The sermon in Scottish Kirks. Intruding animals in country
churches. The ‘collection.’ Church psalmody. Precentors and
organs. Small congregations in the Highlands. Parish visitation.
Survival of the influence of clerical teaching. Religious mania.
From the time of the Reformation onwards the sermon has taken a
foremost place in the service of the Church of Scotland. There was
a time when a preacher would continue his discourse for five or six
hours, and when sometimes a succession of preachers would give sermon
after sermon and keep the congregation continuously sitting for ten
hours. These days of perfervid oratory are past. But a sermon of an
hour’s duration or even more may still be heard, and, when the preacher
is eloquent, will be listened to with deep interest. This part of the
service maintains its early prominence. It is from his capacity to
preach that a man’s qualifications for the ministry are mainly judged,
not merely by the church which licences him, but by the congregation
which chooses him as its pastor. The half-yearly celebration of the
sacrament, which included a fast-day, services on two or three week
days, and a long ‘diet’ on Sunday, was appropriately known as ‘The
Preachings.’ The Fast-Day, when the shops were closed and there were
at least two services in the churches, forenoon and afternoon, became
in the end a kind of public holiday in the large towns. Attracted to
the country, rather than to the sermons, the people used to escape from
town, and railways carried an ever-increasing number of excursionists
away from the services of the Church. The ecclesiastical authorities at
last, some years ago, put a stop to this scandal, and the Fast-Day no
longer ranks as one of the public holidays of the year.
[Sidenote: HEADS OF SERMONS]
Scottish sermons have always had a prevalent doctrinal character and
a markedly logical treatment of their subject. It has never been
the habit north of the Tweed to think that ‘dulness is sacred in a
sound divine.’ The clergy have appealed as much to the head as to the
heart. In bygone generations the doctrines evolved from the text were
divided into numerous heads, and these into subordinate sections and
subsections, so that the attention of those listeners who remained
awake was kept up as at a kind of intellectual exercise. If anyone
wishes to realise the extent to which this practice of subdivision
could be carried by an eminent and successful preacher, let him turn
to the posthumous sermons of Boston of Ettrick.[8] Thus, in a sermon
on ‘Fear and Hope, objects of the Divine Complacency,’ from the text,
Psalms cxlvii. 11, this famous divine, after an introduction in four
sections, deduced six doctrines, each subdivided into from three to
eight heads; but the last doctrine required another sermon, which
contained ‘a practical improvement of the whole,’ arranged under 86
heads. A sermon on Matthew xi. 28 was subdivided into 76 heads. If it
is not quite easy to follow the printed sermon through this maze of
sub-division, it must have been much more difficult to do so in the
spoken discourse. All the enthusiasm and fire of the preacher must
have been needed to rivet the attention and affect the hearts of his
congregation. It is still usual to treat the subject of a text under
different heads, but happily their number has been reduced to more
reasonable proportions.
It was not given to every occupant of a pulpit to rival the fecundity
and ingenuity of Boston of Ettrick in the elucidation of his text.
A subdivision of a simpler type was made by the worthy old Highland
divine who preached from the verse, ‘The devil, as a roaring lion,
walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’ Following a Highland
habit of inserting an unnecessary pronoun after the noun to which it
refers, he began his discourse thus: ‘Let us consider this passage, my
brethren, under four heads. Firstly, who the Devil, he is; secondly,
what the Devil, he is like; thirdly, what the Devil, he doth; and
fourthly, who the Devil, he devoureth.’
[Sidenote: NEW TEXT TO OLD SERMON]
In many instances the sermons prepared during the first few years of a
ministry served for all its subsequent continuance, with perhaps some
modifications or additions suggested by the altered circumstances of
the time. It used to be said of some clergymen that they kept their
sermons in a barrel, which when emptied was refilled again with the
old MSS. Dr. Hanna, the biographer of Chalmers, used to tell of one
such minister who had preached the same short round of sermons for so
many years that at last the beadle was deputed by one or two members
of the congregation to ask whether, if he could not prepare a new
sermon, he would at least give them a fresh text. Next Sunday, to the
astonishment of the audience, the minister gave out a text from which
he had never before preached: ‘Genesis, first chapter, first verse,
and first clause of the verse.’ Every Bible was opened at the place,
and the listeners, nearly all of whom were ignorant of the suggested
arrangement, leant back in their pews in eager anticipation of the new
sermon. With great deliberation the preacher began: ‘“In the beginning
God created the heavens and the earth.” Who this Nicodemus was, my
brethren, commentators are not agreed.’ And the old story of Nicodemus
was repeated, as it had been so often before.
Sometimes the manuscript of a sermon was by mistake left behind at the
manse, and the minister or the beadle had to set off to procure it. On
one of these occasions, the manse being at some little distance from
the church, the minister, who had to go and find the document himself,
gave out the 119th Psalm, that the congregation might engage in singing
during his absence. When he returned with his MS. he asked his man,
who was waiting for him anxiously at the door, how the congregation
was getting on. ‘O sir,’ said he, ‘they’ve got to the end of the 84th
verse, and they’re jist cheepin’ like mice.’
To interrupt the service by requesting the congregation to sing a psalm
or hymn is an expedient which sometimes relieves a clergyman when,
from faintness or other cause, he finds a difficulty in performing
his duty in the pulpit. Some years ago a young minister had recourse
to this mode of extrication. On the conclusion of the service, one or
two of his friends came to him in the vestry to ascertain what had
ailed him. He told them that he could with difficulty refrain from
laughing, and his only resource was to leave the pulpit. ‘Did you see,’
he asked, ‘a man with an extraordinarily red head sitting in the front
of the gallery?’ ‘Yes, we noticed him, but he appeared to be a quiet
attentive listener.’ ‘So he was, so he was; but did you see a small boy
sitting behind him? That young rascal so fascinated me that, though I
tried hard to look elsewhere, I could not keep my eyes from sometimes
turning to watch him. He was holding up the forefinger of his left hand
behind the red head, as if he were heating an iron bolt in a furnace,
and he would then thump it on the desk in front of him, as if he were
hammering the iron into shape. This went on until I had to leave the
pulpit, and send the beadle up to the gallery to have the young sinner
cautioned or removed.’
[Sidenote: A SERMON BELOW BEN NEVIS]
The English sermon in Highland churches was often a curious
performance. As already mentioned, there were, and still generally are,
two sermons--one in Gaelic as part of the earlier service, and one in
English in the second part. Those of the congregation who thought they
understood both languages might stay from the beginning to the end, but
the purely Gaelic-speaking population generally thinned away after the
Gaelic service. In some cases, the preacher’s command of English being
rather limited, his evident earnestness could hardly prevent a smile at
his solecisms in grammar and the oddity of his expressions. Many years
ago an acquaintance told me he had been yachting in Loch Eil, and on a
Sunday of dreary rain and storm went ashore not far from the roots of
Ben Nevis to attend the English service, when he heard the following
passage from the lips of the preacher:
‘Ah, my friends, what causes have we for gratitude; O yes, for the
deepest gratitude! Look at the place of our habitation. How grateful
should we be that we do not leeve in the far north! O no; amid the
frost and the snaw, and the cauld and the weet, O no; where there’s
a lang day tae half o’ the year, O yes; and a lang, lang nicht the
tither, ah yes; that we do not depend upon the _auroary boreawlis_, O
no; that we do not gang shivering about in skins, O no; snoking amang
the snaw like mowdiwarts, O no, no!
‘And how grateful should we be too that we do not leeve in the far
south, beneath the equawtor and a sun aye burnin’, burnin’; where the
sky’s het, ah yes; and the earth’s het, and the water’s het, and ye’re
burnt black as a smiddy, ah yes! where there’s teegers, O yes; and
lions, O yes; and crocodiles, O yes; and fearsome beasts growlin’ and
girnin’ at ye amang the woods; where the very air is a fever, like
the burnin’ breath o’ a fiery draigon. That we do not leeve in these
places, O _no!_ NO!! NO!!!
[Sidenote: SLEEPING IN THE KIRK]
‘But that we leeve in this _blēssed_ island o’ ours, called Great
Britain, O yes! yes! and in that pairt o’ it named Scotland, and in
that bit o’ auld Scotland that looks up at Ben Naivis, O _yes!_ YES!!
YES!!! where there’s neither frost nor cauld, nor wind nor weet,
nor hail, nor rain, nor teegers, nor lions, nor burnin’ suns, nor
hurricanes, nor’---- At this part of the discourse a fearful gust from
Ben Nevis aforesaid drove in the upper sash of the window at the right
hand of the pulpit, and rudely interrupted the torrent of eloquence.[9]
When we remember the length and technicality of the sermons, the bad
ventilation of the kirks, and the effects of six days of toil on a
large number of each congregation, we can hardly wonder that somnolence
should be prevalent in Scotland. Many anecdotes on this subject have
long been in circulation. The same tale may be recognized under
various guises, the preacher or sleeper being altered according to
local circumstances. Perhaps no series illustrates better how such
stories continue to float down through generation after generation,
and are always reappearing as new, when they receive a fresh personal
application. Sleeping in church is such a natural failing, and the
reproof of it from the pulpit is so obvious a consequence, that even
if no memory of the old incidents should survive, the recurrence of
similar circumstances could hardly fail to give birth to similar
anecdotes. For example, a story is at present in circulation to the
effect that in a country church one Sunday the preacher after service
walked through the kirkyard with one of the neighbouring farmers, and
took occasion to remark to him, ‘Wasn’t it dreadful to hear the Laird
of Todholes snoring so loud through the sermon?’ ‘Perfectly fearful,’
was the answer, ‘he waukened us a’.’ Two or three generations ago
a similar incident was said to have occurred at Govan, under the
ministration of the well-known Mr. Thom, who in the midst of his
sermon stopped and called out, ‘Bailie Brown, ye mauna snore sae loud,
for ye’ll wauken the Provost.’ But more than two centuries ago the
following epigram appeared:--
Old South, a witty Churchman reckoned,
Was preaching once to Charles the Second,
But much too serious for a court,
Who at all preaching made a sport:
He soon perceived his audience nod,
Deaf to the zealous man of God.
The Doctor stopp’d; began to call,
‘Pray wake the Earl of Lauderdale:
My Lord! why, ’tis a monstrous thing,
You snore so loud--you’ll wake the King.’
[Sidenote: SABBATH SOMNOLENCE]
Though this scene took place in the south of England, it is interesting
to note that the snorer specially singled out for rebuke was a Scottish
nobleman.
Now and then a reproof from the pulpit has drawn down on the minister
a sarcastic reply from the unfortunate sleeper, as in the case of the
somnolent farmer who was awakened by the minister calling on him to
rouse himself by taking a pinch of snuff, and who blurted out ‘Put the
snuff in the sermon, sir,’--an advice which found not a little sympathy
in the congregation.
In a parish church about the middle of Ayrshire the central passage
leading from the entrance to the pulpit is paved with large
stone-flags. On the right side a worthy matron had her family pew,
wherein, overcome with drowsiness, she used to fall asleep, with her
head resting on her large brass-clasped Bible. She was an admirable
housekeeper and farmer, looking after all the details of management
herself. In her dreams in church her thoughts would sometimes wander
back to her domestic concerns and show that she was not ‘mistress
of herself, though china falls.’ One Sunday, in the course of her
slumbers, she succeeded in pushing her massive Bible over the edge of
the pew. As it fell on the stone-floor, its brass mountings made a loud
noise, at which she started up with the exclamation, ‘Hoot, ye stupid
jaud, there’s anither bowl broken.’
The genial Principal of Glasgow University, in the course of a public
speech a year or two ago, told a story of an opposite kind. An old
couple in his country parish had taken with them to church their
stirring little grandson, who behaved all through the service with
preternatural gravity. So much was the preacher struck with the good
conduct of so young a listener, that, meeting the grandfather at the
close of the service, he congratulated him upon the remarkably quiet
composure of the boy. ‘Ay,’ said the old man with a twinkle in his eye,
‘Duncan’s weel threetened afore he gangs in.’
[Sidenote: ANIMAL VISITORS TO THE KIRK]
When an afternoon service is held, the attendance is sometimes apt to
be scanty. A minister who was annoyed at a lukewarmness of this kind on
the part of his congregation, remonstrated with them on the subject. ‘I
canna tell,’ he said, ‘how it may look to the Almichtie that sae few o’
ye come to the second diet o’ worship, but I maun say that it’s showin’
unco little respect to mysel’.’
In summer weather, when the doors and windows of churches are sometimes
kept open for air, occasional unwelcome intruders distract the people
and disturb the preacher. Butterflies and small birds are the most
frequent; dogs are not uncommon, and in some districts these calls are
varied by the occasional appearance of a goat. A dog is amenable to
the sight of the minister’s man approaching with a stick, and bolts
off without needing any audible word of command, but a goat is a much
more refractory visitor. One of these creatures entered a country
church one Sunday in the midst of the service and deliberately marched
down the central passage. Of course every eye in the congregation was
turned upon it, and the luckless preacher found much difficulty in
proceeding with his discourse. The beadle at last sprang from his seat
and proceeded to meet the intruder. He had no stick, however, and the
goat showed fight by charging him with its horns and making him beat
a retreat. A friendly umbrella was thereupon passed out to him from
one of the pews, and he returned to the combat. By spreading his arms
and wielding the umbrella, he prevented the animal from reaching the
pulpit stairs and succeeded in turning it. But once or twice it wheeled
round again, as if to renew the fight. He contrived, however, to press
it onwards as far as the church porch, when, lifting up his foot and
dealing the goat a kick which considerably quickened its retreat, he
gave vent to his feelings of anger and indignation in an imprecation,
distinctly audible through half the church, ‘Out o’ the house o’ God,
ye brute.’
[Sidenote: CHURCH COLLECTIONS]
A characteristic feature of many churches in Scotland is the
‘collection,’ that is, the gathering of the contributions of the
congregation for the poor of the parish or other purpose. In the
Highlands where there are services both in Gaelic and English, the
performance is repeated at the end of each. One or more of the elders,
attired in Sunday garb, and looking as sad and solemn as if they were
at a funeral, take the ‘ladle’ or wooden box at the end of a pole, and
push it into each pew. The alms as they are dropped into the receptacle
make a noise so distinctly audible over the building that a practised
ear can make a shrewd guess as to the value of the coin deposited.
Nearly the whole contribution is in coppers, only the larger farmers
and the laird’s families furnishing anything of higher value. Hence
such congregations have been profanely valued at threepence a dozen.
An amusing incident in one of these collections took place at a parish
church in the west of Cowal. A family whom I used to visit there had
come to their seat in the gallery while the earlier service was still
going on, and when the Gaelic ladle came round they put into it their
contributions. After the ladle had traversed the church at the end
of the second service and was being brought back to the foot of the
pulpit, the minister, who noticed that it had not been taken up to the
laird’s seat, beckoned vigorously to the man who was approaching with
the money and pointed to the gallery. In response he received only a
knowing shake of the head from the collector, who at last, impatient
at the ministerial gesticulations, exclaimed aloud, ‘Na, na, sir, its
a’ richt, I wass takin’ the laird’s money at the Gaelic.’ In this
same kirk on another occasion, after the whole contributions of the
congregation had been collected, the box came up to the gallery, but
unluckily was carried violently against the corner of a pew, the bottom
came out, and the accumulated coppers rattled noisily to the floor.
Another part of the church service which cannot but strike a stranger,
especially in the Highlands, is the singing. In the more remote and
primitive parishes the precentor, standing in a lower desk directly
under the minister, reads out one, now more usually two lines of the
psalm, and then strikes up the tune. At the end of the first two lines,
he reads out the second two, which he proceeds to sing as before. The
congregation usually joins heartily in the music, which is the only
part of the service wherein it can actively participate.
[Sidenote: HIGHLAND PRECENTORS]
It is not always easy to secure a precentor. He must, in the first
place, be a man of tried good character, and in the second place, he
must of course be able to distinguish the metres of the psalms, and
have voice and ear enough to raise at least three or four psalm-tunes.
His repertoire is seldom much more extensive. Occasionally he begins
a tune that will not suit the metre of the psalm, or he loses himself
altogether. A precentor in the north Highlands to whom this happened,
suddenly stopped and exclaimed, ‘Och, bless me, I’m aff the tune
again.’ Another more sedate worthy struck up the tune three times,
but always lost it at the second line. He paused, looked round the
congregation, and after solemnly saying ‘Hoots, toots, toots,’ went
at it the fourth time successfully. When the precentor at Peebles had
failed twice in his efforts, the old minister looked over the pulpit
and said aloud to him, ‘Archie, try it again, and if ye canna manage
it, tak’ anither tune.’
A precentor is naturally jealous of any more practised and clearer
voice than his own, which, he rightly thinks, ought to predominate. In
the little Free Church of Raasay Island, the precentor had it all his
own way until the minister’s sister came. She sat at the far end of
the church, and, having some knowledge of music and a good voice, she
made herself well heard as she sang in much quicker time than the slow
drawl to which the people had been accustomed. Before the precentor
had done a line she was ready to begin the next, and the half of the
congregation nearest to her followed her excellent lead. This was too
much for the precentor. He raised his voice till it almost cracked with
the strain, and for a few notes drowned the rival performer at the
other end. But he could not keep it up, and as his notes dropped, the
clear sweet voice of the lady came out as before. Sitting about the
middle of the church, I was able to appreciate the strange see-saw in
the psalmody.
The most remarkable change which has taken place within living
memory in the services of the Scottish Church is unquestionably the
introduction of instrumental music. In most of the large congregations
of the chief towns, the precentor has given way to an organ, which
leads the choir, as the choir leads the congregation. Had any one in
the earlier half of last century been audacious enough to predict that
in a couple of generations the ‘kist o’ whistles,’ which had been long
banished as a sign and symbol of black popery, would be reintroduced
and welcomed before the end of the century, he would have been laughed
to scorn, or branded as himself a limb of the prelatic Satan. Of
course, there has been much searching of heart over this innovation,
and many have been the head-shakings and even open denunciations of
such manifest backsliding. But the cause of enlightenment has steadily
gained ground in the Lowlands, and a few generations hence it may not
improbably prevail even over the Highlands. Meanwhile in most Highland
parishes, the first notes of an organ in the church would probably
drive the majority of the congregation out of doors, and lead to years
of angry controversy.
[Sidenote: A CHURCH-STOVE AND POPERY]
The horror of anything savouring of what is thought to be popery shows
itself sometimes in determined opposition to even the most innocent and
useful changes. Sir Lauder Brunton has told me that in a Roxburghshire
parish with which he is well acquainted, the church being excessively
cold in winter, a proposal was mooted to introduce a stove for the
purpose of heating it. This innovation, however, met with a strong
resistance, especially from one member of the congregation, who said
that a stove had a pipe like an organ, and he would have nothing
savouring of popery in the Kirk of Scotland. He actually delayed the
reform for a time.
In the same county, where it had been the custom from time immemorial
to winnow the corn with the help of the wind, a farmer, alive to the
value of modern improvements, procured and began to use a machine which
created an artificial and always available current of air. He was at
once rebuked for an impious defiance of the ways of Providence.
A proposal to put a stove into a Fifeshire parish met with the
opposition of one of the heritors, who, when the minister came to
him for a subscription towards the warming of the kirk, indignantly
refused, asking, ‘D’ye think John Knox asked for a stove, even for the
cauldest kirk he ever preached in? Na, na, sir, warm the folk wi’ your
preachin’, and they’ll never think about the cauld.’
At the time of the Disruption of the Church of Scotland in 1843 the
congregations were apt to side with their minister, if he were an
able and efficient pastor to whom they were attached. Thus in Skye,
as I have above mentioned, so powerful was the influence of John
Mackinnon among his people that he kept them with him in the pale of
the Establishment. But in most Highland parishes the Free Church early
took ground, and in a large number it has been so predominant that
the congregation of the Parish Church sometimes consists of little
more than the clergyman and his family. In such cases the position of
the adherents of the ‘Auld Kirk’ may sometimes be rather trying. More
especially is it felt by the ‘minister’s man,’ who is sometimes placed
in sad straits in his endeavour to put the best face on the situation
and conceal the feebleness of his flock. Without knowing his official
position, or to which of the churches he belonged, I once met one
of these worthies in the west of Ross-shire, and, with a friend who
accompanied me, had some talk with him about the parish.
[Sidenote: A MINISTER’S MAN]
‘How does the Established Church get on here?’ we asked.
‘O fine, fine, sirs.’
‘Has the minister been here a long time?’
‘Ow ay, it’ll be a long time noo, I’m sure.’
‘And has he a large congregation?’
‘Ow ay, it’s a fery goot congregation, whatefer.’
‘Is it as big as the Free Kirk?’
‘Weel, I’ll no say that it will be just as big as the Free Kirk.’
‘How many do you think there may be in church on Sunday?’
‘Weel, ye see, there’ll be sometimes more and sometimes fewer.’
‘But have you no idea how many they may be?’
‘Weel, sir, I dinna think I wass ever counting them.’
‘You go to the parish church yourself, I think?’
[Sidenote: PARISH VISITING]
‘O, to be sure, I do: where wad ye think I wad be goin’ else?’
It was quite clear that our interlocutor must be a staunch adherent of
the Auld Kirk, and probably had some scantiness of the congregation to
conceal; but we had no idea then of what we learnt soon afterwards,
that he was no less a personage than the ‘minister’s man,’ and that,
saving the family from the manse and an occasional stranger, he was
himself the whole congregation.
It has been made a matter of reproach to the clergy of the Scottish
Church that, though they spend more time over the preparation of their
sermons and place these on a higher intellectual level than is common
in the English communion, they fall short of their brethren south of
the Tweed in the assiduity of their visitation of their people. Where
a parish extends over an area of many square miles, it must obviously
be difficult for the minister to move freely and constantly among his
parishioners, so as to be in close touch with all of them in their
mundane as well as their spiritual affairs. In such cases, he finds it
necessary to arrange the times of his visits, which are thus apt to
become somewhat formal ceremonies, announced beforehand, and prepared
for by those to whom notice is given. An example of this kind is
related of a minister who had recently been appointed to the parish of
Lesmahagow, and who made known from the pulpit one Sunday that he would
visit next day a certain hilly district of the parish. Accordingly, on
Monday morning he set out, and, after a walk of some seven or eight
miles, arrived at a farm-house, where he meant to begin. After knocking
for some time and getting no reply, he hailed a boy outside, when the
following conversation ensued:
‘Is Mr. Smith at home?’
‘Na.’
‘Is Mrs. Smith here?’
‘Na.’
‘Are you their son?’
‘Ay.’
‘Well, I have walked a long way, and I would like to sit and rest for a
little. May I go in?’ (answering the question by entering). ‘And did
your father and mother not expect me?’
‘Na, they didna think ye wad begin up here; sae they’re awa’ doon to
the roup o’ Ritchie’s farm.’
‘Well, now, my man, are these all the books that your father has in the
house?’
‘Ay.’
‘Now tell me which of them does he use oftenest?’
‘That ane,’ pointing to a large leather-covered family Bible.
‘O, the Bible; that’s right: I am pleased to know that; and when does
he use it?’
‘On Sabbath mornin’s.’
‘Only once a week! Well, how does he do? Does he read it aloud to you
all?’
‘Na, he shairps his raazors on’t.’
I once had quarters at South Queensferry in a house through the centre
of which ran the boundary between that burgh and the adjacent parish of
Dalmeny. I asked my landlady how she arranged about the claims of the
clergy. ‘Well, ye see, I go to the Burgh Kirk, and my minister comes to
see me frae time to time. And Mr Muir of Dalmeny, he visits me too, but
I try to be quite fair to them both. The parlour here is in the burgh,
so I take my ain minister in there, and, as the other half of the house
is in Dalmeny, I put the other minister in the kitchen, which belongs
to his parish.’
In the striking delineation which Wordsworth has given of the early
surroundings of his ‘Wanderer,’ and the circumstances that moulded his
character, special stress is laid on the clerical influence which from
infancy had guarded this son of the Braes of Athol.
The Scottish Church, both on himself and those
With whom from childhood he grew up, had held
The strong hand of her purity; and still
Had watched him with an unrelenting eye.
[Sidenote: MORAL INFLUENCE OF THE CLERGY]
It is to be feared, however, that the result of such continual
guardianship is to be recognised rather in the theological bent of the
people than in their moral behaviour. The high standard of conduct held
up in the pulpit, and generally followed by the clergy themselves,
has not prevented the statistics of drunkenness and illegitimacy from
attaining an unenviable notoriety. Yet no one can turn over the pages
of the records of kirk-sessions and presbyteries without obtaining a
deep impression of the untiring earnestness and devotion with which the
Church has struggled against these two great national sins. If in the
heyday of her power she could not eradicate the evils, her task must
now be tenfold more onerous, when the ‘strong hand’ can no longer reach
large masses of the population, and when the ‘unrelenting eye,’ though
as keenly watchful as ever, can only note the decadence which the hand
is powerless to reclaim. Unhappily a spirit of heathen ignorance, or
of pagan indifference, has largely replaced the unquestioning faith
of an older time, especially among the artisans of the large towns
and the miners in the great coal-fields. It is mainly in the country
districts, where social changes advance more slowly, that the religious
instruction given at school and in church still continues to colour the
outlook of the people on life here and hereafter.
If indeed we could judge from expressions that have survived from
older generations, we might infer that many of the articles of the
Christian faith retain a firm hold on minds which, if questioned on the
subject, would probably express doubt or denial of them, such as the
doctrine of a material heaven and hell, of a system of future rewards
and punishments, of a personal devil intent on man’s ruin, and of the
sinfulness of Sunday work.
[Sidenote: FORECASTING OF THE FUTURE]
The way in which the acceptance of a material heaven and hell shows
itself in ordinary conversation, might be illustrated by many
anecdotes. One or two examples may here suffice. About forty years ago
a well-known wealthy iron-master gave a dinner-party at his country
house. Among his guests was an old friend of mine, from whom he had
purchased a portion of his estate. The conversation turned on the great
changes that had taken place in the district within the memory of those
present,--the dying out of old families and the incoming of new, the
making of railways, the laying out of roads, the growth of villages,
and so forth,--when my friend remarked, ‘Ah, me! I dare say I would see
just as much change again if I were to come down sixty years hence.’
Whereupon the host instantly ejaculated from the other end of the room,
‘What’s that ye say? Come down! Tak’ care ye haena to come up.’
Of similar character is another Ayrshire story which has been told of a
man who built a large and ostentatious tomb for himself and family, of
which he was so proud that he boasted to the gravedigger that it would
last till the day of judgment, when they might have some trouble to get
up out of it. As the man’s reputation was none of the highest, the
gravedigger replied, ‘I’m thinkin’ ye needna be wonderin’ how ye’re to
come up, for if they knock the bottom out o’t ye’ll aiblins gang doun.’
A country doctor, who was attending a laird, had instructed the
butler of the house in the art of taking and recording his master’s
temperature with a thermometer. On repairing to the house one morning
he was met by the butler, to whom he said: ‘Well, John, I hope the
laird’s temperature is not any higher to-day?’ The man looked puzzled
for a moment, and then replied: ‘Weel, I was just wonderin’ that
mysell. Ye see he deed at twal’ o’clock.’
A clergyman’s son had taken to drink, and had given great trouble and
pain to his worthy father. On one occasion, after a debauch of several
days, he returned to the manse in the evening, and found that there had
been a presbytery dinner in the house, and that the reverend fathers
who had dined were now engaged over their toddy and talk in the study.
He made for the room, and was immediately welcomed by his father, who
tried to put the best face he could on the situation. He asked the
young man where he had been. ‘In hell,’ was the answer. ‘Ah, and what
did you find there?’ ‘Much the same as I find here: I couldna see the
fire for ministers.’
[Sidenote: ‘IT MICHT HAE BEEN WAUR’]
In a country parish in the West of Scotland the minister’s man was a
noted pessimist, whose only consolation to his friends in any calamity
consisted in the remark, ‘It micht hae been waur.’ One morning he was
met by the minister, who told him he had had such a terrible dream that
he had not yet been able to shake off the effects of it. ‘I dreamt I
was in hell, and experienced the torments of the lost. I never suffered
such agony in my life, and even now I shudder when I think of it.’ The
beadle’s usual consolatory remark came out, ‘It micht hae been waur.’
‘O John, John, I tell you it was the greatest mental distress I ever
suffered in my life. How could it have been worse?’ ‘It micht hae been
true,’ was the reply.
Cases of religious mania have been common enough in Scotland, where
questions of theology have for centuries been keenly debated among all
classes of the community. It has been said that ‘the worst of madmen
is a saint run mad.’ Whether this dictum be true or not there would
appear to have been always cases where brooding upon some one doctrine
of the Christian faith has led to mental aberration more or less
serious. An instance of this kind occurred in the north of Ayrshire,
where a man, who had lost his wits over theological speculation, would
sometimes accost a stranger on a quiet country road, and taking him by
the button-hole would abruptly ask him, ‘What do you think of effectual
calling? Isn’t it a damned shame? Good day to you.’ And off the poor
fellow marched, ready to propound the same or some similar problem to
the next passenger he would meet.
A less pronounced case of the same tendency was that of a countryman
who felt much aggrieved by the story of the fall of man as told in
the Book of Genesis. ‘And it comes specially hard on me,’ he would
complain, ‘for I never could byde apples raw or cooked a’ my days.’