Naturally the more outrageous of the latter sort gathered about the
process of collecting tithes.
Tithes were paid in kind in those days. It was not until well within our
own century that they were commuted to a money payment. The Manxman paid
tithe on everything. He began to pay tithe before coming into the world,
and he went on paying tithe even after he had gone out of it. This is
a hard saying, but nevertheless a simple truth. Throughout his
journey from the cradle to the grave, the Manxman paid tithe on all he
inherited, on all he had, on all he did, on all his wife did, and on
all he left behind him. We have the equivalent of this in England at
the present hour, but it was yet more tyrannical, and infinitely more
ludicrous, in the Isle of Man down to the year 1839. It is only vanity
and folly and vexation of spirit to quarrel with the modern English
taxgatherer; you are sure to go the wall, with humiliation and with
disgrace. It was not always so when taxes were paid in kind. There was,
at least, the satisfaction of cheating. The Manx people could not always
deny themselves that satisfaction. For instance, they were required to
pay tithe of herring as soon as the herring boats were brought above
full sea mark, and there were ways of counting known to the fishermen
with which the black-coated arithmeticians of the Church were not able
to cope. A man paid tithe on such goods and even such clothes as his
wife possessed on their wedding day, and young brides became wondrous
wise in the selection for the vicarage of the garments that were out of
fashion. A corpse-present was demanded over the grave of a dead man out
of the horses and cattle whereof he died possessed, and dying men left
verbal wills which consigned their broken-winded horses and dry cows to
the mercy and care of the clergyman. You will not marvel much that such
dealings led to disputes, sometimes to quarrels, occasionally to riots.
In my boyhood I heard old people over the farm-house fire chuckle
and tell of various wise doings, to outwit the parson. One of these
concerned the oats harvest. When the oats were in sheaf, the parson's
cart came up, driven by the sumner, the parson's official servant. The
gate of the field was thrown open, and honestly and religiously one
sheaf out of every ten was thrown into the cart. But the husbandman had
been thrifty in advance. The parson's sheaves had all been grouped thick
about the gate, and they were the shortest, and the thinnest, and the
blackest, and the dirtiest, and the poorest that the field had yielded.
Similar were the doings at the digging of the potatoes, but the scenes
of recrimination which often ensued were usually confined to the farmer
and the sumner. More outrageous contentions with the priest himself
sometimes occurred within the very walls of the church. It was the
practice to bring tithe of butter and cheese and eggs, and lay it on the
altar on Sunday. This had to be done under pain of exclusion from the
communion, and that was a penalty most grievous to material welfare. So
the Manxmen and Manxwomen were compelled to go to church much as they
went to market, with their butter- and egg-baskets over their arms. It
is a ludicrous picture, as one sees it in one's mind's eye, but what
comes after reaches the extremity of farce. Say the scene is Maughold
old church, once the temple of the saintly hermit. It is Sunday morning,
the bells are ringing, and Juan-beg-Marry-a-thruss, a rascally old
skinflint, is coming along with a basket. It contains some butter that
he could not sell at Ramsey market yesterday because it was rank, and a
few eggs which he knows to be stale and addled--the old hen has sat on
them, and they have brought forth nothing. These he places reverently on
the altar. But the parson knows Juan, and proceeds to examine his tithe.
May I take so much liberty with history, and with the desecrated old
church, as to imagine the scene which follows?
Priest, pointing contemptuously towards the altar:
"Juan-beg-Marry-a-thruss, what is this?" "Butter and eggs, so plaze your
reverence." "Pig-swill and chalk you mean, man!" "Aw 'deed if I'd known
your reverence was so morthal partic'lar the ould hen herself should
have been layin' some fresh eggs for your reverence."
"Take them away, you thief of the Church! Do you think what isn't fit
for your pig is good enough for your priest? Bring better, or never let
me look on your wizened old wicked face again."
Exit Juan-beg-Marry-a-thruss, perhaps with butter and eggs flying after
his retreating figure.