one cannot but regret that he had not written more of the same.

Campbell, a poet and a Scotsman, has not attempted it. In short, we do

not find poetry in the Scottish dialect at all _kept up_ in Scotland. It

is every year becoming more a matter of research and reminiscence.

Nothing new is added to the old stock, and indeed it is surprising to

see the ignorance and want of interest displayed by many young persons

in this department of literature. How few read the works of Allan

Ramsay, once so popular, and still so full of pastoral imagery! There

are occasionally new editions of the _Gentle Shepherd_, but I suspect

for a limited class of readers. I am assured the boys of the High

School, Academy, etc., do not care even for Burns. As poetry in the

Scottish dialect is thus slipping away from the public Scottish mind, I

thought it very suitable to a work of this character to supply a list of

modern _Scottish dialect writers_. This I am able to provide by the

kindness of our distinguished antiquary, Mr. David Laing--the fulness

and correctness of whose acquirements are only equalled by his

readiness and courtesy in communicating his information to others:--

SCOTTISH POETS OF THE LAST CENTURY.

ALLAN RAMSAY. B. 1686. D. 1757. His _Gentle Shepherd_, completed in

1725, and his _Collected Poems_ in 1721-1728.

It cannot be said there was any want of successors, however obscure,

following in the same track. Those chiefly deserving of notice were--

ALEXANDER Ross of Lochlee. B. 1700. D. 1783. _The Fortunate

Shepherdess_.

ROBERT FERGUSSON. B. 1750. D. 1774. _Leith Races, Caller Oysters_, etc.

REV. JOHN SKINNER. B. 1721. D. 1807. _Tullochgorum_.

ROBERT BURNS. B. 1759. D. 1796.

ALEXANDER, FOURTH DUKE OF GORDON. B. 1743. D. 1827. _Cauld Kail in

Aberdeen_.

ALEXANDER WILSON of Paisley, who latterly distinguished himself as an

American ornithologist. B. 1766. D. 1813. _Watty and Meg_.

HECTOR MACNEILL. B. 1746. D. 1818. _Will and Jean_.

ROBERT TANNAHILL. B. 1774. D. 1810. _Songs_.

JAMES HOGG. B. 1772. D. 1835.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. B. 1784. D. 1842.

To this list we must add the names of Lady Nairne and Lady Anne Lindsay.

To the former we are indebted for "The Land o' the Leal," "The Laird o'

Cockpen," and "The Auld Hoose;" to the latter for "Auld Robin Gray:"

and our wonder is, how those who could write so charmingly should have

written so little.

I have no intention of discussing the general question of Scottish

poetry--of defending or eulogising, or of apologising for anything

belonging to it. There are songs in broad Scottish dialect of which the

beauty and the power will never be lost. Words of Burns, Allan Ramsay,

and Lady Nairne, must ever speak to hearts that are true to nature. I am

desirous of bringing before my readers at this time the name of a

Scottish poet, which, though in Mr. Laing's list, I fear is become

rather a reminiscence. It is fifty years since his poetical pieces were

published in a collected form. I am desirous of giving a special notice

of a true-hearted Scotsman, and a genuine Scottish poet, under both

characters. I look with a tender regard to the memory of the Rev. JOHN

SKINNER of Langside. He has written little in quantity, but it is all

charming. He was a good Christian minister. He was a man of learning--a

man of liberal and generous feeling. In addition to all this, he has

upon me the claim of having been a Scottish Episcopalian divine, and I

am always rejoiced to see among learned men of our church sympathies

with liberalism, besides what is patristic and theological. John

Skinner's name and family are much mixed up with our church.

'Tullochgorum' was father of Primus John Skinner, and grandfather of

Primus W. Skinner and of the Rev. John Skinner of Forfar. The youngest

brother of Tullochgorum was James Skinner, W.S., who died at ninety-one,

and was grandfather of W. Skinner, W.S., Edinburgh. The Rev. J. Skinner

was born in Birse, a wild part of Aberdeenshire, 1721. His father was

parochial schoolmaster at Gight for nearly fifty years. He worked hard

under the care of his father, who was a good Latin scholar. He gained a

bursary at Aberdeen, where he studied. When he left college he became

schoolmaster at Monymusk, where he wrote some pieces that attracted

attention, and Sir Archibald Grant took him into the house, and allowed

him the full use of a very fine library. He made good use of this

opportunity, and indeed became a fair scholar and theologian. Skinner

had been brought up a Presbyterian, but at Monymusk found reasons for

changing his views. In June 1740 he became tutor to the only son of Mrs.

Sinclair in Shetland. Returning to Aberdeenshire in 1741, he completed

his studies for the ministry, was ordained by Bishop Dunbar, and in 1742

became pastor of Langside. He worked for this little congregation for

nearly sixty-five years, and they were happy and united under his

pastoral charge. One very interesting incident took place during his

ministry, which bears upon our general question of reminiscences and

changes. John Skinner was in his own person an example of that

persecution for political opinion referred to in Professor Macgregor's

account of the large prayer-book in the library at Panmure. After the

'45, Episcopalians were treated with suspicion and severity. The severe

laws passed against Jacobites were put in force, and poor Skinner fined.

However, better and more peaceful times came round, and all that John

Skinner had undergone did not sour his temper or make him severe or

misanthropical. As a pastor he seems to have had tact, as well as good

temper, in the management of his flock, if we may judge from the

following anecdote:--Talking with an obstinate self-confident farmer,

when the conversation happened to turn on the subject of the motion of

the earth, the farmer would not be convinced that the earth moved at

all. "Hoot, minister," the man roared out; "d'ye see the earth never

gaes oot o' the pairt, and it maun be that the sun gaes round: we a' ken

he rises i' the east and sets i' the west." Then, as if to silence all

argument, he added triumphantly, "As if the sun didna gae round the

earth, when it is said in Scripture that the Lord commanded the sun to

stand still!" Mr. Skinner, finding it was no use to argue further,

quietly answered, "Ay, it's vera true; the sun was commanded to stand

still, and there he stands still, for Joshua never tauld him to tak the

road again." I have said John Skinner wrote little Scottish poetry, but

what he wrote was rarely good. His prose works extended over three

volumes when they were collected by his son, the Bishop of Aberdeen, but

we have no concern with them. His poetical pieces, by which his name

will never die in Scotland, are the "Reel of Tullochgorum" and the "Ewie

with the Crooked Horn," charming Scottish songs,--one the perfection of

the lively, the other of the pathetic. It is quite enough to say of

"Tullochgorum" (by which the old man is now always designated), what was

said of it by Robert Burns, as "the first of songs," and as the best

Scotch song Scotland ever saw.

I have brought in the following anecdote, exactly as it appeared in the

_Scotsman_ of October 4, 1859, because it introduces his name.

"The late Rev. John Skinner, author of 'Annals of Scottish Episcopacy,'

was his grandson. He was first appointed to a charge in Montrose, from

whence he was removed to Banff, and ultimately to Forfar. After he had

left Montrose, it reached his ears that an ill-natured insinuation was

circulating there that he had been induced to leave this town by the

temptation of a better income and of fat pork, which, it would appear,

was plentiful in the locality of his new incumbency. Indignant at such

an aspersion, he wrote a letter, directed to his maligners, vindicating

himself sharply from it, which he showed to his grandfather, John

Skinner of Langside, for his approval. The old gentleman objected to it

as too lengthy, and proposed the following pithy substitute:--

"'Had Skinner been of carnal mind,

As strangely ye suppose,

Or had he even been fond of swine,

He'd ne'er have left Montrose.'"

But there is an anecdote of John Skinner which should endear his memory

to every generous and loving heart. On one occasion he was passing a

small dissenting place of worship at the time when the congregation were

engaged in singing: on passing the door--old-fashioned Scottish

Episcopalian as he was--he reverently took off his hat. His companion

said to him, "What! do you feel so much sympathy with this Anti Burgher

congregation?" "No," said Mr. Skinner, "but I respect and love any of my

fellow-Christians who are engaged in singing to the glory of the Lord

Jesus Christ." Well done, old Tullochgorum! thy name shall be loved and

honoured by every true liberal-minded Scotsman.

Yes! Mr. Skinner's experience of the goodness of God and of the power of

grace, had led him to the conviction that the earnest song of praise,

that comes from the heart of the sincere believer in Christ, can go up

to Heaven from the humblest earthly house of prayer, and be received

before the throne of grace as acceptably as the high and solemn service

of the lofty cathedral,

"Where, from the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise."

We must firmly believe that, obsolete as the dialect of Scotland may

become, and its words and expressions a matter of tradition and of

reminiscence with many, still there are Scottish lines, and broad

Scottish lines, which can never cease to hold their place in the

affections and the admiration of innumerable hearts whom they have

charmed. Can the choice and popular Scottish verses, endeared to us by

so many kindly associations of the past, and by so many beauties and

poetical graces of their own, ever lose their attractions for a Scottish

heart? The charm of such strains can never die.

I think one subsidiary cause for permanency in the popularity still

belonging to particular Scottish _songs_ has proceeded from their

association with Scottish _music_. The melodies of Scotland can never

die. In the best of these compositions there is a pathos and a feeling

which must preserve them, however simple in their construction, from

being vulgar or commonplace. Mendelssohn did not disdain taking Scottish

airs as themes for the exercise of his profound science and his

exquisite taste. It must, I think, be admitted that singing of Scottish

songs in the perfection of their style--at once pathetic, graceful, and

characteristic--is not so often met with as to remove all apprehension

that ere long they may become matters only of reminiscence. Many

accomplished musicians often neglect entirely the cultivation of their

native melodies, under the idea of their being inconsistent with the

elegance and science of high-class music. They commit a mistake. When

judiciously and tastefully performed, it is a charming style of music,

and will always give pleasure to the intelligent hearer. I have heard

two young friends, who have attained great skill in scientific and

elaborate compositions, execute the simple song of "Low down in the

Broom," with an effect I shall not easily forget. Who that has heard the

Countess of Essex, when Miss Stephens, sing "Auld Robin Gray," can ever

lose the impression of her heart-touching notes? In the case of "Auld

Robin Gray," the song composed by Lady Anne Lindsay, although very

beautiful in itself, has been, I think, a good deal indebted to the air

for its great and continued popularity. The history of that tender and

appropriate melody is somewhat curious, and not generally known. The

author was _not_ a Scotsman. It was composed by the Rev. Mr. Leves,

rector of Wrington in Somersetshire, either early in this century or

just at the close of the last. Mr. Leves was fond of music, and composed

several songs, but none ever gained any notice except his "Auld Robin

Gray," the popularity of which has been marvellous. I knew the family

when I lived in Somersetshire, and had met them in Bath. Mr. Leves

composed the air for his daughter, Miss Bessy Leves, who was a pretty

girl and a pretty singer.

I cannot but deeply regret to think that I should in these pages have

any ground for classing Scottish poetry and Scottish airs amongst

"Reminiscences." It is a department of literature where, of course,

there must be _selection_, but I am convinced it will repay a careful

cultivation. I would recommend, as a copious and judicious selection of

Scottish _tunes_, "The Scottish Minstrel," by R.A. Smith (Purdie,

Edinburgh). There are the _words_, also, of a vast number of Scottish

songs, but the account of their _authorship_ is very defective. Then,

again, for the fine Scottish ballads of an older period, we have two

admirable collections--one by Mr. R. Chambers, and one by the late

Professor Aytoun. For Scottish dialect songs of the more modern type, a

copious collection will be found (exclusive of Burns and Allan Earn say)

in small volumes published by David Robertson, Glasgow, at intervals

from 1832 to 1853, under the title of _Whistlebinkie_.

But there are more than lines of Scottish poetry which may become matter

of reminiscence, and more than Scottish song melodies which may be

forgotten. There are strains of Scottish PSALMODY of which it would be

more sad to think that _they_ possibly may have lost their charm and

their hold with Scottish people. That such psalmody, of a peculiar

Scottish class and character, _has_ existed, no one can doubt who has

knowledge or recollection of past days. In glens and retired passes,

where those who fled from persecution met together--on the moors and

heaths, where men suffering for their faith took refuge--in the humble

worship of the cottar's fireside--were airs of sacred Scottish melody,

which were well calculated to fan the heavenward flame which was kindled

in lays of the "sweet Psalmist of Israel." These psalm-tunes are in

their way as peculiar as the song-tunes we have referred to. Nothing can

be more touching than the description by Burns of the domestic psalmody

of his father's cottage. Mr. E. Chambers, in his _Life of Burns_,

informs us that the poet, during his father's infirmity and after his

death, had himself sometimes conducted family worship. Happy days, ere

he had encountered the temptations of a world in which he had too often

fallen before the solicitations of guilty passion! and then, beautifully

does he describe the characteristic features of this portion of the

cottars worship. How solemnly he enumerates the psalm-tunes usually made

use of on such occasions, and discriminates the character of each:--

"They chant their artless notes in simple guise;

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:

Perhaps DUNDEE'S wild warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive MARTYRS, worthy of the name,

Or noble ELGIN beets[17] the heavenward flame."

He was not, alas! always disposed in after life to reverence these

sacred melodies as he had done in his youthful days. In his poem of "The

Holy Fair," he less reverently adduces mention of these sacred airs:--

"Now turn the Psalms o' David ower,

And lilt wi' holy clangour.

O' double verse come gie us four,

An' skirl up the Bangor."

These tunes seem to have been strictly and exclusively national. In

proof of such psalmody being quite national, I have been told that many

of these tunes were composed by artisans, such as builders, joiners,

blacksmiths, etc.

Several of the psalm-tunes more peculiar to Scotland are no doubt of an

early date. In Ravenscroft's _Psalms_, published with the music in four

parts in 1621, he gives the names of seven as purely Scottish--_King's,

Duke's, Abbey, Dunfermline, Dundee, Glasgow, Martyrs._ I was used to

hear such psalmody in my early days in the parish church of Fettercairn,

where we always attended during summer. It had all the simple

characteristics described by Burns, and there was a heartiness and

energy too in the congregation when, as he expresses it, they used to

"skirl up the Bangor," of which the effects still hang in my

recollection. At that time there prevailed the curious custom, when some

of the psalms were sung, of reading out a single line, and when that was

sung another line was read, and so throughout[18]. Thus, on singing the

50th psalm, the first line sounded thus:--"_Our God shall come, and

shall no more;_" when that was sung, there came the next startling

announcement--"_Be silent, but speak out._" A rather unfortunate

_juxtaposition_ was suggested through this custom, which we are assured

really happened in the church of Irvine. The precentor, after having

given out the first line, and having observed some members of the family

from the castle struggling to get through the crowd on a sacramental

occasion, cried out, "Let the noble family of Eglinton pass," and then

added the line which followed the one he had just given out rather

mal-apropos--"_Nor stand in sinners' way_." One peculiarity I remember,

which was, closing the strain sometimes by an interval less than a

semitone; instead of the half-note preceding the close or key-note, they

used to take the _quarter-note,_ the effect of which had a peculiar

gurgling sound, but I never heard it elsewhere. It may be said these

Scottish tunes were unscientific, and their performance rude. It may be

so, but the effect was striking, as I recall it through the vista of

threescore years and ten. Great advances, no doubt, have been made in

Scotland in congregational psalmody; organs have in some instances been

adopted; choirs have been organised with great effort by choirmasters of

musical taste and skill. But I hope the spirit of PIETY, which in past

times once accompanied the old Scottish psalm, whether sung in the

church or at home, has not departed with the music. Its better emotions

are not, I hope, to become a "Reminiscence."

There was no doubt sometimes a degree of noise in the psalmody more than

was consistent with good taste, but this often proceeded from the

earnestness of those who joined. I recollect at Banchory an honest

fellow who sang so loud that he annoyed his fellow-worshippers, and the

minister even rebuked him for "skirling" so loud. James was not quite

patient under these hints, and declared to some of his friends that he

was resolved to sing to the praise of God, as he said, "gin I should

crack the waas o' the houss."

Going from sacred tunes to sacred words, a good many changes have taken

place in the little history of our own psalmody and hymnology. When I

first came to Edinburgh, for psalms we made use of the mild and vapid

new version of Tate and Brady;--for hymns, almost each congregation had

its own selection--and there were hymn-books of Dundee, Perth, Glasgow,

etc. The Established Church used the old rough psalter, with paraphrases

by Logan, etc., and a few hymns added by authority of the General

Assembly. There seems to be a pretty general tendency in the Episcopal

Church to adopt at present the extensive collection called "Hymns

Ancient and Modern," containing 386 pieces. Copies of the words alone

are to be procured for one penny, and the whole, with tunes attached, to

be procured for 1_s_. 6_d_. The Hymns Ancient and Modern are not set

forth with any Ecclesiastical sanction. It is supposed, however, that

there will be a Hymnal published by the Church of England on authority,

and if so, our Church will be likely to adopt it. The Established

Church Hymnal Committee have lately sanctioned a very interesting

collection of 200 pieces. The compilation has been made with liberality

of feeling as well as with good taste. There are several of Neale's

translations from mediaeval hymns, several from John Keble, and the

whole concludes with the Te Deum taken literally from the Prayer-Book.

This mention of Scottish Psalmody and Scottish Hymnology, whether for

private or for public worship, naturally brings us to a very important

division of our subject; I mean the general question of reminiscences of

Scottish religious feelings and observances; and first in regard to

Scottish clergy.

My esteemed friend, Lord Neaves, who, it is well known, combines with

his great legal knowledge and high literary acquirements a keen sense of

the humorous, has sometimes pleasantly complained of my drawing so many

of my specimens of Scottish humour from sayings and doings of Scottish

ministers. They were a shrewd and observant race. They lived amongst

their own people from year to year, and understood the Scottish type of

character. Their retired habits and familiar intercourse with their

parishioners gave rise to many quaint and racy communications. They were

excellent men, well suited to their pastoral work, and did much good

amongst their congregations; for it should be always remembered that a

national church requires a sympathy and resemblance between the pastors

and the flocks. Both will be found to change together. Nothing could be

further from my mind in recording these stories, than the idea of

casting ridicule upon such an order of men. My own feelings as a

Scotsman, with all their ancestral associations, lead me to cherish

their memory with pride and deep interest, I may appeal also to the

fact that many contributions to this volume are voluntary offerings from

distinguished clergymen of the Church of Scotland, as well as of the

Free Church and of other Presbyterian communities. Indeed, no persons

enjoy these stories more than ministers themselves. I recollect many

years ago travelling to Perth in the old stage-coach days, and enjoying

the society of a Scottish clergyman, who was a most amusing companion,

and full of stories, the quaint humour of which accorded with his own

disposition. When we had come through Glen Farg, my companion pointed

out that we were in the parish of Dron. With much humour he introduced

an anecdote of a brother minister not of a brilliant order of mind, who

had terminated in this place a course of appointments in the Church, the

names of which, at least, were of an ominous character for a person of

unimaginative temperament. The worthy man had been brought up at the

school of _Dunse_; had been made assistant at _Dull_, a parish near

Aberfeldy, in the Presbytery of Weem; and had here ended his days and

his clerical career as minister of _Dron_.

There can be no doubt that the older school of national clergy supply

many of our most amusing anecdotes; and our pages would suffer

deplorably were all the anecdotes taken away which turn upon their

peculiarities of dialect and demeanour. I think it will be found,

however, that upon no class of society has there been a greater change

during the last hundred years than on the Scottish clergy as a body.

This, indeed, might, from many circumstances, have been expected. The

improved facilities for locomotion have had effect upon the retirement

and isolation of distant country parishes, the more liberal and extended

course of study at Scottish colleges, the cheaper and wider diffusion

of books on general literature, of magazines, newspapers, and reviews.

Perhaps, too, we may add that candidates for the ministry now more

generally originate from the higher educated classes of society. But

honour to the memory of Scottish ministers of the days that are gone!

The Scottish clergy, from having mixed so little with life, were often,

no doubt, men of simple habits and of very childlike notions. The

opinions and feelings which they expressed were often of a cast, which,

amongst persons of more experience, would appear to be not always quite

consistent with the clerical character. In them it arose from their

having nothing _conventional_ about them. Thus I have heard of an old

bachelor clergyman whose landlady declared he used to express an opinion

of his dinner by the grace which he made to follow. When he had had a

good dinner which pleased him, and a good glass of beer with it, he

poured forth the grace, "For the riches of thy bounty and its blessings

we offer our thanks." When he had had poor fare and poor beer, his grace

was, "The least of these thy mercies."

Many examples of the dry, quaint humour of the class occur in these

pages, but there could not be a finer specimen than the instance

recorded in the "Annals of the Parish" of the account given by the

minister of his own ordination. The ministers were all assembled for the

occasion; prayers had been offered, discourses delivered, and the time

for the actual ordination had come. The form is for the candidate to

kneel down and receive his sacred office by the imposition of hands,

_i.e._ the laying on of hands by the whole Presbytery. As the attendance

of ministers was large, a number of hands were stretched forth, more

than could quite conveniently come up to the candidate. An old minister,

of the quiet jocose turn of mind we speak of, finding himself thus kept

at a little distance, stretched out his walking staff and put it on the

young man's head, with the quiet remark, "That will do! Timmer to

timmer"--timber to timber.

Their style of preaching, too was, no doubt often plain and homely. They

had not the graces of elocution or elegance of diction. But many were

faithful in their office, and preached Christ as the poor man's friend

and the Saviour of the lowly and the suffering. I have known Scottish

ministers of the old school get into a careless indifferent state of

ministration; I have also known the hoary head of many a Scottish

minister go down to the grave a crown of glory, in his day and

generation more honoured than many which had been adorned by a mitre.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Lying Gilbert.

[15] This anecdote has been illustrated, as taken from these pages, by a

very clever sketch of the Highlander and his admirer, in a curious

publication at Liverpool called _The Tobacco Plant_, and devoted to the

interests of smoking and snuffing.

[16] The truth is, in old English usage "bug" signifies a spectre or

anything that is frightful. Thus in Henry VI., 3d Part, act v. sc.

ii.--"For Warwick was a _bug_ that feared us all."

[17] Adds fuel to fire.

[18] As far as I am aware the only place in which it is practised at

present (July 1872), is in the Free Church, Brodick, Arran.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

SCOTTISH RELIGIOUS FEELINGS AND OBSERVANCES.

Passing from these remarks on the Scottish Clergy of a past day, I would

treat the more extensive subject of RELIGIOUS FEELINGS and RELIGIOUS

OBSERVANCES generally with the caution and deference due to such a

question, and I would distinctly premise that there is in my mind no

intention of entering, in this volume, upon those great questions which

are connected with certain church movements amongst us, or with national

peculiarities of faith and discipline. It is impossible, however, to

overlook entirely the fact of a gradual relaxation, which has gone on

for some years, of the sterner features of the Calvinistic school of

theology--at any rate, of keeping its theoretic peculiarities more in

the background. What we have to notice in these pages are changes in the

feelings with regard to religion and religious observances, which have

appeared upon the _exterior_ of society--the changes which belong to

outward habits rather than to internal feelings. Of such changes many

have taken place within my own experience. Scotland has ever borne the

character of a moral and religious country; and the mass of the people

are a more church-going race than the masses of English population. I am

not at all prepared to say that in the middle and lower ranks of life

our countrymen have undergone much change in regard to religious

observances. But there can be no question that amongst the upper

classes there are manifestations connected with religion now, which some

years ago were not thought of. The attendence of _men_ on public worship

is of itself an example of the change we speak of. I am afraid that when

Walter Scott described Monkbarns as being with difficulty "hounded out"

to hear the sermons of good Mr. Blattergowl, he wrote from a knowledge

of the habits of church-going then generally prevalent among Scottish

lairds. The late Bishop Sandford told me that when he first came to

Edinburgh--I suppose fifty years ago--few gentlemen attended

church--very few indeed were seen at the communion--so much so that it

was a matter of conversation when a male communicant, not an aged man,

was observed at the table for the first time. Sydney Smith, when

preaching in Edinburgh some forty years ago, seeing how almost

exclusively congregations were made up of ladies, took for his text the

verse from the Psalms, "Oh that men would therefore praise the Lord!"

and with that touch of the facetious which marked everything he did,

laid the emphasis on the word "men." Looking round the congregation and

saying, "Oh that _men_ would therefore praise the Lord!" implying that

he used the word, not to describe the human species generally, but the

male individuals as distinguished from the female portion. In regard to

attendance by young men, both at church and communion, a marked change

has taken place in my own experience. In fact, there is an attention

excited towards church subjects, which, thirty years ago, would have

been hardly credited. Nor is it only in connection with churches and

church services that these changes have been brought forth, but an

interest has been raised on the subject from Bible societies, missionary

associations at home and abroad, schools and reformatory institutions,

most of which, as regard active operation, have grown up during

fifty years.

Nor should I omit to mention, what I trust may be considered as a change

belonging to religious feeling--viz., that conversation is now

conducted without that accompaniment of those absurd and unmeaning oaths

which were once considered an essential embellishment of polite

discourse. I distinctly recollect an elderly gentleman, when describing

the opinion of a refined and polished female upon a particular point,

putting into her mouth an unmistakable round oath as the natural

language in which people's sentiments and opinions would be ordinarily

conveyed. This is a change wrought in men's feelings, which all must

hail with great pleasure. Putting out of sight for a moment the sin of

such a practice, and the bad influence it must have had upon all

emotions of reverence for the name and attributes of the Divine Being,

and the natural effect of profane swearing, to "harden a' within," we

might marvel at the utter folly and incongruity of making swearing

accompany every expression of anger or surprise, or of using oaths as

mere expletives in common discourse. A quaint anecdote, descriptive of

such senseless ebullition, I have from a friend who mentioned the names

of parties concerned:--A late Duke of Athole had invited a well-known

character, a writer of Perth, to come up and meet him at Dunkeld for the

transaction of some business. The Duke mentioned the day and hour when

he should receive the man of law, who accordingly came punctually at the

appointed time and place. But the Duke had forgotten the appointment,

and gone to the hill, from which he could not return for some hours. A

Highlander present described the Perth writer's indignation, and his

mode of showing it by a most elaborate course of swearing. "But whom did

he swear at?" was the inquiry made of the narrator, who replied, "Oh, he

didna sweer at ony thing particular, but juist stude in ta middle of ta

road and swoor at lairge." I have from a friend also an anecdote which

shows how entirely at one period the practice of swearing had become

familiar even to female ears when mixed up with the intercourse of

social life. A sister had been speaking of her brother as much addicted

to this habit--"Oor John sweers awfu', and we try to correct him; but,"

she added in a candid and apologetic tone, "nae doubt it _is_ a great

set aff to conversation." There was something of rather an _admiring_

character in the description of an outbreak of swearing by a Deeside

body. He had been before the meeting of Justices for some offence

against the excise laws, and had been promised some assistance and

countenance by my cousin, the laird of Finzean, who was unfortunately

addicted to the practice in question. The poor fellow had not got off so

well as he had expected, and on giving an account of what took place to

a friend, he was asked, "But did not Finzean speak for you?" "Na," he

replied, "he didna say muckle; but oh, he damned bonny!"

This is the place to notice a change which has taken place in regard to

some questions of taste in the building and embellishing of Scottish

places of worship. Some years back there was a great jealousy of

ornament in connection with churches and church services, and, in fact,

all such embellishments were considered as marks of a departure from the

simplicity of old Scottish worship,--they were distinctive of Episcopacy

as opposed to the severer modes of Presbyterianism. The late Sir William

Forbes used to give an account of a conversation, indicative of this

feeling, which he had overheard between an Edinburgh inhabitant and his

friend from the country. They were passing St. John's, which had just

been finished, and the countryman asked, "Whatna kirk was that?" "Oh,"

said the townsman, "that is an English chapel," meaning Episcopalian.

"Ay," said his friend, "there'll be a walth o' _images_ there." But, if

unable to sympathise with architectural church ornament and

embellishment, how much less could they sympathise with the performance

of divine service, which included such musical accompaniments as

intoning, chanting, and anthems! On the first introduction of

Tractarianism into Scotland, the full choir service had been established

in an Episcopal church, where a noble family had adopted those views,

and carried them out regardless of expense. The lady who had been

instrumental in getting up these musical services was very anxious that

a favourite female servant of the family--a Presbyterian of the old

school--should have an opportunity of hearing them; accordingly, she

very kindly took her down to church in the carriage, and on returning

asked her what she thought of the music, etc. "Ou, it's verra bonny,

verra bonny; but oh, my lady, it's an awfu' way of spending the

Sabbath." The good woman could only look upon the whole thing as a

musical performance. The organ was a great mark of distinction between

Episcopalian and Presbyterian places of worship. I have heard of an old

lady describing an Episcopalian clergyman, without any idea of

disrespect, in these terms:--"Oh, he is a whistle-kirk minister." From

an Australian correspondent I have an account of the difference between

an Episcopal minister and a Presbyterian minister, as remarked by an

old Scottish lady of his acquaintance. Being asked in what the

difference was supposed to consist, after some consideration she

replied, "Weel, ye see, the Presbyterian minister wears his sark under

his coat, the Episcopal minister wears his sark aboon his coat." Of late

years, however, a spirit of greater tolerance of such things has been

growing up amongst us,--a greater tolerance, I suspect, even of organs

and liturgies. In fact, we may say a new era has begun in Scotland as to

church architecture and church ornaments. The use of stained glass in

churches--forming memorial windows for the departed[19], a free use of

crosses as architectural ornaments, and restoration of ancient edifices,

indicate a revolution of feeling regarding this question. Beautiful and

expensive churches are rising everywhere, in connection with various

denominations. It is not long since the building or repairing a new

church, or the repairing and adapting an old church, implied in Scotland

simply a production of the greatest possible degree of ugliness and bad

taste at the least possible expense, and certainly never included any

notion of ornament in the details. Now, large sums are expended on

places of worship, without reference to creed. First-rate architects are

employed. Fine Gothic structures are produced. The rebuilding of the

Greyfriars' Church, the restoration of South Leith Church and of Glasgow

Cathedral, the very bold experiment of adopting a style little known

amongst us, the pure Lombard, in a church for Dr. W.L. Alexander, on

George IV. Bridge, Edinburgh; the really splendid Free Churches, St.

Mary's, in Albany Street, and the Barclay Church, Bruntsfield, and many

similar cases, mark the spirit of the times regarding the application of

what is beautiful in art to the service of religion. One might hope that

changes such as these in the feelings, tastes, and associations, would

have a beneficial effect in bringing the worshippers themselves into a

more genial spirit of forbearance with each other. A friend of mine used

to tell a story of an honest builder's views of church differences,

which was very amusing, and quaintly professional. An English gentleman,

who had arrived in a Scottish country town, was walking about to examine

the various objects which presented themselves, and observed two rather

handsome places of worship in course of erection nearly opposite to each

other. He addressed a person, who happened to be the contractor for the

chapels, and asked, "What was the difference between these two places of

worship which were springing up so close to each other?"--meaning, of

course, the difference of the theological tenets of the two

congregations. The contractor, who thought only of architectural

differences, innocently replied, "There may be a difference of sax feet

in length, but there's no aboon a few inches in the breadth." Would that

all our religious differences could be brought within so narrow

a compass!

The variety of churches in a certain county of Scotland once called

forth a sly remark upon our national tendencies to religious division

and theological disputation. An English gentleman sitting on the box,

and observing the great number of places of worship in the aforesaid

borough, remarked to the coachman that there must be a great deal of

religious feeling in a town which produced so many houses of God.

"Na," said the man quietly, "it's no religion, it's _curstness," i.e._

crabbedness, insinuating that acerbity of temper, as well as zeal, was

occasionally the cause of congregations being multiplied.

It might be a curious question to consider how far motives founded on

mere taste or sentiment may have operated in creating an interest

towards religion, and in making it a more prominent and popular question

than it was in the early portion of the present century. There are in

this country two causes which have combined in producing these

effects:--1st. The great disruption which took place in the Church of

Scotland no doubt called forth an attention to the subject which stirred

up the public, and made religion at any rate a topic of deep interest

for discussion and partizanship. Men's minds were not _allowed_ to

remain in the torpid condition of a past generation. 2d. The aesthetic

movement in religion, which some years since was made in England, has,

of course, had its influence in Scotland; and many who showed little

concern about religion, whilst it was merely a question of doctrines, of

precepts, and of worship, threw themselves keenly into the contest when

it became associated with ceremonial, and music, and high art. New

ecclesiastical associations have been presented to Scottish tastes and

feelings. With some minds, attachment to the church is attachment to her

Gregorian tones, jewelled chalices, lighted candles, embroidered

altar-cloths, silver crosses, processions, copes, albs, and chasubles.

But, from whatever cause it proceeds, a great change has taken place in

the general interest excited towards ecclesiastical questions. Religion

now has numerous associations with the ordinary current of human life.

In times past it was kept more as a thing apart. There was a false

delicacy which made people shrink from encountering appellations that

were usually bestowed upon those who made a more prominent religious

profession than the world at large.

A great change has taken place in this respect with persons of _all_

shades of religious opinions. With an increased attention to the

_externals_ of religion, we believe that in many points the heart has

been more exercised also. Take, as an example, the practice of family

prayer. Many excellent and pious households of the former generation

would not venture upon the observance, I am afraid, because they were in

dread of the sneer. There was a foolish application of the terms

"Methodist" "saints," "over-righteous," where the practice was observed.

It was to take up a rather decided position in the neighbourhood; and I

can testify, that less than fifty years ago a family would have been

marked and talked of for a usage of which now throughout the country the

_exception_ is rather the unusual circumstance. A little anecdote from

recollections in my own family will furnish a good illustration of a

state of feeling on this point now happily unknown. In a northern town

of the east coast, where the earliest recollections of my life go back,

there was usually a detachment of a regiment, who were kindly received

and welcomed to the society, which in the winter months was very full

and very gay. There was the usual measure of dining, dancing, supping,

card-playing, and gossiping, which prevailed in country towns at the

time. The officers were of course an object of much interest to the

natives, and their habits were much discussed. A friend was staying in

the family who partook a good deal of the Athenian temperament--viz.

delight in hearing and telling some new thing. On one occasion she burst

forth in great excitement with the intelligence that "Sir Nathaniel

Duckinfield, the officer in command of the detachment, had family

prayers _every_ morning!" A very near and dear relative of mine, knowing

the tendency of the lady to gossip, pulled her up with the exclamation:

"How can you repeat such things, Miss Ogilvy? nothing in the world but

the ill-natured stories of Montrose!" The remark was made quite

innocently, and unconsciously of the bitter satire it conveyed upon the

feeling of the place. The "ill-nature" of these stories was true enough,

because ill-nature was the motive of those who raised them; not because

it is an ill-natured thing of itself to say of a family that they have

household worship, but the ill-nature consisted in their intending to

throw out a sneer and a sarcasm upon a subject where all such

reflections are unbecoming and indecorous. It is one of the best proofs

of change of habits and associations on this matter, that the anecdote,

exquisite as it is for our purpose, will hardly be understood by many of

our young friends, or, at least, happily has lost much of its force

and pungency.

These remarks apply perhaps more especially to the state of religious

feeling amongst the upper classes of society. Though I am not aware of

so much change in the religious habits of the Scottish peasantry, still

the elders have yielded much from the sternness of David Deans; and upon

the whole view of the question there have been many and great changes in

the Scottish people during the last sixty years. It could hardly be

otherwise, when we consider the increased facilities of communication

between the two countries--a facility which extends to the introduction

of English books upon religious subjects. The most popular and engaging

works connected with the Church of England have now a free circulation

in Scotland; and it is impossible that such productions as the

"Christian Year," for example, and many others--whether for good or bad

is not now the question--should not produce their effects upon minds

trained in the strictest school of Calvinistic theology. I should be

disposed to _extend_ the boundaries of this division, and to include

under "Religious Feelings and Religious Observances" many anecdotes

which belong perhaps rather indirectly than directly to the subject.

There is a very interesting reminiscence, and one of a sacred character

also, which I think will come very suitably under this head. When I

joined the Scottish Episcopal Church, nearly fifty years ago, it was

quite customary for members of our communion to ask for the blessing of

their Bishop, and to ask it especially on any remarkable event in their

life, as marriage, loss of friends, leaving home, returning home, etc.;

and it was the custom amongst the old Scottish Episcopalians to give the

blessing in a peculiar form, which had become venerable from its

traditionary application by our bishops. I have myself received it from

my bishop, the late good Bishop Walker, and have heard him pronounce it

on others. But whether the custom of asking the bishop's blessing be

past or not, the form I speak of has become a reminiscence, and I feel

assured is not known even by some of our own bishops. I shall give it to

my readers as I received it from the family of the late Bishop Walker of

Edinburgh:--

"God Almighty bless thee with his Holy Spirit;

Guard thee in thy going out and coming in;

Keep thee ever in his faith and fear;

Free from Sin, and safe from Danger."

I have been much pleased with a remark of my friend, the Rev. W.

Gillespie of the U.P. Church, Edinburgh, upon this subject. He writes to

me as follows:--"I read with particular interest the paragraph on the

subject of the Bishop's Blessing, for certainly there seems to be in

these days a general disbelief in the efficacy of blessings, and a

neglect or disregard of the practice. If the spirit of God is in good

men, as He certainly is, then who can doubt the value and the efficacy

of the blessing which they bestow? I remember being blessed by a very

venerable minister, John Dempster of Denny, while kneeling in his study,

shortly before I left this country to go to China, and his prayer over

me then was surely the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man. Its

effect upon me then and ever since will never be forgotten."

I quite agree with Mr. Gillespie on the point, and think it not a good

sign either of our religious belief or religious feeling that such

blessings should become really a matter of reminiscence; for if we are

taught to pray for one another, and if we are taught that the "prayer of

the righteous availeth much," surely we ought to _bless_ one another,

and surely the blessing of those who are venerable in the church from

their position, their age, and their piety, may be expected to avail as

an aid and incentive to piety in those who in God's name are so blest.

It has struck me that on a subject closely allied with religious

feelings a great change has taken place in Scotland during a period of

less than fifty years--I mean the attention paid to cemeteries as

depositories of the mortal remains of those who have departed. In my

early days I never recollect seeing any efforts made for the

embellishment and adornment of our churchyards; if tolerably secured by

fences, enough had been done. The English and Welsh practices of

planting flowers, keeping the turf smooth and dressed over the graves

of friends, were quite unknown. Indeed, I suspect such attention fifty

years ago would have been thought by the sterner Presbyterians as

somewhat savouring of superstition. The account given by Sir W. Scott,

in "Guy Mannering," of an Edinburgh burial-place, was universally

applicable to Scottish sepulchres[20]. A very different state of matters

has grown up within the last few years. Cemeteries and churchyards are

now as carefully ornamented in Scotland as in England. Shrubs, flowers,

smooth turf, and neatly-kept gravel walks, are a pleasing accompaniment

to head-stones, crosses, and varied forms of monumental memorials, in

freestone, marble, and granite. Nay, more than these, not unfrequently

do we see an imitation of French sentiment, in wreaths of "everlasting"

placed over graves as emblems of immortality; and in more than one of

our Edinburgh cemeteries I have seen these enclosed in glass cases to

preserve them from the effects of wind and rain.

In consequence of neglect, the unprotected state of churchyards was

evident from the number of stories in circulation connected with the

circumstance of timid and excited passengers going amongst the tombs of

the village. The following, amongst others, has been communicated. The

_locale_ of the story is unknown, but it is told of a weaver who, after

enjoying his potations, pursued his way home through the churchyard,

his vision and walking somewhat impaired. As he proceeded he diverged

from the path, and unexpectedly stumbled into a partially made grave.

Stunned for a while, he lay in wonder at his descent, and after some

time he got out, but he had not proceeded much farther when a similar

calamity befell him. At this second fall, he was heard, in a tone of

wonder and surprise, to utter the following exclamation, referring to

what he considered the untenanted graves: "Ay! ir ye a' up an' awa?"

The kindly feelings and interest of the pastoral relation always formed

a very pleasing intercourse between minister and people. I have received

from an anonymous correspondent an anecdote illustrative of this happy

connection, for which he vouches as authentic:--

John Brown, Burgher minister at Whitburn (son of the commentator, and

father of the late Rev. Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh, and grandfather of

the present accomplished M.D. of the same name, author of "Rab and his

Friends," etc.), in the early part of the century was travelling on a

small sheltie[21] to attend the summer sacrament at Haddington. Between

Musselburgh and Tranent he overtook one of his own people. "What are ye

daein' here, Janet, and whaur ye gaun in this warm weather?" "'Deed,

sir," quo' Janet, "I'm gaun to Haddington _for the occasion_[22] an'

expeck to hear ye preach this efternoon." "Very weel, Janet, but whaur

ye gaun tae sleep?" "I dinna ken, sir, but Providence is aye kind, an'll

provide a bed." On Mr. Brown jogged, but kindly thought of his humble

follower; accordingly, after service in the afternoon, before

pronouncing the blessing, he said from the pulpit, "Whaur's the auld

wifie that followed me frae Whitburn?" "Here I'm, sir," uttered a shrill

voice from a back seat. "Aweel," said Mr. Brown, "I have fand ye a bed;

ye're to sleep wi' Johnnie Fife's lass."

There was at all times amongst the older Scottish peasantry a bold

assertion of their religious opinions, and strong expression of their

feelings. The spirit of the Covenanters lingered amongst the aged people

whom I remember, but which time has considerably softened down. We have

some recent authentic instances of this readiness in Scotsmen to bear

testimony to their principles:--

A friend has informed me that the late Lord Rutherfurd often told with

much interest of a rebuke which he received from a shepherd, near

Bonaly, amongst the Pentlands. He had entered into conversation with

him, and was complaining bitterly of the weather, which prevented him

enjoying his visit to the country, and said hastily and unguardedly,

"What a d--d mist!" and then expressed his wonder how or for what

purpose there should have been such a thing created as east wind. The

shepherd, a tall, grim figure, turned sharp round upon him. "What ails

ye at the mist, sir? it weets the sod, it slockens the yowes,

and"--adding with much solemnity--"it's God's wull;" and turned away

with lofty indignation. Lord Rutherfurd used to repeat this with much

candour as a fine specimen of a rebuke from a sincere and simple mind.

There was something very striking in the homely, quaint, and severe

expressions on religious subjects which marked the old-fashioned piety

of persons shadowed forth in Sir Walter Scott's Davie Deans. We may add

to the rebuke of the shepherd of Bonaly, of Lord Rutherfurd's remark

about the east wind, his answer to Lord Cockburn, the proprietor of

Bonaly. He was sitting on the hill-side with the shepherd, and observing

the sheep reposing in the coldest situation, he observed to him, "John,

if I were a sheep, I would lie on the other side of the hill." The

shepherd answered, "Ay, my lord, but if ye had been a sheep ye would hae

had mair sense."

Of such men as this shepherd were formed the elders--a class of men who

were marked by strong features of character, and who, in former times,

bore a distinguished part in all church matters.

The old Scottish elder was in fact quite as different a character from

the modern elder, as the old Scottish minister was from the modern

pastor. These good men were not disposed to hide their lights, and

perhaps sometimes encroached a little upon the office of the minister. A

clergyman had been remarking to one of his elders that he was

unfortunately invited to two funerals on one day, and that they were

fixed for the same hour. "Weel, sir," answered the elder, "if ye'll tak

the tane I'll tak the tither."

Some of the elders were great humorists and originals in their way. An

elder of the kirk at Muthill used to manifest his humour and originality

by his mode of collecting the alms. As he went round with the ladle, he

reminded such members of the congregation as seemed backward in their

duty, by giving them a poke with the "brod," and making, in an audible

whisper, such remarks as these--"Wife at the braid mailin, mind the

puir;" "Lass wi' the braw plaid, mind the puir," etc., a mode of

collecting which marks rather a bygone state of things. But on no

question was the old Scottish disciplinarian, whether elder or not, more

sure to raise his testimony than on anything connected with a

desecration of the Sabbath. In this spirit was the rebuke given to an

eminent geologist, when visiting in the Highlands:--The professor was

walking on the hills one Sunday morning, and partly from the effect of

habit, and partly from not adverting to the very strict notions of

Sabbath desecration entertained in Ross-shire, had his pocket hammer in

hand, and was thoughtlessly breaking the specimens of minerals he picked

up by the way. Under these circumstances, he was met by an old man

steadily pursuing his way to his church. For some time the patriarch

observed the movements of the geologist, and at length, going up to him,

quietly said, "Sir, ye're breaking something there forbye the stanes!"

The same feeling, under a more fastidious form, was exhibited to a

traveller by a Scottish peasant:--An English artist travelling

professionally through Scotland, had occasion to remain over Sunday in a

small town in the north. To while away the time, he walked out a short

way in the environs, where the picturesque ruin of a castle met his eye.

He asked a countryman who was passing to be so good as tell him the name

of the castle. The reply was somewhat startling--"It's no the day to be

speerin' sic things!"

A manifestation of even still greater strictness on the subject of

Sabbath desecration, I have received from a relative of the family in

which it occurred. About fifty years ago the Hon. Mrs. Stewart lived in

Heriot Row, who had a cook, Jeannie by name, a paragon of excellence.

One Sunday morning when her daughter (afterwards Lady Elton) went into

the kitchen, she was surprised to find a new jack (recently ordered, and

which was constructed on the principle of going constantly without

winding up) wholly paralysed and useless. Miss Stewart naturally

inquired what accident had happened to the new jack, as it had stopped.

The mystery was soon solved by Jeannie indignantly exclaiming that "she

was nae gaeing to hae the fule thing clocking and rinning about in _her_

kitchen a' the blessed Sabbath day."

There sometimes appears to have been in our countrymen an undue

preponderance of zeal for Sabbath observance as compared with the

importance attached to _other_ religious duties, and especially as

compared with the virtue of sobriety. The following dialogue between Mr.

Macnee of Glasgow, the celebrated artist, and an old Highland

acquaintance whom he had met with unexpectedly, will illustrate the

contrast between the severity of judgment passed upon treating the

Sabbath with levity and the lighter censure attached to indulgence in

whisky. Mr. Macnee begins, "Donald, what brought you here?" "Ou, weel,

sir, it was a baad place yon; they were baad folk--but they're a

God-fearin' set o' folk here!" "Well, Donald," said Mr. M., "I'm glad to

hear it." "Ou ay, sir, 'deed are they; an' I'll gie ye an instance o't.

Last Sabbath, just as the kirk was skailin,' there was a drover chield

frae Dumfries comin' along the road whustlin,' an' lookin' _as happy_ as

if it was ta middle o' ta week; weel, sir, oor laads is a God-fearin'

set o' laads, an' they were just comin' oot o' the kirk--'od they yokit

upon him, an' a'most killed him!" Mr. M., to whom their zeal seemed

scarcely sufficiently well directed to merit his approbation, then asked

Donald whether it had been drunkenness that induced the depravity of his

former neighbours? "Weel, weel, sir," said Donald, with some hesitation,

"_may_-be; I'll no say but it micht." "Depend upon it," said Mr. M.,

"it's a bad thing whisky." "Weel, weel, sir," replied Donald, "I'll no

say but it _may_;" adding in a very decided tone--"speeciallie

_baad_ whusky!"

I do not know any anecdote which illustrates in a more striking and

natural manner the strong feeling which exists in the Scottish mind on

this subject. At a certain time, the hares in the neighbourhood of a

Scottish burgh had, from the inclemency of the season or from some other

cause, become emboldened more than usual to approach the dwelling-places

of men; so much so that on one Sunday morning a hare was seen skipping

along the street as the people were going to church. An old man, spying

puss in this unusual position, significantly remarked, "Ay, yon beast

kens weel it is the Sabbath-day;" taking it for granted that no one in

the place would be found audacious enough to hurt the animal on

a Sunday.

Lady Macneil supplies an excellent pendant to Miss Stewart's story about

the jack going on the Sunday. Her henwife had got some Dorking fowls,

and on Lady M. asking if they were laying many eggs, she replied, with

great earnestness, "Indeed my leddy, they lay every day, no' excepting

the blessed Sabbath."

There were, however, old persons at that time who were not quite so

orthodox on the point of Sabbath observance; and of these a lady

residing in Dumfries was known often to employ her wet Sundays in

arranging her wardrobe. "Preserve us!" she said on one occasion,

"anither gude Sunday! I dinna ken whan I'll get thae drawers redd up."

In connection with the awful subject of death and all its concomitants,

it has been often remarked that the older generation of Scottish people

used to view the circumstances belonging to the decease of their nearest

and dearest friends with a coolness which does not at first sight seem

consistent with their deep and sincere religious impressions. Amongst

the peasantry this was sometimes manifested in an extraordinary and

startling manner. I do not believe that those persons had less affection

for their friends than a corresponding class in England, but they had

less awe of the concomitants of death, and approached them with more

familiarity. For example, I remember long ago at Fasque, my

sister-in-law visiting a worthy and attached old couple, of whom the

husband, Charles Duncan, who had been gardener at Fasque for above

thirty years was evidently dying. He was sitting on a common deal chair,

and on my sister proposing to send down for his use an old arm-chair

which she recollected was laid up in a garret, his wife exclaimed

against such a needless trouble: "Hout, my leddy, what would he be duin'

wi' an arm-chair? he's just deein' fast awa." I have two anecdotes,

illustrative of the same state of feeling, from a lady of ancient

Scottish family accustomed to visit her poor dependants on the property,

and to notice their ways. She was calling at a decent cottage, and found

the occupant busy carefully ironing out some linens. The lady remarked,

"Those are fine linens you have got there, Janet." "Troth, mem," was the

reply, "they're just the gudeman's _deed_ claes, and there are nane

better i' the parish." On another occasion, when visiting an excellent

woman, to condole with her on the death of her nephew, with whom she had

lived, and whose loss must have been severely felt by her, she remarked,

"What a nice white cap you have got, Margaret." "Indeed, mem, ay, sae it

is; for ye see the gude lad's winding sheet was ower lang, and I cut aff

as muckle as made twa bonny mutches" (caps).

There certainly was a quaint and familiar manner in which sacred and

solemn subjects were referred to by the older Scottish race, who did

not mean to be irreverent, but who no doubt appeared so to a more

refined but not really a more religious generation.

It seems to me that this plainness of speech arose in part from the

_sincerity_ of their belief in all the circumstances of another

condition of being. They spoke of things hereafter as positive

certainties, and viewed things invisible through the same medium as they

viewed things present. The following is illustrative of such a state of

mind, and I am assured of its perfect authenticity and literal

correctness:--"Joe M'Pherson and his wife lived in Inverness. They had

two sons, who helped their father in his trade of a smith. They were

industrious and careful, but not successful. The old man had bought a

house, leaving a large part of the price unpaid. It was the ambition of

his life to pay off that debt, but it was too much for him, and he died

in the struggle. His sons kept on the business with the old industry,

and with better fortune. At last their old mother fell sick, and told

her sons she was dying, as in truth she was. The elder son said to her,

'Mother, you'll soon be with my father; no doubt you'll have much to

tell him; but dinna forget this, mother, mind ye, tell him _the house is

freed_. He'll be glad to hear that.'"

A similar feeling is manifest in the following conversation, which, I am

assured, is authentic:--At Hawick the people used to wear wooden clogs,

which make a _clanking_ noise on the pavement. A dying old woman had

some friends by her bedside, who said to her, "Weel, Jenny, ye are gaun

to heeven, an' gin you should see oor folk, you can tell them that we're

a' weel." To which Jenny replied, "Weel, gin I should see them I'se tell

them, but you manna expect that I am to gang clank clanking through

heevan looking for your folk."

But of all stories of this class, I think the following deathbed

conversation between a Scottish husband and wife is about the richest

specimen of a dry Scottish matter-of-fact view of a very serious

question:--An old shoemaker in Glasgow was sitting by the bedside of his

wife, who was dying. She took him by the hand. "Weel, John, we're gawin

to part. I hae been a gude wife to you, John." "Oh, just middling, just

middling, Jenny," said John, not disposed to commit himself. "John,"

says she, "ye maun promise to bury me in the auld kirk-yard at Stra'von,

beside my mither. I couldna rest in peace among unco folk, in the dirt

and smoke o' Glasgow." "Weel, weel, Jenny, my woman," said John

soothingly, "we'll just pit you in the Gorbals _first_, and gin ye dinna

lie quiet, we'll try you sine in Stra'von."

The same unimaginative and matter-of-fact view of things connected with

the other world extended to a very youthful age, as in the case of a

little boy who, when told of heaven, put the question, "An' will faather

be there?" His instructress answered, "of course, she hoped he would be

there;" to which he sturdily at once replied, "Then I'll no gang."

We might apply these remarks in some measure to the Scottish pulpit

ministrations of an older school, in which a minuteness of detail and a

quaintness of expression were quite common, but which could not now be

tolerated. I have two specimens of such antiquated language, supplied by

correspondents, and I am assured they are both genuine.

The first is from a St. Andrews professor, who is stated to be a great

authority in such narratives.

In one of our northern counties, a rural district had its harvest

operations affected by continuous rains. The crops being much laid, wind

was desired in order to restore them to a condition fit for the sickle.

A minister, in his Sabbath services, expressed their want in prayer as

follows:--"O Lord, we pray thee to send us wind; no a rantin' tantin'

tearin' wind, but a noohin' (noughin?) soughin' winnin' wind." More

expressive words than these could not be found in any language.

The other story relates to a portion of the Presbyterian service on

sacramental occasions, called "fencing the tables," _i.e._ prohibiting

the approach of those who were unworthy to receive.

This fencing of the tables was performed in the following effective

manner by an old divine, whose flock transgressed the third commandment,

not in a gross and loose manner, but in its minor details:--"I debar all

those who use such minced oaths as faith! troth! losh! gosh! and

lovanendie!"

These men often showed a quiet vein of humour in their prayers, as in

the case of the old minister of the Canongate, who always prayed,

previous to the meeting of the General Assembly, that the Assembly might

be so guided as "_no to do ony harm."_

A circumstance connected with Scottish church discipline has undergone a

great change in my time--I mean the public censure from the pulpit, in

the time of divine service, of offenders previously convicted before the

minister and his kirk-session. This was performed by the guilty person

standing up before the congregation on a raised platform, called the

_cutty stool_, and receiving a rebuke. I never saw it done, but have

heard in my part of the country of the discipline being enforced

occasionally. Indeed, I recollect an instance where the rebuke was thus

administered and received under circumstances of a touching character,

and which made it partake of the moral sublime. The daughter of the

minister had herself committed an offence against moral purity, such as

usually called forth this church censure. The minister peremptorily

refused to make her an exception to his ordinary practice. His child

stood up in the congregation, and received, from her agonised father, a

rebuke similar to that administered to other members of his congregation

for a like offence. The spirit of the age became unfavourable to the

practice. The rebuke on the cutty stool, like the penance in a white

sheet in England, went out of use, and the circumstance is now a matter

of "reminiscence." I have received some communications on the subject,

which bear upon this point; and I subjoin the following remarks from a

kind correspondent, a clergyman, to whom I am largely indebted, as

indicating the great change which has taken place in this matter.

"Church discipline," he writes, "was much more vigorously enforced in

olden time than it is now. A certain couple having been guilty of

illicit intercourse, and also within the forbidden degrees of

consanguinity, appeared before the Presbytery of Lanark, and made

confession in sackcloth. They were ordered to return to their own

session, and to stand at the kirk-door, barefoot and barelegged, from

the second bell to the last, and thereafter in the public place of

repentance; and, at direction of the session, thereafter to go through

the whole kirks of the presbytery, and to satisfy them in like manner.

If such penance were now enforced for like offences, I believe the

registration books of many parishes in Scotland would become more

creditable in certain particulars than they unfortunately are at the

present time."

But there was a less formidable ecclesiastical censure occasionally

given by the minister from the pulpit against lesser misdemeanours,

which took place under his own eye, such as levity of conduct or

_sleeping_ in church. A most amusing specimen of such censure was once

inflicted by the minister upon his own wife for an offence not in our

day visited with so heavy a penalty. The clergyman had observed one of

his flock asleep during his sermon. He paused, and called him to order.

"Jeems Robson, ye are sleepin'; I insist on your wauking when God's word

is preached to ye." "Weel, sir, you may look at your ain seat, and ye'll

see a sleeper forbye me," answered Jeems, pointing to the clergyman's

lady in the minister's pew. "Then, Jeems," said the minister, "when ye

see my wife asleep again, haud up your hand." By and by the arm was

stretched out, and sure enough the fair lady was caught in the act. Her

husband solemnly called upon her to stand up and receive the censure due

to her offence. He thus addressed her:--"Mrs. B., a'body kens that when

I got ye for my wife, I got nae beauty; yer frien's ken that I got nae

siller; and if I dinna get God's grace, I shall hae a puir

bargain indeed."

The quaint and original humour of the old Scottish minister came out

occasionally in the more private services of his vocation as well as in

church. As the whole service, whether for baptisms or marriages, is

supplied by the clergyman officiating, there is more scope for scenes

between the parties present than at similar ministrations by a

prescribed form. Thus, a late minister of Caithness, when examining a

member of his flock, who was a butcher, in reference to the baptism of

his child, found him so deficient in what he considered the needful

theological knowledge, that he said to him, "Ah, Sandy, I doubt ye're

no fit to haud up the bairn." Sandy, conceiving that reference was made

not to spiritual but to physical incapacity, answered indignantly,

"Hout, minister, I could haud him up an he were a twa-year-auld

stirk[23]." A late humorous old minister, near Peebles, who had strong

feelings on the subject of matrimonial happiness, thus prefaced the

ceremony by an address to the parties who came to him:--"My friends,

marriage is a blessing to a few, a curse to many, and a great

uncertainty to all. Do ye venture?" After a pause, he repeated with

great emphasis, "Do ye venture?" No objection being made to the venture,

he then said, "Let's proceed."

The old Scottish hearers were very particular on the subject of their

minister's preaching old sermons; and to repeat a discourse which they

could recollect was always made a subject of animadversion by those who

heard it. A beadle, who was a good deal of a wit in his way, gave a sly

hit in his pretended defence of his minister on the question. As they

were proceeding from church, the minister observed the beadle had been

laughing as if he had triumphed over some of the parishioners with whom

he had been in conversation. On asking the cause of this, he received

for answer, "Dod, sir, they were saying ye had preached an auld sermon

to-day, but I tackled them, for I tauld them it was no an auld sermon,

for the minister had preached it no sax months syne."

I remember the minister of Banchory, Mr. Gregory, availed himself of the

feelings of his people on this subject for the purpose of accomplishing

a particular object. During the building of the new church the service

had to be performed in a schoolroom, which did not nearly hold the

congregation. The object was to get part of the parish to attend in the

morning, and part in the afternoon. Mr. Gregory prevented those who had

attended in the morning from returning in the afternoon by just giving

them, as he said, "cauld kail het again."

It is somewhat remarkable, however, that, notwithstanding this feeling

in the matter of a repetition of old sermons, there was amongst a large

class of Scottish preachers of a former day such a sameness of subject

as really sometimes made it difficult to distinguish the discourse of

one Sunday from amongst others. These were entirely doctrinal, and

however they might commence, after the opening or introduction hearers

were certain to find the preacher falling gradually into the old

channel. The fall of man in Adam, his restoration in Christ,

justification by faith, and the terms of the new covenant, formed the

staple of each sermon, and without which it was not in fact reckoned

complete as an orthodox exposition of Christian doctrine. Without

omitting the essentials of Christian instruction, preachers now take a

wider view of illustrating and explaining the gospel scheme of salvation

and regeneration, without constant recurrence to the elemental and

fundamental principles of the faith. From my friend Dr. Cook of

Haddington (who it is well known has a copious stock of old Scotch

traditionary anecdotes) I have an admirable illustration of this state

of things as regards pulpit instruction.

"Much of the preaching of the Scotch clergy," Dr. Cook observes, "in the

last century, was almost exclusively doctrinal--the fall: the nature,

the extent, and the application of the remedy. In the hands of able men,

no doubt, there might be much variety of exposition, but with weaker or

indolent men preaching extempore, or without notes, it too often ended

in a weekly repetition of what had been already said. An old elder of

mine, whose recollection might reach back from sixty to seventy years,

said to me one day, 'Now-a-days, people make a work if a minister preach

the same sermon over again in the course of two or three years. When I

was a boy, we would have wondered if old Mr. W---- had preached anything

else than what we heard the Sunday before.' My old friend used to tell

of a clergyman who had held forth on the broken covenant till his people

longed for a change. The elders waited on him to intimate their wish.

They were examined on their knowledge of the subject, found deficient,

rebuked, and dismissed, but after a little while they returned to the

charge, and the minister gave in. Next Lord's day he read a large

portion of the history of Joseph and his brethren, as the subject of a

lecture. He paraphrased it, greatly, no doubt, to the detriment of the

original, but much to the satisfaction of his people, for it was

something new. He finished the paraphrase, 'and now,' says he, 'my

friends, we shall proceed to draw some lessons and inferences; and,

_1st_, you will observe that the sacks of Joseph's brethren were

_ripit_, and in them was found the cup; so your sacks will be ripit at

the day of judgment, and the first thing found in them will be the

broken covenant;' and having gained this advantage, the sermon went off

into the usual strain, and embodied the usual heads of elementary

dogmatic theology."

In connection with this topic, I have a communication from a

correspondent, who remarks--The story about the minister and his

favourite theme, "the broken covenant," reminds me of one respecting

another minister whose staple topics of discourse were "Justification,

Adoption, and Sanctification." Into every sermon he preached, he

managed, by hook or by crook, to force these three heads, so that his

general method of handling every text was not so much _expositio_ as

_impositio_. He was preaching on these words--"Is Ephraim my dear son?

Is he a pleasant child?" and he soon brought the question into the usual

formula by adding, Ephraim was a pleasant child--first, because he was a

justified child; second, because he was an adopted child; and third,

because he was a sanctified child.

It should be remembered, however, that the Scottish peasantry

themselves--I mean those of the older school--delighted in expositions

of _doctrinal_ subjects, and in fact were extremely jealous of any

minister who departed from their high standard of orthodox divinity, by

selecting subjects which involved discussions of strictly moral or

_practical_ questions. It was condemned under the epithet of _legal_

preaching; in other words, it was supposed to preach the law as

independent of the gospel. A worthy old clergyman having, upon the

occasion of a communion Monday, taken a text of such a character, was

thus commented on by an ancient dame of the congregation, who was

previously acquainted with his style of discourse:--"If there's an ill

text in a' the Bible, that creetur's aye sure to tak it."

The great change--the great improvement, I would say--which has taken

place during the last half-century in the feelings and practical

relations of religion with social life is, that it has become more

diffused through all ranks and all characters. Before that period many

good sort of people were afraid of making their religious views very

prominent, and were always separated from those who did. Persons who

made a profession at all beyond the low standard generally adopted in

society were marked out as objects of fear or of distrust. The anecdote

at page 65 regarding the practice of family prayer fully proves this.

Now religious people and religion itself are not kept aloof from the

ordinary current of men's thoughts and actions. There is no such marked

line as used to be drawn round persons who make a decided profession of

religion. Christian men and women have stepped over the line, and,

without compromising their Christian principle, are not necessarily

either morose, uncharitable, or exclusive. The effects of the old

separation were injurious to men's minds. Religion was with many

associated with puritanism, with cant, and unfitness for the world. The

difference is marked also in the style of sermons prevalent at the two

periods. There were sermons of two descriptions--viz., sermons by

"_moderate_" clergy, of a purely moral or practical character; and

sermons purely doctrinal, from those who were known as "evangelical"

ministers. Hence arose an impression, and not unnaturally, on many

minds, that an almost exclusive reference to doctrinal subjects, and a

dread of upholding the law, and of enforcing its more minute details,

were not favourable to the cause of moral rectitude and practical

holiness of life. This was hinted in a sly way by a young member of the

kirk to his father, a minister of the severe and high Calvinistic

school. Old Dr. Lockhart of Glasgow was lamenting one day, in the

presence of his son John, the fate of a man who had been found guilty of

immoral practices, and the more so that he was one of his own elders.

"Well, father," remarked his son, "you see what you've driven him to."

In our best Scottish preaching at the present day no such distinction

is visible.

The same feeling came forth with much point and humour on an occasion

referred to in "Carlyle's Memoirs." In a company where John Home and

David Hume were present, much wonder was expressed what _could_ have

induced a clerk belonging to Sir William Forbes' bank to abscond, and

embezzle £900. "I know what it was," said Home to the historian; "for

when he was taken there was found in his pocket a volume of your

philosophical works and Boston's 'Fourfold State'"--a hit, 1st, at the

infidel, whose principles would have undermined Christianity; and 2d, a

hit at the Church, which he was compelled to leave on account of his

having written the tragedy of Douglas.

I can myself recollect an obsolete ecclesiastical custom, and which was

always practised in the church of Fettercairn during my boyish

days--viz., that of the minister bowing to the heritors in succession

who occupied the front gallery seats; and I am assured that this bowing

from the pulpit to the principal heritor or heritors after the blessing

had been pronounced was very common in rural parishes till about forty

years ago, and perhaps till a still later period. And when heritors

chanced to be pretty equally matched, there was sometimes an unpleasant

contest as to who was entitled to the precedence in having the _first_

bow. A case of this kind once occurred in the parish of Lanark, which

was carried so far as to be laid before the Presbytery; but they, not

considering themselves "competent judges of the points of honour and

precedency among gentlemen, and to prevent all inconveniency in these

matters in the future, appointed the minister to forbear bowing to the

lairds at all from the pulpit for the time to come;" and they also

appointed four of their number "to wait upon the gentlemen, to deal with

them, for bringing them to condescend to submit hereunto, for the

success of the gospel and the peace of the parish."

In connection with this subject, we may mention a ready and

complimentary reply once made by the late Reverend Dr. Wightman of

Kirkmahoe, on being rallied for his neglecting this usual act of

courtesy one Sabbath in his own church. The heritor who was entitled to

and always received this token of respect, was Mr. Miller, proprietor of

Dalswinton. One Sabbath the Dalswinton pew contained a bevy of ladies,

but no gentlemen, and the Doctor--perhaps because he was a bachelor and

felt a delicacy in the circumstances--omitted the usual salaam in their

direction. A few days after, meeting Miss Miller, who was widely famed

for her beauty, and who afterwards became Countess of Mar, she rallied

him, in presence of her companions, for not bowing to her from the

pulpit on the previous Sunday, and requested an explanation; when the

good Doctor immediately replied--"I beg your pardon, Miss Miller, but

you surely know that angel-worship is not allowed in the Church of

Scotland;" and lifting his hat, he made a low bow, and passed on.

Scottish congregations, in some parts of the country, contain an element

in their composition quite unknown in English churches. In pastoral

parts of the country, it was an established practice for each shepherd

to bring his faithful _collie_ dog--at least it was so some years ago.

In a district of Sutherland, where the population is very scanty, the

congregations are made up one-half of dogs, each human member having his

canine companion. These dogs sit out the Gaelic services and sermon with

commendable patience, till towards the end of the last psalm, when there

is a universal stretching and yawning, and all are prepared to scamper

out, barking in a most excited manner whenever the blessing is

commenced. The congregation of one of these churches determined that the

service should close in a more decorous manner, and steps were taken to

attain this object. Accordingly, when a stranger clergyman was

officiating, he found the people all sitting when he was about to

pronounce the blessing. He hesitated, and paused, expecting them to

rise, till an old shepherd, looking up to the pulpit, said, "Say awa',

sir; we're a' sittin' to cheat the dowgs."

There must have been some curious specimens of Scottish humour brought

out at the examinations or catechisings by ministers of the flock before

the administrations of the communion. Thus, with reference to human

nature before the fall, a man was asked, "What kind of man was Adam?"

"Ou, just like ither fouk." The minister insisted on having a more

special description of the first man, and pressed for more explanation.

"Weel," said the catechumen, "he was just like Joe Simson the

horse-couper." "How so?" asked the minister. "Weel, naebody got onything

by him, and mony lost."

A lad had come for examination previous to his receiving his first

communion. The pastor, knowing that his young friend was not very

profound in his theology, and not wishing to discourage him, or keep him

from the table unless compelled to do so, began by asking what he

thought a safe question, and what would give him confidence. So he took

the Old Testament, and asked him, in reference to the Mosaic law, how

many commandments there were. After a little thought, he put his answer

in the modest form of a supposition, and replied, cautiously,

"Aiblins[24] a hunner." The clergyman was vexed, and told him such

ignorance was intolerable, that he could not proceed in examination, and

that the youth must wait and learn more; so he went away. On returning

home he met a friend on his way to the manse, and on learning that he

too was going to the minister for examination, shrewdly asked him,

"Weel, what will ye say noo if the minister speers hoo mony commandments

there are?" "Say! why, I shall say ten to be sure." To which the other

rejoined, with great triumph, "Ten! Try ye him wi' ten! I tried him wi'

a hunner, and he wasna satisfeed." Another answer from a little girl was

shrewd and reflective. The question was, "Why did the Israelites make a

golden calf?" "They hadna as muckle siller as wad mak a coo."

A kind correspondent has sent me, from personal knowledge, an admirable

pendant to stones of Scottish child acuteness and shrewd observation. A

young lady friend of his, resident in a part of Ayrshire rather remote

from any very satisfactory administration of the gospel, is in the habit

of collecting the children of the neighbourhood on Sundays at the "big

hoose," for religious instruction. On one occasion the class had

repeated the paraphrase of the Lord's Prayer, which contains

these lines--

"Give us this day our daily bread,

And raiment _fit_ provide."

There being no question as to what "daily bread" was, the teacher

proceeded to ask: "What do you understand by 'raiment fit,' or as we

might say, 'fit raiment?'" For a short time the class remained puzzled

at the question; but at last one little girl sung out "stockings and

shune." The child knew that "fit," was Scotch for feet, so her natural

explanation of the phrase was equivalent to "feet raiment," or

"stockings and shune," as she termed it.

On the point of changes in religious feelings there comes within the

scope of these Reminiscences a character in Aberdeenshire, which has now

gone out--I mean the popular and universally well-received Roman

Catholic priest. Although we cannot say that Scotland is a more

PROTESTANT nation than it was in past days, still religious differences,

and strong prejudices, seem at the present time to draw a more decided

line of separation between the priest and his Protestant countrymen. As

examples of what is past, I would refer to the case of a genial Romish

bishop in Ross-shire. It is well known that private stills were

prevalent in the Highlands fifty or sixty years ago, and no one thought

there was any harm in them. This good bishop, whose name I forget, was

(as I heard the late W. Mackenzie of Muirton assure a party at Dunrobin

Castle) several years previously a famous hand at brewing a good glass

of whisky, and that he distributed his mountain-dew with a liberal and

impartial hand alike to Catholic and to Protestant friends. Of this

class, I recollect, certainly forty-five years ago, Priest Gordon, a

genuine Aberdonian, and a man beloved by all, rich and poor. He was a

sort of chaplain to Menzies of Pitfodels, and visited in all the country

families round Aberdeen. I remember once his being at Banchory Lodge,

and thus apologising to my aunt for going out of the room:--"I beg your

pardon, Mrs. Forbes, for leaving you, but I maun just gae doun to the

garden and say my bit wordies"--these "bit wordies" being in fact the

portion of the Breviary which he was bound to recite. So easily and

pleasantly were those matters then referred to.

The following, however, is a still richer illustration, and I am assured

it is genuine:--"Towards the end of the last century, a worthy Roman

Catholic clergyman, well known as 'Priest Matheson,' and universally

respected in the district, had charge of a mission in Aberdeenshire, and

for a long time made his journeys on a piebald pony, the priest and his

'pyet shelty' sharing an affectionate recognition wherever they came. On

one occasion, however, he made his appearance on a steed of a different

description, and passing near a Seceding meeting-house, he forgathered

with the minister, who, after the usual kindly greetings, missing the

familiar pony, said, 'Ou, Priest! fat's come o' the auld Pyet? 'He's

deid, minister.' 'Weel, he was an auld faithfu' servant, and ye wad nae

doot gie him the offices o' the church?' 'Na, minister,' said his

friend, not quite liking this allusion to his priestly offices, 'I didna

dee that, for ye see he _turned Seceder afore he dee'd, an' I buried him

like a beast_.' He then rode quietly away. This worthy man, however,

could, when occasion required, rebuke with seriousness as well as point.

Always a welcome guest at the houses of both clergy and gentry, he is

said on one occasion to have met with a laird whose hospitality he had

thought it proper to decline, and on being asked the reason for the

interruption of his visits, answered, 'Ye ken, an' I ken; but, laird,

God kens!'"

One question connected with religious feeling, and the manifestation of

religious feeling, has become a more settled point amongst us, since

fifty years have expired. I mean the question of attendance by clergymen

on theatrical representations. Dr. Carlyle had been prosecuted before

the General Assembly in 1757 for being present at the performance of the

tragedy of Douglas, written by his friend John Home. He was acquitted,

however, and writes thus on the subject in his Memoirs:--

"Although the clergy in Edinburgh and its neighbourhood had abstained

from the theatre because it gave offence, yet the more remote clergymen,

when occasionally in town, had almost universally attended the

play-house. It is remarkable that in the year 1784, when the great

actress Mrs. Siddons first appeared in Edinburgh, during the sitting of

the General Assembly, that court was obliged to fix all its important

business for the alternate days when she did not act, as all the younger

members, clergy as well as laity, took their stations in the theatre on

those days by three in the afternoon."

Drs. Robertson and Blair, although they cultivated the acquaintance of

Mrs. Siddons in private, were amongst those clergymen, referred to by

Dr. Carlyle, who abstained from attendance in the theatre; but Dr.

Carlyle states that they regretted not taking the opportunity of

witnessing a display of her talent, and of giving their sanction to the

theatre as a place of recreation. Dr. Carlyle evidently considered it a

narrow-minded intolerance and bigoted fanaticism that clergymen should

be excluded from that amusement. At a period far later than 1784, the

same opinion prevailed in some quarters. I recollect when such

indulgence on the part of clergymen was treated with much leniency,

especially for Episcopalian clergy. I do not mean to say that there was

anything like a general feeling in favour of clerical theatrical

attendance; but there can be no question of a feeling far less strict

than what exists in our own time. As I have said, thirty-six years ago

some clergymen went to the theatre; and a few years before that, when my

brothers and I were passing through Edinburgh, in going backwards and

forwards to school, at Durham, with our tutor, a licentiate of the

Established Church of Scotland, and who afterwards attained considerable

eminence in the Free Church, we certainly went with him to the theatre

there, and at Durham very frequently. I feel quite assured, however,

that no clergyman could expect to retain the respect of his people or of

the public, of whom it was known that he frequently or habitually

attended theatrical representations. It is so understood. I had

opportunities of conversing with the late Mr. Murray of the Theatre

Royal, Edinburgh, and with Mr. Charles Kean, on the subject. Both

admitted the fact, and certainly if any men of the profession _could_

have removed the feeling from the public mind, these were the men to

have done it.

There is a phase of religious observances which has undergone a great

change amongst us within fifty years--I mean the services and

circumstances connected with the administration of the Holy Communion.

When these occurred in a parish they were called "occasions," and the

great interest excited by these sacramental solemnities may be gathered

from "Peter's Letters," "The Annals of the Parish," and Burns' "Holy

Fair." Such ceremonials are now conducted, I believe, just as the

ordinary church services. Some years back they were considered a sort of

preaching matches. Ministers vied with each other in order to bear away

the bell in popularity, and hearers embraced the opportunity of

exhibiting to one another their powers of criticism on what they heard

and saw. In the parish of Urr in Galloway, on one sacramental occasion,

some of the assistants invited were eminent ministers in Edinburgh; Dr.

Scot of St. Michael's, Dumfries, was the only local one who was asked,

and he was, in his own sphere, very popular as a preacher. A brother

clergyman, complimenting him upon the honour of being so invited, the

old bald-headed divine modestly replied, "Gude bless you, man, what can

I do? They are a' han' wailed[25] this time; I need never show face

among them." "Ye're quite mista'en," was the soothing encouragement;

"tak' your _Resurrection_ (a well-known sermon used for such occasions

by him), an I'll lay my lug ye'll beat every clute o' them." The Doctor

did as suggested, and exerted himself to the utmost, and it appears he

did not exert himself in vain. A batch of old women, on their way home

after the conclusion of the services, were overheard discussing the

merits of the several preachers who had that day addressed them from the

tent. "Leeze me abune them a'," said one of the company, who had waxed

warm in the discussion, "for yon auld clear-headed (bald) man, that

said, 'Raphael sings an' Gabriel strikes his goolden harp, an' a' the

angels clap their wings wi' joy.' O but it was gran', it just put me in

min' o' our geese at Dunjarg when they turn their nebs to the south an'

clap their wings when they see the rain's comin' after lang drooth."

There is a subject closely allied with the religious feelings of a

people, and that is the subject of their _superstitions_. To enter upon

that question, in a general view, especially in reference to the

Highlands, would not be consistent with our present purpose, but I am

induced to mention the existence of a singular superstition regarding

swine which existed some years ago among the lower orders of the east

coast of Fife. I can observe, in my own experience, a great change to

have taken place amongst Scotch people generally on this subject. The

old aversion to the "unclean animal" still lingers in the Highlands, but

seems in the Lowland districts to have yielded to a sense of its thrift

and usefulness[26]. The account given by my correspondent of the Fife

swinophobia is as follows:--

Among the many superstitious notions and customs prevalent among the

lower orders of the fishing towns on the east coast of Fife, till very

recently, that class entertained a great horror of swine, and even at

the very mention of the word. If that animal crossed their path when

about to set out on a sea voyage, they considered it so unlucky an omen

that they would not venture off. A clergyman of one of these fishing

villages having mentioned the superstition to a clerical friend, and

finding that he was rather incredulous on the subject, in order to

convince him told him he would allow him an opportunity of testing the

truth of it by allowing him to preach for him the following day. It was

arranged that his friend was to read the chapter relating to the herd of

swine into which the evil spirits were cast. Accordingly, when the first

verse was read, in which the unclean beast was mentioned, a slight

commotion was observable among the audience, each one of them putting

his or her hand on any near piece of iron--a nail on the seat or

book-board, or to the nails on their shoes. At the repetition of the

word again and again, more commotion was visible, and the words "cauld

airn" (cold iron) the antidote to this baneful spell, were heard issuing

from various corners of the church. And finally, on his coming over the

hated word again, when the whole herd ran violently down the bank into

the sea, the alarmed parishioners, irritated beyond bounds, rose and all

left the church in a body.

It is some time now, however, since the Highlanders have begun to

appreciate the thrift and comfort of swine-keeping and swine-killing. A

Scottish minister had been persuaded by the laird to keep a pig, and the

gudewife had been duly instructed in the mysteries of black puddings,

pork chops, and pig's head. "Oh!" said the minister, "nae doubt there's

a hantle o' miscellawneous eating aboot a pig."

Amongst a people so deeply impressed with the great truths of religion,

and so earnest in their religious profession, any persons whose

principles were known to be of an _infidel_ character would naturally be

looked on with abhorrence and suspicion. There is a story traditionary

in Edinburgh regarding David Hume, which illustrates this feeling in a

very amusing manner, and which, I have heard it said, Hume himself often

narrated. The philosopher had fallen from the path into the swamp at the

back of the Castle, the existence of which I recollect hearing of from

old persons forty years ago. He fairly stuck fast, and called to a woman

who was passing, and begged her assistance. She passed on apparently

without attending to the request; at his earnest entreaty, however, she

came where he was, and asked him, "Are na ye Hume the Atheist?" "Well,

well, no matter," said Hume; "Christian charity commands you to do good

to every one." "Christian charity here, or Christian charity there,"

replied the woman, "I'll do naething for you till ye turn a Christian

yoursell'--ye maun repeat the Lord's Prayer and the Creed, or faith

I'll let ye grafel[27] there as I fand ye." The historian, really afraid

for his life, rehearsed the required formulas.

Notwithstanding the high character borne for so many years by our

countrymen as a people, and as specially attentive to all religious

observances, still there can be no doubt that there has sprung up

amongst the inhabitants of our crowded cities, wynds, and closes, a

class of persons quite unknown in the old Scottish times. It is a great,

difficulty to get them to attend divine worship at all, and their

circumstances combine to break off all associations with public

services. Their going to church becomes a matter of persuasion and of

missionary labour.

A lady, who is most active in visiting the houses of these outcasts from

the means of grace, gives me an amusing instance of self-complacency

arising from performance of the duty. She was visiting in the West Port,

not far from the church established by my illustrious friend the late

Dr. Chalmers. Having asked a poor woman if she ever attended there for

divine service--"Ou ay," she replied; "there's a man ca'd Chalmers

preaches there, and I whiles gang in and hear him, just to encourage

him, puir body!"

From the religious opinions of a people, the transition is natural to

their political partialities. One great political change has passed over

Scotland, which none now living can be said to have actually

_witnessed_; but they remember those who were contemporaries of the

anxious scenes of '45, and many of us have known determined and thorough

Jacobites. The poetry of that political period still remains, but we

hear only as pleasant songs those words and melodies which stirred the

hearts and excited the deep enthusiasm of a past generation. Jacobite

anecdotes also are fading from our knowledge. To many young persons they

are unknown. Of these stories illustrative of Jacobite feelings and

enthusiasm, many are of a character not fit for me to record. The good

old ladies who were violent partisans of the Stuarts had little

hesitation in referring without reserve to the future and eternal

destiny of William of Orange. One anecdote which I had from a near

relative of the family may be adduced in illustration of the powerful

hold which the cause had upon the views and consciences of Jacobites.

A former Mr. Stirling of Keir had favoured the Stuart cause, and had in

fact attended a muster of forces at the Brig of Turk previous to the

'15. This symptom of a rising against the Government occasioned some

uneasiness, and the authorities were very active in their endeavours to

discover who were the leaders of the movement. Keir was suspected. The

miller of Keir was brought forward as a witness, and swore positively

that the laird was _not_ present. Now, as it was well known that he was

there, and that the miller knew it, a neighbour asked him privately,

when he came out of the witness-box, how he could on oath assert such a

falsehood. The miller replied, quite undaunted, and with a feeling of

confidence in the righteousness of his cause approaching the sublime--"I

would rather trust my soul in God's mercy than Keir's head into

their hands."

A correspondent has sent me an account of a curious ebullition of

Jacobite feeling and enthusiasm, now I suppose quite extinct. My

correspondent received it himself from Alexander, fourth Duke of Gordon,

and he had entered it in a commonplace-book when he heard it, in 1826.

"David Tulloch, tenant in Drumbenan, under the second and third Dukes

of Gordon, had been '_out_' in the '45--or the _fufteen, or both_--and

was a great favourite of his respective landlords. One day, having

attended the young Lady Susan Gordon (afterwards Duchess of Manchester)

to the 'Chapel' at Huntly, David, perceiving that her ladyship had

neither hassock nor carpet to protect her garments from the earthen

floor, respectfully spread his plaid for the young lady to kneel upon,

and the service proceeded; but when the prayer for the King and Royal

Family was commenced, David, _sans cerémonie_, drew, or rather

'twitched,' the plaid from under the knees of the astonished young lady,

exclaiming, _not_ sotto voce, 'The deil a ane shall pray for _them_ on

_my_ plaid!'"

I have a still more pungent demonstration against praying for the king,

which a friend in Aberdeen assures me he received from the son of the

gentleman who _heard_ the protest. In the Episcopal Chapel in Aberdeen,

of which Primus _John_ Skinner was incumbent, they commenced praying in

the service for George III. immediately on the death of Prince Charles

Edward. On the first Sunday of the prayer being used, this gentleman's

father, walking home with a friend whom he knew to be an old and

determined Jacobite, said to him, "What do you think of that, Mr.----?"

The reply was, "Indeed, the less we say aboot that prayer the better."

But he was pushed for "further answer as to his own views and his own

ideas on the matter," so he came out with the declaration, "Weel, then,

I say this--they may pray the kenees[28] aff their breeks afore I join

in that prayer."

The following is a characteristic Jacobite story. It must have happened

shortly after 1745, when all manner of devices were fallen upon to

display Jacobitism, without committing the safety of the Jacobite, such

as having white knots on gowns; drinking, "The king, ye ken wha I mean;"

uttering the toast "The king," with much apparent loyalty, and passing

the glass over the water-jug, indicating the esoteric meaning of majesty

_beyond_ the sea,--etc. etc.; and various toasts, which were most

important matters in those times, and were often given as tests of

loyalty, or the reverse, according to the company in which they were

given. Miss Carnegy of Craigo, well known and still remembered amongst

the old Montrose ladies as an uncompromising Jacobite, had been vowing

that she would drink King James and his son in a company of staunch

Brunswickers, and being strongly dissuaded from any such foolish and

dangerous attempt by some of her friends present, she answered them with

a text of Scripture, "The tongue no man can tame--James _Third_ and

_Aucht_" and drank off her glass[29]!

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

ON OLD SCOTTISH CONVIVIALITY.

The next change in manners which has been effected, in the memory of

many now living, regards the habits of conviviality, or, to speak more

plainly, regards the banishment of _drunkenness_ from polite society. It

is indeed a most important and blessed change. But it is a change the

full extent of which many persons now alive can hardly estimate. Indeed,

it is scarcely possible to realise the scenes which took place seventy

or eighty years back, or even less. In many houses, when a party dined,

the ladies going away was the signal for the commencement of a system of

compulsory conviviality. No one was allowed to shirk--no daylight--no

heeltaps--was the wretched jargon in which were expressed the propriety

and the duty of seeing that the glass, when filled, must be emptied and

drained. We have heard of glasses having the bottoms knocked off, so

that no shuffling tricks might be played with them, and that they could

only be put down--empty.

One cannot help looking back with amazement at the infatuation which

could for a moment tolerate such a sore evil. To a man of sober

inclinations it must have been an intolerable nuisance to join a dinner

party at many houses, where he knew he should have to witness the most

disgusting excesses in others, and to fight hard to preserve himself

from a compliance with the example of those around him.

The scenes of excess which occurred in the houses where deep drinking

was practised must have been most revolting to sober persons who were

unaccustomed to such conviviality; as in the case of a drinking Angus

laird, entertaining as his guest a London merchant of formal manners and

temperate habits. The poor man was driven from the table when the

drinking set in hard, and stole away to take refuge in his bedroom. The

company, however, were determined not to let the worthy citizen off so

easily, but proceeded in a body, with the laird at their head, and

invaded his privacy by exhibiting bottles and glasses at his bedside,

Losing all patience, the wretched victim gasped out his

indignation--"Sir, your hospitality borders upon brutality." It must

have had a fatal influence also on many persons to whom drinking was

most injurious, and who were yet not strong-minded enough to resist the

temptations to excess. Poor James Boswell, who certainly required no

_extraordinary_ urging to take a glass too much, is found in his

letters, which have recently come to light, laying the blame of his

excesses to "falling into a habit which still prevails in Scotland;" and

then he remarks, with censorious emphasis, on the "drunken manners of

his countrymen." This was about 1770.

A friend of mine, however, lately departed--Mr. Boswell of

Balmuto--showed more spirit than the Londoner, when he found himself in

a similar situation. Challenged by the host to drink, urged and almost

forced to swallow a quantity of wine against his own inclination, he

proposed a counter-challenge in the way of eating, and made the

following ludicrous and original proposal to the company,--that two or

three legs of mutton should be prepared, and he would then contest the

point of who could devour most meat; and certainly it seems as

reasonable to compel people to _eat_, as to compel them to drink, beyond

the natural cravings of nature.

The situation of ladies, too, must frequently have been very

disagreeable--when, for instance, gentlemen came up stairs in a

condition most unfit for female society. Indeed they were often

compelled to fly from scenes which were most unfitting for them to

witness. They were expected to get out of the way at the proper time, or

when a hint was given them to do so. At Glasgow sixty years ago, when

the time had come for the _bowl_ to be introduced, some jovial and

thirsty members of the company proposed as a toast, "The trade of

Glasgow and _the outward bound!_" The hint was taken, and silks and

satins moved off to the drawing-room.

In my part of the country the traditionary stories of drinking prowess

are quite marvellous. On Deeside there flourished a certain Saunders

Paul (whom I remember an old man), an innkeeper at Banchory. He was said

to have drunk whisky, glass for glass, to the claret of Mr. Maule and

the Laird of Skene for a whole evening; and in those days there was a

traditional story of his despatching, at one sitting, in company with a

character celebrated for conviviality--one of the men employed to float

rafts of timber down the Dee--three dozen of porter. Of this Mr. Paul it

was recorded, that on being asked if he considered porter as a wholesome

beverage, he replied, "Oh yes, if you don't take above a dozen."

Saunders Paul was, as I have said, the innkeeper at Banchory: his friend

and _porter_ companion was drowned in the Dee, and when told that the

body had been found down the stream below Crathes, he coolly remarked,

"I am surprised at that, for I never kenn'd him pass the inn before

without comin' in for a glass."

Some relatives of mine travelling in the Highlands were amused by

observing in a small road-side public-house a party drinking, whose

apparatus for conviviality called forth the dry quaint humour which is

so thoroughly Scottish. Three drovers had met together, and were

celebrating their meeting by a liberal consumption of whisky; the inn

could only furnish one glass without a bottom, and this the party passed

on from one to another. A queer-looking pawky chield, whenever the glass

came to his turn, remarked most gravely, "I think we wadna be the waur

o' some water," taking care, however, never to add any of the simple

element, but quietly drank off his glass.

There was a sort of infatuation in the supposed dignity and manliness

attached to powers of deep potation, and the fatal effects of drinking

were spoken of in a manner both reckless and unfeeling. Thus, I have

been assured that a well-known old laird of the old school expressed

himself with great indignation at the charge brought against hard

drinking that it had actually _killed_ people. "Na, na, I never knew

onybody killed wi' drinking, but I hae kenn'd some that dee'd in the

training." A positive _éclat_ was attached to the accomplished and

well-trained consumer of claret or of whisky toddy, which gave an

importance and even merit to the practice of drinking, and which had a

most injurious effect. I am afraid some of the Pleydells of the old

school would have looked with the most ineffable contempt on the

degeneracy of the present generation in this respect, and that the

temperance movement would be little short of insanity in their eyes; and

this leads me to a remark.--In considering this portion of the subject,

we should bear in mind a distinction. The change we now speak of

involves more than a mere change of a custom or practice in social life.

It is a change in men's sentiments and feelings on a certain great

question of morals. Except we enter into this distinction we cannot

appreciate the extent of the change which has really taken place in

regard to intemperate habits.

I have an anecdote from a descendant of Principal Robertson, of an

address made to him, which showed the real importance attached to all

that concerned the system of drinking in his time. The Principal had

been invited to spend some days in a country-house, and the minister of

the parish (a jovial character) had been asked to meet him. Before

dinner he went up to Dr. Robertson and addressed him

confidentially--"Doctor, I understand ye are a brother of my gude freend

Peter Robertson of Edinburgh, therefore I'll gie you a piece of

advice,--Bend[30] weel to the Madeira at dinner, for here ye'll get

little o't after." I have known persons who held that a man who could

not drink must have a degree of feebleness and imbecility of character.

But as this is an important point, I will adduce the higher authority of

Lord Cockburn, and quote from him two examples, very different certainly

in their nature, but both bearing upon the question. I refer to what he

says of Lord Hermand:--"With Hermand drinking was a virtue; he had a

sincere respect for drinking, indeed a high moral approbation, and a

serious compassion for the poor wretches who _could_ not indulge in it,

and with due contempt of those who could but did not;" and, secondly, I

refer to Lord Cockburn's pages for an anecdote which illustrates the

perverted feeling I refer to, now happily no longer existing. It

relates the opinion expressed by an old drunken writer of Selkirk (whose

name is not mentioned) regarding his anticipation of professional

success for Mr. Cranstoun, afterwards Lord Corehouse. Sir Walter Scott,

William Erskine, and Cranstoun, had dined with this Selkirk writer, and

Scott--of hardy, strong, and healthy frame--had matched the writer

himself in the matter of whisky punch. Poor Cranstoun, of refined and

delicate mental and bodily temperament, was a bad hand at such work, and

was soon off the field. On the party breaking up, the Selkirk writer

expressed his admiration of Scott, assuring him that _he_ would rise

high in the profession, and adding: "I'll tell ye what, Maister Walter,

that lad Cranstoun may get to the tap o' the bar, if he can; but tak my

word for't, it's no be by drinking."

There was a sort of dogged tone of apology for excess in drinking, which

marked the hold which the practice had gained on ordinary minds. Of this

we have a remarkable example in the unwilling testimony of a witness who

was examined as to the fact of drunkenness being charged against a

minister. The person examined was beadle, or one of the church

officials. He was asked, "Did you ever see the minister the worse of

drink?" "I canna say I've seen him the waur o' drink, but nae doubt I've

seen him the _better_ o't," was the evasive answer. The question,

however, was pushed further; and when he was urged to say if this state

of being "the better for drink" ever extended to a condition of absolute

helpless intoxication, the reply was: "Indeed, afore that cam', I was

blind fou mysel', and I could see nae thing."

A legal friend has told me of a celebrated circuit where Lord Hermand

was judge, and Clephane depute-advocate. The party got drunk at Ayr, and

so continued (although quite able for their work) till the business was

concluded at Jedburgh. Some years after, my informant heard that this

circuit had, at Jedburgh, acquired the permanent name of the

"_daft_ circuit."

Lord Cockburn was fond of describing a circuit scene at Stirling, in his

early days at the bar, under the presidency of his friend and connection

Lord Hermand. After the circuit dinner, and when drinking had gone on

for some time, young Cockburn observed places becoming vacant in the

social circle, but no one going out at the door. He found that the

individuals had dropped down under the table. He took the hint, and by

this ruse retired from the scene. He lay quiet till the beams of the

morning sun penetrated the apartment. The judge and some of his staunch

friends coolly walked up stairs, washed their hands and faces, came down

to breakfast, and went into court quite fresh and fit for work.

The feeling of importance frequently attached to powers of drinking was

formally attested by a well-known western baronet of convivial habits

and convivial memory. He was desirous of bearing testimony to the

probity, honour, and other high moral qualities of a friend whom he

wished to commend. Having fully stated these claims to consideration and

respect, he deemed it proper to notice also his _convivial_ attainments:

he added accordingly, with cautious approval on so important a

point--"And he is a fair drinker[31]."

The following anecdote is an amusing example of Scottish servant humour

and acuteness in measuring the extent of consumption by a convivial

party in Forfarshire. The party had met at a farmer's house not far from

Arbroath, to celebrate the reconciliation of two neighbouring farmers

who had long been at enmity. The host was pressing and hospitable; the

party sat late, and consumed a vast amount of whisky toddy. The wife was

penurious, and grudged the outlay. When at last, at a morning hour, the

party dispersed, the lady, who had not slept in her anxiety, looked over

the stairs and eagerly asked the servant girl, "How many bottles of

whisky have they used, Betty?" The lass, who had not to pay for the

whisky, but had been obliged to go to the well to fetch the water for

the toddy, coolly answered, "I dinna ken, mem, but they've drucken sax

gang o' water."

We cannot imagine a better illustration of the general habits that

prevailed in Scottish society in regard to drinking about the time we

speak of than one which occurs in the recently-published "Memoirs of a

Banking House," that of the late Sir William Forbes, Bart, of Pitsligo.

The book comprises much that is interesting to the family, and to

Scotchmen. It contains a pregnant hint as to the manners of polite

society and business habits in those days. Of John Coutts, one of four

brothers connected with the house, Sir William records how he was "more

correct in his conduct than the others; so much so, that Sir William

_never but once_ saw him in the counting-house disguised with liquor,

and incapable of transacting business."

In the Highlands this sort of feeling extended to an almost incredible

extent, even so much as to obscure the moral and religious sentiments.

Of this a striking proof was afforded in a circumstance which took place

in my own church soon after I came into it. One of our Gaelic clergy had

so far forgotten himself as to appear in the church somewhat the worse

of liquor. This having happened so often as to come to the ears of the

bishop, he suspended him from the performance of divine service. Against

this decision the people were a little disposed to rebel, because,

according to their Highland notions, "a gentleman was no the waur for

being able to tak' a gude glass o' whisky." These were the notions of a

people in whose eyes the power of swallowing whisky conferred

distinction, and with whom inability to take the fitting quantity was a

mark of a mean and futile character. Sad to tell, the funeral rites of

Highland chieftains were not supposed to have been duly celebrated

except there was an immoderate and often fatal consumption of whisky. It

has been related that at the last funeral in the Highlands, conducted

according to the traditions of the olden times, several of the guests

fell victims to the usage, and actually died of the excesses.

This phase of old and happily almost obsolete Scottish intemperance at

funeral solemnities must have been peculiarly revolting. Instances of

this horrid practice being carried to a great extent are traditionary in

every part of the country. I am assured of the truth of the following

anecdote by a son of the gentleman who acted as chief mourner on the

occasion:--About seventy years ago an old maiden lady died in

Strathspey. Just previous to her death she sent for her grand-nephew,

and said to him, "Wily, I'm deein', and as ye'll hae the charge o' a' I

have, mind now that as much whisky is to be used at my funeral as there

was at my baptism." Willy neglected to ask the old lady what the

quantity of whisky used at the baptism was, but when the day of the

funeral arrived believed her orders would be best fulfilled by allowing

each guest to drink as much as he pleased. The churchyard where the body

was to be deposited was about ten miles distant from where the death

occurred. It was a short day in November, and when the funeral party

came to the churchyard the shades of night had considerably closed in.

The grave-digger, whose patience had been exhausted in waiting, was not

in the least willing to accept of Captain G----'s (the chief mourner)

apology for delay. After looking about him he put the anxious question,

"But, Captain, whaur's Miss Ketty?" The reply was, "In her coffin, to be

sure, and get it into the earth as fast as you can." There, however, was

no coffin; the procession had sojourned at a country inn by the way--had

rested the body on a dyke--started without it--and had to postpone the

interment until next day. My correspondent very justly adds the remark,

"What would be thought of indulgence in drinking habits now that could

lead to such a result?"

Many scenes of a similar incongruous character are still traditionally

connected with such occasions. Within the last thirty years, a laird of

Dundonald, a small estate in Ross-shire, died at Inverness. There was

open house for some days, and great eating and drinking. Here the corpse

commenced its progress toward its appointed home on the coast, and

people followed in multitudes to give it a partial convoy, all of whom

had to be entertained. It took altogether a fortnight to bury poor

Dundonald, and great expense must have been incurred. This, however, is

looked back to at Inverness as the last of the real grand old Highland

funerals. Such notions of what is due to the memory of the departed have

now become unusual if not obsolete. I myself witnessed the first decided

change in this matter. I officiated at the funeral of the late Duke of

Sutherland. The procession was a mile long. Refreshments were provided

for 7000 persons; beef, bread, and beer; but not one glass of whisky was

allowed on the property that day!

It may, perhaps, be said that the change we speak of is not peculiar to

Scotland; that in England the same change has been apparent; and that

drunkenness has passed away in the higher circles, as a matter of

course, as refinement and taste made an advancement in society. This is

true. But there were some features of the question which were peculiar

to Scotland, and which at one time rendered it less probable that

intemperance would give way in the north. It seemed in some quarters to

have taken deeper root amongst us. The system of pressing, or of

_compelling_, guests to drink seemed more inveterate. Nothing can more

powerfully illustrate the deep-rooted character of intemperate habits in

families than an anecdote which was related to me, as coming from the

late Mr. Mackenzie, author of the _Man of Feeling_. He had been involved

in a regular drinking party. He was keeping as free from the usual

excesses as he was able, and as he marked companions around him falling

victims to the power of drink, he himself dropped off under the table

among the slain, as a measure of precaution; and lying there, his

attention was called to a small pair of hands working at his throat; on

asking what it was, a voice replied, "Sir, I'm the lad that's to lowse

the neckcloths." Here, then, was a family, where, on drinking

occasions, it was the appointed duty of one of the household to attend,

and, when the guests where becoming helpless, to untie their cravats in

fear of apoplexy or suffocation[32]. We ought certainly to be grateful

for the change which has taken place from such a system; for this change

has made a great revolution in Scottish social life. The charm and the

romance long attached in the minds of some of our countrymen to the

whole system and concerns of hard drinking was indeed most lamentable

and absurd. At tavern suppers, where, nine times out often, it was the

express _object_ of those who went to get drunk, such stuff as "regal

purple stream," "rosy wine," "quaffing the goblet," "bright sparkling

nectar," "chasing the rosy hours," and so on, tended to keep up the

delusion, and make it a monstrous fine thing for men to sit up drinking

half the night, to have frightful headaches all next day, to make

maudlin idiots of themselves as they were going home, and to become

brutes amongst their family when they arrived. And here I may introduce

the mention of a practice connected with the convivial habits of which

we have been speaking, but which has for some time passed away, at least

from private tables--I mean the absurd system of calling for toasts and

sentiments each time the glasses were filled. During dinner not a drop

could be touched, except in conjunction with others, and with each

drinking to the health of each. But toasts came _after_ dinner. I can

just remember the practice in partial operation; and my astonishment as

a mere boy, when accidentally dining at table and hearing my mother

called upon to "give the company a gentleman," is one of my earliest

reminiscences. Lord Cockburn must have remembered them well, and I will

quote his most amusing account of the effects:--"After dinner, and

before the ladies retired, there generally began what was called

'_Rounds_' of toasts, when each gentleman named an absent lady, and each

lady an absent gentleman, separately; or one person was required to give

an absent lady, and another person was required to match a gentleman

with that lady, and the persons named were toasted, generally, with

allusions and jokes about the fitness of the union. And, worst of all,

there were 'Sentiments.' These were short epigrammatic sentences,

expressive of moral feelings and virtues, and were thought refined and

elegant productions. A faint conception of their nauseousness may be

formed from the following examples, every one of which I have heard

given a thousand times, and which indeed I only recollect from their

being favourites. The glasses being filled, a person was asked for his

or for her sentiment, when this, or something similar, was

committed:--'May the pleasures of the evening bear the reflections of

the morning;' or, 'may the friends of our youth be the companions of our

old age;' or, 'delicate pleasures to susceptible minds;' 'may the honest

heart never feel distress;' 'may the hand of charity wipe the tear from

the eye of sorrow.' The conceited, the ready, or the reckless, hackneyed

in the art, had a knack of making new sentiments applicable to the

passing incidents with great ease. But it was a dreadful oppression on

the timid or the awkward. They used to shudder, ladies particularly; for

nobody was spared when their turn in the _round_ approached. Many a

struggle and blush did it cost; but this seemed only to excite the

tyranny of the masters of the craft; and compliance could never be

avoided, except by more torture than yielding.... It is difficult for

those who have been under a more natural system to comprehend how a

sensible man, a respectable matron, a worthy old maid, and especially a

girl, could be expected to go into company easily, on such

conditions[33]."

This accompaniment of domestic drinking by a toast or sentiment--the

practice of which is now confined to public entertainments--was then

invariable in private parties, and was supposed to enliven and promote

the good fellowship of the social circle. Thus Fergusson, in one of his

poems, in describing a dinner, says--

"The grace is said; it's nae ower lang,

The claret reams in bells.

Quo' Deacon, 'Let the toast round gang;

Come, here's our noble sels

Weel met the day.'"

There was a great variety of these toasts, some of them exclusively

Scottish. A correspondent has favoured me with a few reminiscences of

such incentives to inebriety.

The ordinary form of drinking a health was in the address, "Here's t'

ye."

Then such as the following were named by successive members of the

company at the call of the host:--

_The land o' cakes_ (Scotland).

_Mair freens and less need o' them.

Thumping luck and fat weans_.

_When we're gaun up the hill o' fortune may we ne'er

meet a freen' coming doun.

May ne'er waur be amang us.

May the hinges o' freendship never rust, or the wings o'

luve lose a feather.

Here's to them that lo'es us, or lenns us a lift.

Here's health to the sick, stilts to the lame; claise to

the back, and brose to the wame.

Here's health, wealth, wit, and meal.

The deil rock them in a creel that does na' wish us a'

weel.

Horny hands and weather-beaten haffets (cheeks).

The rending o' rocks and the pu'in' doun o' auld

houses_.

The above two belong to the mason craft; the first implies a wish for

plenty of work, and health to do it; the second, to erect new buildings

and clear away old ones.

_May the winds o' adversity ne'er blaw open our door.

May poortith ne'er throw us in the dirt, or gowd into

the high saddle[34].

May the mouse ne'er leave our meal-pock wi' the tear

in its e'e.

Blythe may we a' be.

Ill may we never see.

Breeks and brochan (brose).

May we ne'er want a freend, or a drappie to gie him.

Gude een to you a', an' tak your nappy.

A willy-waught's a gude night cappy[35].

May we a' be canty an' cosy,

An' ilk hae a wife in his bosy_.

_A cosy but, and a canty ben,

To couthie[36] women and trusty men.

The ingle neuk wi' routh[37] o' bannoch and bairns.

Here's to him wha winna beguile ye.

Mair sense and mair siller.

Horn, corn, wool, an' yarn[38]_.

Sometimes certain toasts were accompanied by _Highland_ honours. This

was a very exciting, and to a stranger a somewhat alarming, proceeding.

I recollect my astonishment the first time I witnessed the ceremony--the

company, from sitting quietly drinking their wine, seemed to assume the

attitude of harmless maniacs, allowed to amuse themselves. The moment

the toast was given, and proposed to be drunk with Highland honours, the

gentlemen all rose, and with one foot on their chair and another on the

_table_, they drank the toast with Gaelic shrieks, which were awful to

hear, the cheering being under the direction of a toast-master appointed

to direct the proceedings. I am indebted to the kindness of the Rev.

Duncan Campbell, the esteemed minister of Moulin, for the form used on

such occasions. Here it is in the Gaelic and the Saxon:--

_Gaelic._

So! Nish! Nish! Sud ris! Sud ris! Thig ris! Thig ris! A on uair eile!

_Translation._

Prepare! Now! Now! Yon again! Yon again! At it again! At it again!

Another time, or one cheer more!

The reader is to imagine these words uttered with yells and

vociferations, and accompanied with frantic gestures.

The system of giving toasts was so regularly established, that

collections of them were published to add brilliancy to the festive

board. By the kindness of the librarian, I have seen a little volume

which is in the Signet Library of Edinburgh. It is entitled, "The

Gentleman's New Bottle Companion," Edinburgh, printed in the year

MDCCLXXVII. It contains various toasts and sentiments which the writer

considered to be suitable to such occasions. Of the taste and decency of

the companies where some of them could be made use of, the less said

the better.

I have heard also of large traditionary collections of toasts and

sentiments, belonging to old clubs and societies, extending back above a

century, but I have not seen any of them, and I believe my readers will

think they have had quite enough.

The favourable reaction which has taken place in regard to the whole

system of intemperance may very fairly, in the first place, be referred

to an improved _moral_ feeling. But other causes have also assisted; and

it is curious to observe how the different changes in the modes of

society bear upon one another. The alteration in the convivial habits

which we are noticing in our own country may be partly due to alteration

of hours. The old plan of early dining favoured a system of suppers, and

after supper was a great time for convivial songs and sentiments. This

of course induced drinking to a late hour. Most drinking songs imply the

night as the season of conviviality--thus in a popular madrigal:--

"By the gaily circling glass

We can tell how minutes pass;

By the hollow cask we're told

How the waning _night_ grows old."

And Burns thus marks the time:--

"It is the moon, I ken her horn,

That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;

She shines sae bright, to wyle us hame,

But by my sooth she'll wait a wee."