A Lanarkshire minister (who died within the present century) was one of
those unhappy persons, who, to use the words of a well known Scottish
adage, "can never see green cheese but their een reels." He was
_extremely covetous_ and that not only of nice articles of food, but of
many other things which do not generally excite the cupidity of the
human heart. The following story is in corroboration of this
assertion:--Being on a visit one day at the house of one of his
parishioners, a poor lonely widow, living in a moorland part of the
parish, he became fascinated by the charms of a little cast-iron pot,
which happened at the time to be lying on the hearth, full of potatoes
for the poor woman's dinner, and that of her children. He had never in
his life seen such a nice little pot--it was a perfect conceit of a
thing--it was a gem--no pot on earth could match it in symmetry--it was
an object altogether perfectly lovely. "Dear sake! minister," said the
widow, quite overpowered by the reverend man's commendations of her pot;
"if ye like the pot sae weel as a' that, I beg ye'll let me send it to
the manse. It's a kind o' orra (_superfluous_) pot wi' us; for we've a
bigger ane, that we use for ordinar, and that's mair convenient every
way for us. Sae ye'll just tak a present o't. I'll send it ower the morn
wi' Jamie, when he gangs to the schule." "Oh!" said the minister, "I can
by no means permit you to be at so much trouble. Since you are so good
as to give me the pot, I'll just carry it home with me in my hand. I'm
so much taken with it, indeed, that I would really prefer carrying it
myself." After much altercation between the minister and the widow, on
this delicate point of politeness, it was agreed that he should carry
home the pot himself.
Off then he trudged, bearing this curious little culinary article,
alternately in his hand and under his arm, as seemed most convenient to
him. Unfortunately the day was warm, the way long, and the minister fat;
so that he became heartily tired of his burden before he got half-way
home. Under these distressing circumstances, it struck him, that, if,
instead of carrying the pot awkwardly at one side of his person, he were
to carry it on his head, the burden would be greatly lightened; the
principles of natural philosophy, which he had learned at college,
informing him, that when a load presses directly and immediately upon
any object, it is far less onerous than when it hangs at the remote end
of a lever. Accordingly, doffing his hat, which he resolved to carry
home in his band, and having applied his handkerchief to his brow, he
clapped the pot, in inverted fashion, upon his head, where, as the
reader may suppose, it figured much like Mambrino's helmet upon the
crazed capital of Don Quixote, only a great deal more magnificent in
shape and dimensions. There was, at first, much relief and much comfort
in this new mode of carrying the pot; but mark the result. The
unfortunate minister having taken a by-path, to escape observation,
found himself, when still a good way from home, under the necessity of
leaping over a ditch, which intercepted him, in passing from one field
to another. He jumped; but surely no jump was ever taken so completely
_in_, or, at least _into_, the dark as this. The concussion given to his
person in descending caused the helmet to become a hood; the pot slipped
down over his face, and resting with the rim upon his neck, stuck fast
there; enclosing his whole head as completely as ever that of a new born
child was enclosed by the filmy bag, with which nature, as an indication
of future good fortune, sometimes invests the noddles of her favourite
offspring. What was worst of all, the nose, which had permitted the pot
to slip down over it, withstood every desperate attempt, on the part of
its proprietor, to make it slip back again; the contracted part, or
neck, of the _patera_, being of such a peculiar formation as to cling
fast to the base of the nose, although it had found no difficulty in
gliding along its hypothenuse. Was ever minister in a worse plight? Was
there ever _contretemps_ so unlucky? Did ever any man--did ever any
minister, so effectually hoodwink himself, or so thoroughly shut his
eyes, to the plain light of nature? What was to be done? The place was
lonely; the way difficult and dangerous; human relief was remote, almost
beyond reach. It was impossible even to cry for help; or, if a cry could
be uttered, it might reach, in deafening reverberation, the ear of the
utterer, but it would not travel twelve inches farther in any direction.
To add to the distresses of the case, the unhappy sufferer soon found
great difficulty in breathing. What with the heat occasioned by the
beating of the sun on the metal, and what with the frequent return of
the same heated air to his lungs, he was in the utmost danger of
suffocation. Every thing considered, it seemed likely that, if he did
not chance to be relieved by some accidental wayfarer, there would soon
be _death in the pot_.
The instinctive love of life, however, is omni-prevalent; and even very
stupid people have been found, when put to the push by strong and
imminent peril, to exhibit a degree of presence of mind, and exert a
degree of energy, far above what might have been expected from them, or
what they were ever known to exhibit, or exert, under ordinary
circumstances. So it was with the pot-ensconced minister. Pressed by the
urgency of his distresses, he fortunately recollected that there was a
smith's shop at the distance of about a mile across the fields, where,
if he could reach it before the period of suffocation, he might possibly
find relief. Deprived of his eyesight, he acted only as a man of
feeling, and went on as cautiously as he could, with his hat in his
hand. Half crawling, half sliding, over ridge and furrow, ditch and
hedge, somewhat like Satan floundering over chaos, the unhappy minister
travelled with all possible speed, as nearly as he could guess, in the
direction of the place of refuge. I leave it to the reader to conceive
the surprise, the mirth, the infinite amusement of the smith, and all
the hangers-on of the _smiddy_, when, at length, torn and worn, faint
and exhausted, blind and breathless, the unfortunate man arrived at the
place, and let them know (rather by signs than by words) the
circumstances of his case. In the words of an old Scottish song,
"Out cam the gudeman, and high he shouted;
Out cam the gudewife, and low she louted;
And a' the town neighbours were gathered about it:
And there was he, I trow."
The merriment of the company, however, soon gave way to considerations
of humanity. Ludicrous as was the minister, with such an object where
his head should have been, and with the feet of the pot pointing
upwards, like the horns of the great Enemy, it was, nevertheless,
necessary that he should be speedily restored to his ordinary condition,
if it were for no other reason than that he might continue to live. He
was accordingly, at his own request led into the smithy, multitudes
flocking around to tender him their kindest offices, or to witness the
process of release; and, having laid down his head upon the anvil, the
smith lost no time in seizing and poising his goodly forehammer. "Will I
come sair on, minister?" exclaimed the considerate man of iron, in at
the brink of the pot. "As sair as ye like," was the minister's answer;
"better a chap i' the chafts than die for want of breath." Thus
permitted, the man let fall a blow, which fortunately broke the pot in
pieces, without hurting the head which it enclosed, as the cook-maid
breaks the shell of the lobster, without bruising the delicate food
within. A few minutes of the clear air, and a glass from the gudewife's
bottle, restored the unfortunate man of prayer; but, assuredly, the
incident is one which will long live in the memory of the parishioners
of C----.--_Chambers' Edinburgh Journal._
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