, after attending parade, he had to go and preach, and to save time he put on the gown and bands over his uniform coat. In the heat of his discourse, when waving his arms to give effect to his eloquence, the scarlet cloth was seen gleaming from under the sombre folds of the preacher's robe. Walking along the streets of St Andrews one day, arrayed in his military dress, he met a brother clergyman with whom he was on intimate terms.
'How do you do?' said Chalmers, holding out his hand.
'Very well, thank you, but you have the advantage of me. I do not know who is addressing me,' was the curt reply.
'Don't know me? You know me perfectly well; Chalmers of Kilmany.'
'Forgive me, sir, you must be joking,' replied the facetious clergyman. 'You do certainly bear a resemblance to Mr. Chalmers, but I am sure my friend has too much sense to appear in a dress so unbecoming his profession'.
Chalmers' life and character are too well known to require any comment here. As the late Dr. Marshall remarked - 'Taken all in all, he was one of Scotland's greatest sons'.
Kilmany has been favoured with many eminent ministers. In pre-Reformation times a younger son of Sir Robert Bruce of Clackmannan was rector of the parish, and he was afterwards raised to the dignity of Bishop of Dunkeld, and Chancellor of Scotland. In the beginning of the eighteenth century religion had fallen to a low ebb in the parish. The kirk had been neglected, and the fabric allowed to go to decay. The Lord's Supper, too, had not been dispensed for a long time, as the following extract from the minutes of the Kirk Session will show:-
'May 7th, 1707. - Being Wednesday, the Session met, and, considering that the congregation has long wanted the benefit of the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper, the minister (Mr. Brown) did intimate his design of celebrating that solemn ordinance; and the Session, considering what might be the most proper season for it, did condescend upon the last Sabbath of June next; and further, considering that the Communion tables were all broken and gone to ruins, the Session recommends to the minister and elders in the town of Kilmany to agree with James Melville, wright, to buy timber to make up the said tables, and to mend some parts of the pulpit that are destroyed, and to do other things needful about the church.'
In later times the Rev. John Cook, afterwards Professor of Hebrew in St. Andrews' University, was for sixteen years minister of the parish; but its most distinguished minister undoubtedly was Dr. Thomas Chalmers. He was succeeded by the Rev. Henry D. Cook, the writer of the Statistical account of the parish. He fulfilled a ministry of upwards of forty years, and was succeeded in 1858 by the present incumbent, the Rev. David Brewster, a nephew of the renowned Sir David Brewster.
A rather touching incident occurred during our visit, which we are tempted to relate at this point. On our way to Kilmany we met a countryman at whom we inquired if there was any likelihood of our getting admission to the church and churchyard. He very kindly informed us that there would be no difficulty in getting in to see the church, as 'the minister's man was aye at hand, and, forbye, there was to be a funeral that afternoon,' he added. We thanked the stranger for his information, and passed on. Incidentally we heard of the funeral again in another quarter, and we had not exchanged half a dozen words with the church-officer when he also mentioned the circumstance. A funeral was evidently an event in the parish.
'You'll not have many funerals?' we remarked.
'No very mony; there hasna been ane for a lang time,' replied the gravedigger.
'What is the population of the parish?'
'Aboot six hundred. It's a' farmers, you see' he replied.
'Who is this that is to be buried? Any of the farmers of the district?' 'Na; it's some poor tinklers that's camping in the woods here; it's a bairn o' ane o' them.'
'A tinker's child? How old was it?'
'Weel, the woman was ta'en ill at the end o' the smith's shop late on Wednesday nicht, an' they took her into the smiddy, an' the smith got her laid among some strae - '
'Was it still-born?' we inquired, beginning to comprehend the real nature of the affair at last.
'Na! it lived some time. The poor woman is lying ill yet -'
'In the smiddy?'
'No, she's in a house in the village. Some guid-hearted women took pity on her.'
Here was a romance of gipsy life, a birth and a death in a smithy, a waif by the wayside cast on the charity and hospitality of the humble villagers. We were curious to witness the funeral, and we had our curiosity gratified.
The afternoon was well advanced, and we were still lingering in the graveyard when the tinkers entered the sacred enclosure to bury their dead. If we expected a demonstration on the part of the tribe, we were disappointed. Two rough-looking men, unwashed and unkempt, with the unmistakable stamp of 'Ishmael' on their features and persons, composed the mournful procession. One, whom we took for the father, carried the mite of a coffin under his arm, while his companion, probably a brother, judging from the resemblance they bore to each other, walked by his side, the neat coffin with its white mountings forming a striking contrast to the rough habiliments of the mourners. The men advanced timidly and hesitatingly, and were met by the gravedigger, who conducted them to an obscure comer, where the little grave had been dug. We followed at a respectful distance, and took off our hats to show our sympathy and respect Our action was observed by the men, and they followed our example by taking off their bonnets and laying them on the grass at their feet. Half a dozen urchins from the village scrambled on to the top of the wall overlooking the grave, and watched the proceedings with lively interest. The coffin was chaste and neat for a parochial gift. It was provided with four white cords, but there were only two mourners to lay the little box and its tiny occupant into the tomb. We saw the difficulty, and stepped forward to lend a hand. The father of the child took the head, his companion the foot, and my friend and the gravedigger each took a cord, and thus the last offices were performed for the tinker's child. As the gravedigger was shovelling in the earth and covering up the coffin, the father of the child took a spare spade and threw some earth into the grave, and then handed the tool to his companion, who did the same. Was this a custom of burial amongst tinkers? Perhaps it was, and if its origin were traced it might have a symbolic meaning attached to it. We were deeply touched by the little incident ; the rough men were silent and subdued ; they spoke not a word during the ceremony, and when all was over they lifted their bonnets off the grass, put them on their heads, and slowly left the churchyard. Our eyes followed them sympathisingly, but just as they were within a few yards of the gate one of them took a black cutty pipe from his pocket, struck a match, and disappeared from our sight whiffing a cloud of smoke around him. The spell was broken - it was 'the earth earthy', but perhaps, poor fellow, it was his only means of finding a solace for his grief.
The churchyard is very neatly kept. There are a few modern and handsome monuments, but the most of the tombstones are old and moss- grown, showing quaintly-sculptured inscriptions, and adorned with skulls, crossbones, scythes, hour-glasses, and such like ghastly emblems of death, with which our ancestors delighted to embellish their last resting-places. A remarkable circumstance was pointed out to us on one of the modern tombstones, which recorded the death of several members of one family, all of whom died at the age of 78 years. Four of the victims of the Tay Bridge accident are interred in this churchyard, and another, whose body was never
found, has his memory recorded on his family tombstone. The oldest tombstones date from the seventeenth century, but, with one exception, there is nothing remarkable in the way of churchyard literature. The single exception is, however, both in design and feeling, and poetical merit, far above the ordinary class of tombstone literature. On the north-west side of the graveyard, a small enclosure marks what was once the family burial place of the Melvilles of Murdochcarnie. On a table tombstone within this enclosure, there is a copper plate about six feet long by about three broad, which bears the following inscription:-
Memoriae JOANNIS MELVILL A KARNIE, Qui vita puriter Acta Avatamanxit Gloriam, Fida, Pudica, Maerens, Maria Uxor, ALEXRI METELLANI, Comitis Landeriae Fratris, Filia Maxima. Obiit sine prole, Apr. 25, 1724, aet 38.
In what soft language shall my thoughts get free, My dearest Cairnie, when I think of thee? Ye Muses, Graces, all ye gentle train Of weeping loves, assist the pensive strain. But why should I implore your moving art? 'Tis but to write the dictates of my heart, And all that knew his real worth will join Their friendly sighs and fresh tears with mine. His soul was formed to act each glorious part Of life unstained with vanity or art; No thought within his generous breast had birth But what he might have own'd to Heav'n or earth; Practised by him, each virtue grew more bright, And shone with more than its own native light,
Whatever noble warmth could recommend, The just, the active, and the constant friend Was all his own, but O, a dearer name, And softer ties mine endless sorrows claim. Left now alone, comfortless and forlorn, The lover I, and tender husband, mourn. As thou alone hast taught my heart to prove The highest raptures of a virtuous love, That sacred passion I to thee confine, My spotless faith shall be for ever thine.
MARY MELVILL.
Here is the coat of arms, with motto, DENIQUE COLEUM.
The tombstone is old and grey, and is in a broken and dilapidated condition, and the copper plate is green with verdigris from exposure to the weather. The engraving is neatly executed, and is still quite legible.
The estate of Murdochcairnie was for three centuries in the possession of the Melvilles. Like the neighbouring estates of Myrecarnie, Mountquhannie, &c., it originally formed part of the lands belonging to the Earls of Fife. After the forfeiture of the earldom the lands were held by the Crown, till in 1536 and 1542 Royal charters were granted for the lands of Murdochcarnie to Sir John Melville of Raith, and his wife, Helen Napier. The Melvilles figured prominently in history. Sir Robert, second son of Sir John Melville of Raith, who sat on the bench of the Court of Session under the title of Lord Murdochcarnie, was one of the leading public men in the reigns of Mary and James. Around the margin of the memorial tablet above referred to is engraved a genealogical account of the family, from which we learn that one of the Melvilles was married to a lady of the family of Inchdaimie. The murder of Andrew Aytoun, younger of Inchdairnie, in connection with the assassination of Archbishop Sharpe, as recorded by Woodrow, derives a melancholy interest from his relation to the Melvilles of Murdochcarnie. It is a striking illustration of the troublous nature of those times, and has an air of romantic interest attached to it. Andrew Aytoun, younger of Inchdairnie, a promising young man, was cruelly murdered by a soldier on the same day that Sharpe was assassinated. Aytoun, while at St. Andrews University, became imbued with Presbyterian principles, and he took an active hand in protecting the persecuted ministers. Being suspected by the authorities, he fled to Morayshire, and there found shelter with some friends. During his stay there, Mr. Walter Duncan, one of the hunted clergymen, was arrested in the neighbourhood of Aytoun's retreat. Fired with zeal, Aytoun followed the soldiers and their prisoner south to Dundee, on their way to Edinburgh. Conceiving a bold idea, he crossed the Tay before them, and reached his father's estate, where he collected together a band of devoted men, and at their head attacked the soldiers, routed them, and rescued the prisoner. Afraid of the consequences of this bold action, he remained in hiding in his father's house for a time. Unfortunately, however, for the young gentleman, he ventured from his concealment to pay a visit to his aunt at Murdochcarnie. He mounted a horse, and proceeded on his journey, never dreaming of evil. He had not heard of the murder of the Archbishop, which had been committed that very day on Magus Moor, only a few miles distant. On the road he saw a troop of horsemen galloping rapidly in the direction of Cupar, and to avoid an encounter, he turned his horse and rode hard to escape. The troopers were out scouring the country in search of Sharpe's murderers. The news had roused them, and maddened with fury, they were eager to wreak their vengeance on any one they could lay hands on. Observing a horseman fleeing from them, by the order of the officer in command, one of the soldiers put spurs to his horse and set off in pursuit of the fugitive. He soon overtook young Aytoun, and in riding past him he fired two pistols, mortally wounding the young man, and then rode back to his troop. The soldiers paid no further attention to their victim, but continued their journey to Cupar. With great difficulty Aytoun reached a cottage, where he found shelter and compassion. The sympathising cottager put him to bed and sent for his father, Sir John Aytoun. The grief-stricken parent, on hearing of the condition of his son, hastened to the cottage and despatched a messenger to Cupar for a chirurgeon (surgeon). But the soldiers had taken possession of the town by that time, and the officer would not permit a surgeon to go; and, instead, he brutally ordered out a detachment of his men to bring the wounded man to the town. This cruel order was carried into execution in spite of all remonstrances, and the unfortunate young gentleman was forced to get on horseback, and perform the journey to Cupar that night. The Magistrates, however, interfered, and got the dying man accommodated in an inn. He died next day, after great suffering, but comforted by the presence of his sorrowing parents at his bedside. The sequel has yet to be told. It turned out that the soldier who inflicted young Aytoun's death wounds was a near relative; and when the man heard what he had done he was smitten with remorse, and came to the bedside of his victim, and begged his forgiveness, which the dying man cheerfully granted. It was said that this man died a few years after in a state of great fear for his future condition.
The chief actors in the tragedy on Magus Moor were closely connected with Kilmany. About a mile south from the church, on the new road to Cupar, you pass close to the old mansion house of Rathillet, once the family residence of the Halkerstons or Hackstons. David Halkerston, better known as Hackston of Rathillet, and his brother-in-law, Balfour of Burley, were, in company with a band of Covenanters, on Magus Moor on May 3rd, 1679, and took part in the assassination of the Archbishop. They had no previous intention of murdering Sharpe; they were out in search of an infamous character, an officer of the Government, named Carmichael, who had rendered himself obnoxious by acts of cruelty to unfortunate Non-conformists. They missed the tool, but they found his master, and wreaked their vengeance on him. Hackston, it is said, took no hand in the murder, but he stood by and consented to his death. He had a private quarrel with Sharpe, but sunk his own private feud in favour of the common cause. At the subsequent battle of Drumclog and Bothwell Bridge, he commanded part of the Covenanters and fought with great bravery. He was wounded at Bothwell, but contrived to make his escape from that disastrous field. He was declared a rebel, and a reward of 10,000 marks was offered for him, dead or alive. He was taken prisoner at Aird's Moss, and was most barbarously treated by the inhuman monster Dalziel. When brought before the Council he challenged their right to try him, declaring that the King, in whose name they sat, had, by claiming the supremacy over the Church, usurped the inalienable prerogatives of Jesus Christ. The President taunted him with having been immoral in his youth, to which Hackston replied with stinging sarcasm, 'When I was so I was acceptable to your Lordship; I only lost your favour when I renounced your vices'. He was condemned to be hanged and quartered, and the sentence was carried out with revolting barbarity at the Cross of Edinburgh. His head was sent to Magus Moor, and the other parts of his body were exposed in Edinburgh, Leith, Glasgow, and Cupar. Strange to tell, the son of this great martyr for the Covenant espoused the cause of the Jacobites; yielding to the influence of his wife, he devoted himself to the interest of the infamous house of Stuart, who, in the pursuit of their mad ambitious schemes, had cruelly murdered his father. Rathillet was purchased by Mr. David Carswell in the end of the last century, and it is still in the possession of his descendants.
Kilmany is also associated with another startling event in the history of the Reformation of Scotland - the murder of Cardinal Beaton at St. Andrews. David Balfour, brother of Sir James Balfour of Mountquhannie, was one of the conspirators in that daring deed, the leaders of which were Kirkcaldy of Grange, and the brothers Norman and John Leslie. Sir James Balfour was not present at the murder, but, along with many others, joined the band when they were besieged in St. Andrews Castle. He was taken prisoner with the rest of his compatriots, and conveyed to France in the same galley with John Knox. He returned to Scotland in 1549, and afterwards took a prominent part in the events of the times. He filled many high offices in the State, but he was said to have been a man of no principle, as capable of any baseness, and as a mere time server. Mountquhannie House is about a mile and a half or two miles south of Kilmany Church by the new road, and it is now the property of Mr. Gillespie, the proprietor of Kirton of Forgan.
From the elevated situation of the churchyard a fine view of the surrounding country can be obtained. Norman Law is seen to the west, its lofty head towering over the low range of hills hemming in the vale. The village consists only of a few rustic humble-looking cottages clustered together close to the churchyard. The manse stands on the east of the Church. It is a small plain unpretending house, surrounded by a well-kept garden. It was built during Chalmers' residence in the parish, and, small and humble though it appears, it is roomy and spacious when compared with the dilapidated parsonage which he found when he was first settled there. The old Manse was situated on the west side of the churchyard ; it was pulled down after the new one was finished, and not a vestige of it remains, but a door is still shown in the churchyard wall, which opened from the Manse garden into the kirkyard, and which was used as the Doctor's private entrance.
The scenery all around is charming and picturesque, and an air of quiet seclusion reigns throughout the valley. To those in quest of a peaceful retreat during the summer months no better spot could be found than Kilmany. Shut out from the busy world and surrounded by scenes of natural beauty, the weary and worn invalids, exhausted with the toil and turmoil of city life, could find peace and repose to recruit their shattered bodily and mental energies. Pleasant walks can be enjoyed in all directions amidst all the varieties of rural scenery. The Moultry is a pleasant stream, and to a not over fastidious angler it will afford enjoyable sport and healthy recreation in rambling along its shady banks. Charming nooks lie secluded among the neighbouring hills, and at easy distance from the village is a romantic ravine called Ghoul's Den, a favourite resort of Dr. Chalmers, where he used to bathe in summer in a pool under a small waterfall.
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