THE PULPIT AND THE PEW
When discoursing on the humours of old Scotch divines, I designedly
recounted only such anecdotes as revealed the minister holding the “heft
end” of the argument. In the present paper, which is wider in its scope,
the honours will be found more equally divided, and the illustrations of
the national character and humour laid under contribution will, on that
account, prove not less entertaining and amusing.
To “get the better” of the minister has always meant fame of a
kind—largely because of the rarity of such an achievement—and one can
imagine how the parish would ring during the proverbial “nine days” with
the fame of the old dame who, when her spiritual adviser called at her
house to enquire of her the reason why recently she had suddenly turned
“Seceder,” retorted, “Weel, ye just took a hale fortnicht to put Jonah
into the whawl’s belly, and anither hale fortnicht to tak’ him oot; and
what sort o’ fool’s preachin’ d’ye ca’ that?”
A Fifeshire laird, in a somewhat similar way, scored heavily against the
minister of his parish. The latter had called on the laird to solicit a
subscription from him to aid in putting a stove in the church, which, he
said, the congregation found very cold. “Cauld, sir, cauld?” snorted the
chief heritor; “then warm them up wi’ your doctrine, sir. John Knox never
askit for a stove in his kirk.”
Equally pungent was the retort which issued from a country pew on the
north of the Tay. “Ye’re sleepin’, John,” said the minister, pausing in
the middle of a humdrum discourse, and looking hard in the direction of
the drowsy member thus addressed—“Tak’ a snuff, John.” “Put the snuff in
the sermon,” grunted John; and the broad grin that scampered over the
upturned faces of the congregation showed how much the suggestion was
deemed _fit_. But it is seldom the sleeper is found so _wide-awake_,
if the expression will be allowed. His mental condition for the time
being acts against the ready exercise of wit, and he is generally caught
napping in a double sense. And, indeed, many who are popularly termed
“_pillars_ of the kirk,” might with equal appropriateness be termed
_sleepers_. In a certain church in Forfarshire, there was no worse
offender in this way than the minister’s own wife. One Sabbath she was
actually asleep before the text was given out, a fact which her husband
was not slow to observe. The minister had a quiet humour of his own; and
the passage chosen for treatment that day had more than its original
meaning to many present, when, “fixing his glassy eye” on the family
pew he said, “The words, my brethren, to which I wish to direct your
particular attention at the present time, are these—‘_He giveth His
beloved sleep_.’”
Some folks apparently make a mistake in not taking their nightcaps to
church with them. It has been told of a Dumbartonshire cattle-dealer
that, going to hear (?) a young minister of repute who was preaching
for a day in the parish kirk at Bonhill, immediately after the opening
devotional services and the reading of chapter, he spread his hands
on the book-board, forming them into a temporary pillow, on which he
laid his drowsy head and prepared to enjoy a comfortable “snooze.” The
preacher’s voice was powerful, and the style of his declamation such as
to admit of considerable grandiloquence. Accordingly, after some minutes,
minister and people were attracted by Bauldy raising his head just a
little, and saying, quite audibly, “Ye’re just fully lood for me—ay,
fully lood.” He laid down his head again, and the preacher, proceeding,
waxed more eloquent and more vociferous as he warmed with his theme. At
length, after a grand burst which closed some great passage, Bauldy sat
right bolt up, and looking up at the minister, said, “Hang it! ye’re far
ower lood. There’s nae mortal man could sleep wi’ a noise like that.”
It is frequently only one step from the sleeping to the wide-awake
members, and, the latter being preferable company, we will now see how
some of those have conducted themselves. Perhaps the prejudice against
read sermons lingered longer in Scotland than anywhere else; and, of
course, it was among the class that distinguished clearly between the
legitimate uses of a pew and a bed that the individuals who concerned
themselves in these matters were found.
“Eh, he’s a grand preacher!” whispered an old spinster to her sister, as
they listened for the first time to a young minister.
“Wheesht! Bell,” was the reply, “he’s _readin’_!”
“Readin’, is he?” said the eulogist, changing her tone. “The paltry
fellow! We’ll gang hame, Jenny, and read our Book.”
In 1772, when Dr. Thomas Blacklock, the well-known poet, who was blind,
was preaching one of his trial discourses on the occasion of his being
presented, by the Earl of Selkirk, to the living of Kirkcudbright, an old
woman who sat on the pulpit stairs inquired of a neighbour if she thought
he was a reader.
“He canna be a reader,” was the reply, “for he’s blind.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said the ancient dame; “I wish they were a’ blind!”
The ladies have always exercised a lively surveillance of the pulpit, and
vended many an apt criticism.
“How did you like that young man we had to-day?” was once asked of a
discerning village matron.
“Weel, I had just three fauts to his sermon,” was the reply.
“And what were these, if I may ask?”
“Weel,” said she, “firstly, it was read; and, secondly, it wasna weel
read; and, thirdly, it wasna worth readin’!”
[Illustration: “Weel, I had just three fauts to his sermon: firstly, it
was read; and, secondly, it wasna weel read; and, thirdly, it wasna worth
readin’!”—_Page 91._]
A sweeping criticism, and no mistake.
Dr. Norman Macleod was once preaching in a district in Ayrshire, where
the reading of a sermon was regarded as the greatest fault a minister
could be guilty of. When the congregation dispersed, an old woman,
overflowing with enthusiasm, addressed her neighbour with, “Did ye ever
hear onything sae grand? Wasna that a sermon?”
“Oh, ay,” replied her friend sulkily, “but he read it.”
“_Read_ it,” reiterated the other with indignant emphasis, “I wudna hae
cared gin he had _whustled_ it.”
How the great Norman would enjoy this we can easily imagine! And yet it
was not always plain sailing with the preacher who was a victim to “the
paper.”
A certain minister had a custom of merely writing the heads of his
discourses on small bits of paper, which he arranged and placed on
the Bible before him, to be used in succession. One day, while he was
expounding the second head, he became so excited in his manner that by a
wave of his arm the ensuing slip was, unperceived by himself, swept over
the edge of the pulpit, and, being caught in an air current in falling,
was carried right out through the window, which for ventilation sake
had been left partly open. On reaching the end of the second, he looked
down for the third slip, but, alas! it was not to be found. “Thirdly,”
he cried, looking round him with great anxiety. After a little pause,
“Thirdly,” he again exclaimed, but still no thirdly appeared. “Thirdly,
I say, my brethren,” pursued the bewildered clergyman, but not another
word could he utter. At this point, while the congregation were partly
sympathising in his distress, and partly rejoicing in such a decisive
instance of the evil of using notes in preaching, an old woman came to
the minister’s rescue with the remark—“Deed, sir, ye needna fash yersel’,
for _thirdly_ gaed oot at the window a quarter o’ an hour syne.”
That clergyman had not the inventive ingenuity of a Perth minister I have
heard about. The latter had one really good sermon, which he styled the
“White Horse,” and on occasions when he was called out to preach, which
were few and far between, he invariably trotted out his “White Horse.”
On one occasion he arranged to conduct the forenoon service in a church
at some considerable distance, the regular minister of which being from
home expected to return in time to preach himself in the afternoon.
In the forenoon, the “White Horse” did the usual gallant service, but
in the interval of public worship, the intelligence arrived that some
untoward circumstance had prevented the native clergyman’s return,
and that he (the Perth divine) would require to conduct the afternoon
service also. Here was a demand which our Boanerges from the Fair City
had not calculated on. He had brought no other sermon with him, and,
even although he had, it would not have sustained the impression made
by the “White Horse.” What was to be done? A moment’s reflection, and
the difficulty was removed. “My dear brethren,” said he, when he stood
up in the place of execution in the afternoon, “it was told to me in
the interval that some of you when leaving the church were saying that
the sermon which I preached from this place in the forenoon was not
sound doctrine. I maintain that it was perfectly sound; and as I wish to
convince everyone of you that it was so, I now ask you to give me your
attentive hearing and I will preach the sermon over again.” And he did.
The hero of the next story was like unto the author of the “White Horse”:—
A Scotch gentleman, previous to a Continental tour, engaged as a
travelling companion, a rather dissolute and ignorant Highland student,
named Alexander Macpherson. Before they had been long abroad, the
gentleman, to his regret, found himself compelled to part with his
_compagnon de voyage_ owing to his intemperate habits, and heard no more
about him for several years. Happening, however, to drop into a secluded
little Dissenting chapel in Wales, presided over by the Rev. Jonas
Jones, as the board at the little gate revealed, he was astonished to
find his dismissed servitor officiating in the pulpit, and astounded to
hear him several times during the reading of the preliminary chapter turn
the English into Highland Gaelic, prefacing his translation always in a
sententious manner by the words, “or, as it is in the original,” and he
was further astonished to hear from several of the congregation that Mr.
Jones passed among them as a man of deep learning. After the conclusion
of the service, he accosted the minister as he was leaving the church
without any signs of recognition on that worthy’s part. “Do you not know
me?” cried the gentleman, grasping his hand.
“Really, I beg your pardon, but there must be some mistake,” said the
minister, endeavouring to move on.
“Oh, no mistake whatever, I assure you,” returned the gentleman. “Are you
not Mr. ⸺?”
“I am Mr. Jonas Jones,” put in the pastor, hastily.
“Aye,” replied the gentleman, sarcastically, observing that he was
determined to ignore all recollection of him, “or, _as it is in the
original_, Sandy Macpherson o’ Inveraray!”
To be “sound” was the main essential in those days. A certain clergyman
had been suspected of leanings towards Arminianism, or of being a
Rationalist, and much anxiety in consequence was felt by the flock he
was called on to superintend. He put their fears suddenly to flight,
however, for he turned out to be a sound divine as well as a good man. On
the Monday after his sermon had been delivered, he was accosted in his
walk by a decent old man, who after thanking him for his able discourse,
went on—“Od, sir, the story gaed that you was a rational preacher; but
glad am I, and a’ the parish wi’ me, to find that you are _no’ a rational
preacher_ after a’.” The minister thought it a dubious compliment, no
doubt.
An old farmer, wishing to pay his minister a compliment on the occasion
of his being made a D.D., said, “I kent ye wad come to something, sir,
for, as I have aye said, ye neither fear God nor regard man.”
Speaking of the old-fashioned “rousing sermons” with which some ministers
used to delight and terrify their hearers, Mr. Inglis, in his recent
work _Our Ain Folk_, relates a conversation that took place between two
severe old Covenanters after hearing a sermon of this type. “What do you
think o’ that sermon, Jamie?” said Willie, as they wended their way down
the street. “Think o’t,” said Jamie. “Man, it was jist a gran’ sermon.
I havena heard ane I likit better for mony a day. What do you think o’t
yersel’?” “Ae, man,” said Willie, “it was an awfu’ sermon, a fearfu’
sermon. It fair gar’d my flesh a’ grue. I’m shiverin’ yet, an I’m sure I
canna tak’ my denner.” “What?” said Jamie, wi’ a snort o’ indignation;
“what do you want? What wad ye ha’e, man? Do you want the man to slide ye
down to hell on a buttered plate!”
A little band of old women on their way home from the kirk on the evening
of a special day’s preaching, shortened the road by discussing the merits
of the various divines who had addressed them, when one worthy dame thus
honestly expressed herself, “Oh, leeze me abune them a’,” exclaimed
she, “for yon auld, beld, clear-headed man that spoke sae bonnie on the
angels. When he said, ‘Raphael sings, and Gabriel tunes his goolden herp,
and a’ the angels clap their wings wi’ joy,’ oh, but it was grand! It
just put me in mind o’ oor geese, at Dunjarg, as they turn their nebs to
the south an’ clap their wings when they see rain comin’ after a lang
drouth.”
The Rev. Mr. Yule, a Perthshire divine, was in the habit of going through
the village on the Sabbath afternoons in summer, and inviting the people
to open-air service on the green in the evening. Entering one afternoon
where there were a number of the inhabitants congregated for no special
purpose further than the discussion of current local events, the good man
had not time to declare his mission when a douce village matron folded
her hands complacently on her lap, and, looking towards the minister,
said, “Eh! yon was a grand sermon ye ga’ed us this forenoon, Mr. Yule.”
“I am glad you were pleased with it, I am sure,” the minister modestly
replied.
“Pleased!” echoed the matron. “I was just so perfectly _feasted_ wi’ it
that I cam’ hame an’ ga’rd Tammas turn up ‘Matthew Hendry,’ and read it
a’ ower again to me.”
In Perth, about twenty years ago, there lived one, Kirsty Robertson, who
earned her living by washing. The poor body had to work from morning till
night to keep herself in food and clothing. She managed, however, to make
a respectable appearance on Sundays, and was a regular attender of the
kirk. The minister observed her decent and obvious poverty, and thought
he ought to call on her, and see if he could assist her. He accordingly
did so, and going in one night he saw Kirsty sitting by the fire, wearied
out with her day’s labour. On hearing the minister come in Kirsty started
up with an exclamation of surprise. He bade her be seated, and kindly
enquired into her welfare, both spiritual and temporal. Before leaving,
he inquired: “And I hope, Mrs. Robertson, you receive much good from your
regular attendance at the ordinances?” “Ou ay, sir,” replied Kirsty,
“it’s no’ every day I get sic a nice seat to sit on, an’ sae little to
think aboot.”
Two men were talking about sermons. “Hoo did your minister get on last
Sabbath?” asked the one. “Get on!” said the other; “he got on—just like a
taed amang tar.”
A well-known Edinburgh lecturer—the late “Sandy” Russel of the
_Scotsman_—was some years ago, it is said, enjoying a brief holiday in
a quiet Highland retreat, which afforded excellent scope for the plying
of the “gentle art,” and the Sabbath coming round in due course, he
resolved, in order to dispel the tedium of the day, to attend the village
church. The worthy parson noted the intellectual-looking stranger among
his sparse congregation, and, on making enquiries, was informed of his
personal identity. On the Monday following, the parson took a walk along
the river side and very soon encountered the popular editor busy with rod
and line.
“You are a keen fisher, I believe, Mr. Russel,” was the preacher’s
introductory remark.
“Yes, I am, pastor,” was the instant and decided reply.
“I am a fisher too,” remarked the minister dreamily, “_but a fisher of
men_;” the latter words were delivered with great unction.
“Oh, indeed,” dryly responded the editor, “I had a keek into your creel
yesterday; ye didna seem to ha’e catch’d mony.”
[Illustration: “I’m a fisher too,” remarked the minister dreamily, “_but
a fisher of men_;” the latter words were delivered with great unction.
“Oh, indeed,” dryly responded the angler, “I had a keek into your creel
yesterday; ye didna seem to ha’e catch’d mony.”—_Page 98._]
Taking a walk through his parish one day a minister came upon a woman
seated at her door reading a book, which he at once concluded was the
New Testament, but which was really Blind Harry’s _Wallace_. Expressing
his gratification at finding her so well employed, he said it was a book
which no one would ever grew weary reading.
“Atweel, sir,” said she, “I never weary o’t; I’ve read it through an’
through I dinna ken hoo aften, an’ I’m just as fond o’t yet as ever.”
“Ah, Janet,” exclaimed the enraptured divine, “I am glad to hear you say
so; and how happy I would be if all my parishioners were of the same
mind, and what benefit it would be to themselves, too! For oh, to think,
Janet, what He did and suffered for us!”
“Deed, ay, sir, an’ that’s true,” answered Janet, “an’ to think how
he soom’d through the Carron water on a cauld frosty mornin’, wi’ his
braidsword in his teeth. It was awfu’!”
The Rev. Mr. M’Dougall was one of those preachers who keep their hearers
awake by sheer strength of lung. Preaching one day in a strange church,
he espied an old woman applying her handkerchief very frequently to her
eyes. Attributing her distress to a change for the better, he kept his
eye on her, and at the close of the service, found an opportunity to
speak to her, and said, “You seemed to be deeply affected, my good woman,
while I was preaching to-day?”
“Ay, sir, I was rale muckle affected,” she replied.
“I am truly glad of that,” quoth the minister; “and I hope the impression
may be a lasting one.”
“I doot, sir,” said she, “ye’re takin’ me up wrang. I was only thinkin’
on Shoozie.”
“Shoozie!” exclaimed the astonished divine; “what do you mean by
Shoozie?”
“Oh, ye ken, sir,” replied the matron, “that was a cuddie we had. She
dee’d twa or three weeks syne, and she was a kindly beast; an’ I just
thocht whiles when I heard ye in yer raptur’s the day it was her roarin’,
an’ I fairly broke doon wi’t.”
It was customary long ago to speak of the topic of a sermon as its
_ground_ or _grund_, and the story is told of an old woman bustling into
church rather late one day. The preacher, a young man, had commenced his
sermon. The old dame, opening her Bible, nudged her next neighbour with
the inquiry, “What’s his grund?”
“Oh,” rejoined the other, “the silly elf’s lost his grund lang syne; he’s
just _soomin’_!”
It was no use trying to throw dust in the eyes of such practical people.
Another plain-spoken dame said of a preacher of diminutive stature, who
occasionally officiated in the church in which she was a regular hearer,
and to whom she cherished some antipathy, “If there’s an ill text in a’
the Bible, that ugly wratch o’ a creatur’ is sure to tak’ it.”
A city congregation not long since presented their minister with a sum
of money, and sent him off to the Continent for a holiday. Soon after,
a gentleman, just returned from the Continent, meeting a prominent
member of the congregation, said, “Oh, by the by, I met your minister in
Germany. He was looking very well—he didn’t look as if he needed a rest.”
“No,” said the member calmly, “it wasna _him_, it was the congregation
that was needin’ a rest.”
Shortly after a Congregational chapel had been planted in a small burgh
in the North, an incident occurred which showed that the powers of its
minister were appreciated in certain quarters. A boy named Johnnie
Fordyce had been indiscreet enough to put a sixpence in his mouth, and
accidentally swallowed it. Mrs. Fordyce, concerned both for her boy
and the sixpence, tried every means for its recovery, consulted her
neighbours, and finally, in despair, called in the doctor, but without
result. As a last resort, a young girl present suggested that they should
send for the Congregationalist minister. “The minister?” chorused mother
and neighbours. “Ay, the minister,” rejoined the girl. “My faither says
if there’s siller in onybody he’ll tak’ it oot o’ them.”
The following illustrates how careful a minister should be to fulfil his
promises. A poor old deaf man, residing in Fife, was visited one day by
the parish minister, who had been recently inducted. Talking with the
spouse of the afflicted parishioner, the minister professed to be greatly
interested in the old man’s case, and promised before leaving that he
would call regularly and pray with him. He, however, did not darken the
door of their home again until about two years after, when happening
to go through the street in which the old man lived, he found the wife
standing at the door, and of course made anxious inquiry regarding her
husband.
“Well, Margaret,” said he, “how is Thomas?”
“Nane the better o’ you,” was the rather curt reply.
“How, how, Margaret?” inquired the minister.
“Oh, ye promised twa years syne to ca’ and pray ance a fortnicht wi’ him,
and ye hae never ance darkened oor door sin’ syne.”
“Well, well, Margaret, don’t be so short. I thought it was not so very
necessary to call and pray with Thomas, for he’s so deaf, you know, and
couldn’t hear me.”
“Ay, but, sir,” rejoined the woman, “_the Lord’s no’ deaf!_”
He was well answered.
That story suggests another which I have heard told by the worthy divine
in whose experience it happened. He had on his “sick list” an old male
parishioner, on whom he made frequent calls, and invariably read and
prayed with the family before leaving. One day there were only the old
man and the old woman in the house. The customary chapter was read, after
which the divine engaged in prayer. On looking round at the conclusion of
the latter, he was astonished to discover that the woman had disappeared.
He had scarcely recovered from the bewilderment of the occasion, however,
when she came timidly slipping through the doorway. “Hech, sirse!” she
exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, “are ye dune already?” then added, by
way of explanation, “Ye see, sir, the Kirkintilloch flute baund gaed by
there a maument syne; oor Jamie’s in’t, an’ I just ran oot to see the
crood, thinkin’ I wad be back again afore ye wad ken.”
Here is a worthy companion story to the above. A country minister had
occasion to call upon one of his parishioners who kept a toll-bar,
and after some conversation he proceeded to pray with him. He had not
uttered many words when he was interrupted by an exclamation from the
tollman—“Wheest a minute, sir; I think I hear a cairt!” and out he went.
A Rev. Dr. Henderson of Galashiels in the course of his pastoral
visitation, called on a widow with a large family, and asked how they all
were, and how things were getting on. She said, “A’ richt, except Davie;
he’s been troubled wi’ a sair leg, and no fit for wark.” The doctor could
not remember which one Davie was, but did not like to hurt the widow’s
feelings by betraying his ignorance, and in his prayer he pled that
David’s affliction might be blessed to him. On going home, he said to his
wife, referring to his call, “Which of the sons is David?”
“Hoot,” she exclaimed, “Davie’s no a son, Davie’s the cuddie!”
It was the minister there. In the next story it was the other way about.
A former minister in the parish of Kilspindie, in the Carse of Gowrie, in
the course of his parochial visitation called at the house of a ploughman
where the oldest boy, a lad of ten, had been severely coached by his
mother in anticipation of the “visit,” and with the hope of his making
a good show. When, by and by, the minister took notice of the boy, “Ay,”
interposed the mother, “an’ he can say his Carratches, too.” “Indeed!”
exclaimed the minister, still eyeing the lad, “how nice! Who made you?”
“God.”
“Quite correct. Who redeemed you?”
“Christ.”
“Right again. You’re a clever little fellow, and [putting his hand on his
head] who cut your hair?”
“The Holy Ghost,” was the reply; and the interview terminated.
“Sir,” said the long-haired lessee of a small farm in the North one
day as he came up to the door of the Free Church Manse, “this is awfu’
weather w’ drooth; an’ I ha’e come across to see if you wad put up a
petition for a shooer o’ rain, for my neeps are just perishin’.”
“You are a member of the Established Church,” said the clergyman
addressed; “why not ask your own minister to intercede on behalf of your
turnips?”
“It’s no very likely he’ll pray for rain for my neeps,” was the blunt
response, “when his ain hay’s no in yet.”
It is quite true that—
“If self the wavering balance shake,
It’s rarely richt adjusted.”
But perhaps this worldly-minded agriculturist wronged his minister. There
have been many kind, generous souls among them. I remember, says Dr.
John Brown, a story of a good, old Anti-Burgher minister. It was in the
days when dancing was held to be a great sin, and was dealt with by the
Sessions. Jessie, a comely, blythe, and good young woman, and a great
favourite of the minister, had been guilty of dancing at a friend’s
wedding. She was summoned before the Session to be “dealt with”—the
grim old fellows sternly concentrating their eyes upon her as she stood
trembling in her striped short-gown and her petticoat. The Doctor, who
was one of divinity, and a deep thinker, greatly pitying her and himself,
said, “Jessie, my woman, were ye dancin’?”
“Yes,” sobbed Jessie.
“Ye maun e’en promise never to dance again, Jessie.”
“I will, sir; I will promise” (with a curtsey).
“Noo, what were ye thinkin’ o’, Jessie, when ye were dancin’?—tell us
truly,” said an old elder, who had been a poacher in youth.
“Nae ill, sir,” sabbed out the dear little woman.
“Then, Jessie, my woman, _aye dance_!” cried the delighted Doctor.
It was capital!
When the Rev. Mr. (now the esteemed Dr.) Macgregor, of Edinburgh, settled
in Glasgow as minister of the Tron Kirk, he had occasion, a few weeks
after, to visit a family in one of the poorer districts, where he was
as yet unknown to the eyes of his flock, although their ears had heard
his name, and his personal appearance had become in some vague way
familiar to their minds. He inquired of the goodwife whether the head of
the house was at home, and, being informed that he was not, was kindly
invited to await his arrival. This not occurring so soon as the goodwife
had expected, she suggested to her visitor, who had not acquainted her
with his name or station, that he should “gang oot an see the pigs,”
the mother-pig having brought into the world a fine litter, a few days
before. This, of course, Mr. Macgregor cheerfully consented to do. The
inmates of the sty having been duly inspected, and the virtues of the
mother-pig extolled till the old woman’s vocabulary refused to supply
another adjective, she informed her visitor that “the young piggies
had a’ been named aifter different fouk;” according as their personal
appearances seemed to offer points of resemblance. And she indicated
this and that one, as the bearer of some well-known name, honoured or
otherwise, until she came to the last one, a rather diminutive, but
active specimen of the porcine breed. “An’ this ane,” said she to her
unknown and attentive listener, “this wee black deev’luck, we ca’ _Wee
Macgregor o’ the Tron_!”
[Illustration: “An’ this ane,” said she to her unknown and attentive
listener, “this wee black deev’luck, we ca’ _Wee Macgregor o’ the
Tron_!”—_Page 106._]
The genial Doctor himself has frequently told the above story with great
and unaffected gusto.
The Christenin’, the Waddin’, the Catakeezin’ (now an unknown
institution), and the Burial—these were occasions which brought the
occupants of the pulpit and the pew into the closest relationship,
and from which many capital illustrations of the national humour and
character have arisen.
Baptism, of course, sometimes had a different significance for different
persons. “What is Baptism, John?” a minister, in the course of a public
catechising, asked his beadle.
“Baptism?” answered John, scratching his head, “weel, ye ken, it’s
sometimes mair and sometimes less, but, as a general rule, it’s
auchteenpence to me and a shillin’ to the precentor.”
“Hoo mony o’ the Elect will there be on the earth the noo, think ye,
Janet?” said one old crone to another. “Ten?”
“Na: naething like it, woman.”
“Hoots, Janet, ye think there’s naebody good enough for heaven but
yersel’, and the minister.”
“Deed,” replied Janet, “I hae sometimes very grave doots aboot the
minister.”
Here was a more generous spirit. The late Dr. Wilberforce, while paying
a visit at Taymouth Castle during the lifetime of the last Marquis
of Breadalbane, a devoted adherent of the Free Church, was taken
by Lady Breadalbane (_nee_ Baillie of Jerviswoode) into one of the
cottages on the estate occupied by an old Highland woman—a “true blue”
Presbyterian—who was greatly pleased by the Bishop’s frank and friendly
manner. A few days afterwards the Bishop left the castle, and Lady
Breadalbane paid another visit to her old friend, when the following
conversation took place:—“Do you know who that was, Mary, that came to
see you last week?” “No, my lady,” was the reply. “The famous Bishop of
Oxford,” said her ladyship. On which the denizen of the mountains quietly
remarked, “Aweel, my lady, he’s a rale fine man; and a’ I can say is,
that I trust and pray he’ll gang to heaven—Bishop though he be!”
“I hope you have made due preparation, and are in a fit state to have the
Sacrament of Baptism administered to your child, John,” said a minister
to one of his parishioners, a ploughman, who had called at the manse in
connection with a recent event in his domestic circle.
“Weel,” said the ploughman, “I haena been ower extravagant in the way o’
preparation, maybe. I’m a man o’ sma’ means, ye ken; but I’ve gotten in a
bottle o’ whisky and the best hauf o’ a kebbuck o’ cheese.”
“Tuts, tuts!” interrupted the minister, “I do not mean preparation of the
things that perish. Is your mind and heart in proper condition?”
“Do you mean that I’m no soond in the head?” queried the ploughman.
“No, I do not mean that at all,” said the divine. “You do not appear to
have an intelligent idea of the matter that has brought you here.”
Then, after a minute’s reflection, he continued—“How many Commandments
are there, John?”
“I couldna tell ye jist exactly on the spur o’ the meenit,” said John,
scratching his head, “but there’s an auld beuk lyin’ i’ the hoose yonder,
gin I had it here I could sune answer yer question.”
“John,” said the minister, “I am afraid you are not in a fit state to
hold up your child for baptism.”
“No fit to haud him up?” echoed the ploughman, starting to his feet, and
posing in the attitude best calculated to display his great muscular
form. “Me? Man, I could haud him up gin he were a bull stirk!”
And ludicrous incidents have occurred even in the supreme moment occupied
by the ceremony of the baptism of a child, and when no one was very
seriously to blame. In Paisley, some time ago, the father of a child
was from home at the time of its birth, and was not expected to return
for two or three months. The mother, desiring that the baptism of the
child should not be delayed so long, was consequently obliged to present
the infant herself, the ordinance being administered in private. The
officiating clergyman was an old man, who, when in the act of dispensing
the sacrament, asked the name by which the child was to be called. The
mother, who had a thickness in her speech, politely said, “Lucy, sir.”
“Lucifer!” exclaimed the old and irritable divine, in exasperated horror,
“I shall baptise no child by the name of the Prince of Darkness, madam.
The child’s name is John.”
But perhaps the very best specimen story on record is the well-known one
which is associated with the name of Ralph Erskine, the father of the
Scottish Secession Kirk, and which the late Robert Leighton, the poet,
rendered so happily into rhyme under the title of “The Bapteezement o’
the Bairn.” Mr. Erskine was a most proficient performer on the violin,
and so often beguiled his leisure hours with this instrument that the
people of Dunfermline believed he composed his sermons to its tones, as a
poet writes a song to a particular air. But to the story:—A poor man in
one of the neighbouring parishes having a child to baptise resolved not
to employ his own clergyman, with whom he was at issue on certain points
of doctrine, but to have the office performed by some minister of whose
tenets fame gave a better report. With the child in his arms, therefore,
and attended by the full complement of old and young women who usually
minister on such occasions, he proceeded to the manse of ⸺, some miles
off (not that of Mr. Erskine), where he inquired if the clergyman was at
home.
“Na; he’s no at hame the noo,” answered the servant lass; “he’s doon the
burn fishing; but I can sune cry him in.”
“Ye needna gie yersel’ the trouble,” replied the man, quite shocked at
this account of the minister’s habits, “nane o’ yer fishin’ ministers
shall bapteeze my bairn.”
Off he then trudged, followed by his whole train, to the residence of
another parochial clergyman, at the distance of some miles. Here, on his
inquiring if the minister was at home, the lass answered:
“Deed, he’s no at hame the day; he’s been oot since sax i’ the mornin’ at
the shooting. Ye needna wait, neither; for he’ll be sae dune oot when he
comes back, that he’ll no be able to say boo to a goose, lat-a-be kirsten
a wean.”
“Wait, lassie!” cried the man, in a tone of indignant scorn; “wad I wait,
d’ye think, to haud up my bairn afore a minister that gangs oot at sax i’
the mornin’ to shoot God’s creatur’s? I’ll awa doon to gude Mr. Erskine
at Dunfermline; and he’ll be neither oot at the fishin’, nor shootin’,
I’m thinkin’.”
The whole baptismal train then set off for Dunfermline, sure that the
father of the Secession, although not now a placed minister, would
at least be engaged in no unclerical sports to incapacitate him for
performing the sacred ordination in question. On their arriving, however,
at the house of the clergyman, which they did not do till late in the
evening, the man, on rapping at the door, anticipated that he would
not be at home any more than his brethren, as he heard the strains of
a fiddle proceeding from the upper chamber. “The minister’ll no be at
hame,” he said, with a sly smile to the girl who came to the door, “or
your lad wadna be playin’ that gate to ye on the fiddle.”
“The minister is at hame,” quoth the girl, “mair be token it’s himsel’
that’s playin’, honest man; he aye tak’s a tune at nicht, afore he gangs
to bed. Faith, there’s nae lad o’ mine can play that gate; it wad be
something to tell if ony o’ them could.”
“_That_ the minister playin’!” cried the man, in a degree of horror and
astonishment far transcending what he had expressed on either of the
former occasions. “If _he_ does this, what may the rest no do? Weel,
I fairly gie them up a’ thegither. I have travelled this hale day in
search o’ a godly minister, an’ never man met wi’ mair disappointment
in a day’s journey. I’ll tell ye what, gudewife,” he added, turning to
the disconsolate party behind, “we’ll just awa’ back to oor ain minister
after a’. He’s no a’ thegither soond, it’s true; but lat him be what he
likes in doctrine, deil ha’e me, if ever I kenn’d him to fish, shoot, or
play on the fiddle in a’ his days!”
Weddings have been the occasion of much joy in the world, and are
clustered around with capital stories. “Jeanie, lassie,” said an old
Cameronian to his daughter, who was asking his permission to marry, “mind
ye, it’s a solemn thing to get married.”
“I ken that, faither,” returned the sensible lass, “but it’s a solemner
thing no to be married.”
“It’s the road we’ve a’ to gang,” said the short-sighted old maid,
solemnly, mistaking a passing wedding party for a funeral procession.
So also seemed to think the heroine of the following anecdote and no
_mistake_ about it:—A clergyman, having three times refused to marry a
man who had as often come before him drunk, on the third occasion said
to the woman, “Why do you bring him here in that state?”
“Please, your reverence,” said she, “he’ll no come when he’s sober.”
The Rev. Dr. Wightman, of Kirkmahoe, was a simple-minded clergyman of
the old school. When a young man, he paid his addresses to a lady in the
parish, and his suit was accepted on the condition that it met with the
approval of the lady’s mother. Accordingly, the Doctor waited upon the
matron, and, stating his case, the good woman, delighted at his proposal,
passed the usual Scottish compliment, “’Deed, Doctor, ye’re far ower gude
for our Janet.”
“Weel, weel,” was the instant rejoinder, “ye ken best; so we’ll say na
mair aboot it.” And he never did, although the social intercourse of the
parties continued as before; and forty years after Doctor Wightman died
an old bachelor, and the _affiancee_ of his youth died an old maid. Ah,
it’s a solemn thing marriage!
A humorous old divine, who had strong feelings on the subject, was in
the habit of prefacing the ceremony thus—“My friends,” he would say,
“marriage is a blessing to some, a curse to many, and a great risk to
all. Now, do you venture?” And no objections being made—“Then let us
proceed.”
A clergyman, in marrying a couple, failed at the crucial part of the
service to obtain any indication from the bridegroom as to whether he
would accept the bride as his helpmeet. After a considerable pause, the
bride indignant at the stolidity of her intended husband, pushed down
his head with her hand, at the same time ejaculating, “Canna ye boo, ye
brute?” That young lady should have been courted by the hero of the next
story.
Some time ago a couple went to a clergyman to get united in the bands of
wedlock. As the custom is, before pronouncing their doom, the minister
asked the bridegroom if he was willing to take the young woman whom he
now held by the hand to be his lawful wife. He nodded assent. The bride
was then asked the same question.
“No sir,” said she.
“What are your reasons,” asked the worthy divine, “for drawing back after
you have come this length?”
“Oh,” replied she, hanging down her head, “I ha’e just ta’en a scunner at
him.”
They accordingly went away; but in about a week they returned. When
the minister asked her if she now consented to take this man to be her
husband,
“Yes, sir,” was the answer.
He then asked the bridegroom if he was willing to take this woman to be
his wife.
“No, sir,” he replied.
“And what has come over you now?” inquired the minister, in a tone of
surprise.
“Oh,” said he, “I ha’e just ta’en a scunner at her.”
And so away they went a second time without being married.
They came back a third time, however, in about a fortnight after, now
both thoroughly resolved; but when the minister saw them coming, he
hurried downstairs and shut the door, and, returning to his study, cried
over the window to them—
“For gudesake, gae awa’ hame, you twa, for I’ve ta’en a scunner at you
baith!”
“Eh, minister, I maist think shame to come to ye,” said an old dame, who
had sought the clergyman’s offices in this way on four previous occasions.
“What’s the matter, Margaret, that you should think shame to come to me?”
“’Deed, sir, it’s just this, I’m gaun to be married again.”
“Well, Margaret, I do not see that you have any cause for shame in coming
to me for such a purpose. Marriage, you know, is honourable in all.”
“Nae doot, sir, nae doot. But eh! (bursting into tears) there never was
surely ony puir woman fash’d wi’ sic a set o’ deein’ men as I’ve had.”
Another dame who had a similar experience in _husbandry_, took a brighter
view of the situation. “Ay,” she said, “first it was John Tamson, then it
was Dawvit Soutar, syne Peter Anderson, then Tammas M’Farlane. Noo it’s
Willie Simpson; and eh! I wonder whase _dear lamb_ I’ll be next?”
The practice of house-to-house visitation and congregational catechising
have yielded a host of anecdotes, one or two of which must suffice here.
A country minister, accompanied by one of his elders, was visiting
in the most outlying parts of his parish, and early in the afternoon
arrived, after a long walk, at the house of a maiden lady, who kept
a cow, a pig, and a few hens, etc. The house was so far removed from
every other human habitation that anyone who reached it was in instant
need of refreshment. On the arrival of her minister and elder, the good
lady accordingly produced the kebbuck, a dish of milk, and a quantity
of cakes. They were a welcome feast, for the visitors were famishing of
hunger after their long and arduous walk. They therefore “laid their
lugs amang” the eatables in a style which struck terror to the heart of
their extra frugal hostess. By and by, and still “pegging away” at the
pile of cakes and whangs of well-seasoned cheese, the minister looked
over to Janet and remarked that he was very glad to see her in the church
on Sabbath last, and asked her if she remembered the subject of his
discourse.
“Ay, fine that,” said she; “’twas the parable o’ the loaves an’ the
fishes.”
“Exactly, Janet,” said the minister; “and what useful lesson did you
derive from the exposition of the parable?”
“Weel, naething particular at the time, sir, but I was just sittin’
thinkin’ aboot it there a meenit syne.”
“Well, Janet, that is very interesting; and what thought occurred to you
a minute since in connection with the subject?”
“Weel, sir, I was just thinkin’ that gin the elder an’ you had been amang
the multitude there wadna have been sae mony basketfu’s left.”
The answers vouchsafed in diets of catechetical examinations were often
shrewd, if sometimes ridiculous. “What are the decrees of God?” was once
asked of an old dame.
“’Deed, sir, He kens that best Himsel’,” was the shrewd reply.
“Why did the Israelites make a golden calf?” was the question put to a
little girl.
“Because they hadna as muckle siller as wad mak’ a coo,” she replied.
These examinations were invariably intimated from the pulpit, and the
families in each district were invited to meet the minister on a certain
day, at an appointed hour, and in a particular house. The farmers’
wives, not better informed than the humble parishioners, yet considered
themselves superior persons, and afraid lest they should be affronted by
having a question put to them that they could not answer, the catechiser
was frequently bribed by a basketful of eggs and a few pounds of fresh
butter being sent over to the manse on the morning of the diet. Thus, a
certain minister was intercepted whilst crossing a moor on his way to the
house of meeting one day.
“Good morning, Janet,” said the divine; “but are you not to present
yourself at the diet of examination in the house of John Anderson, at
noon to-day?”
“Ay am I, sir. Ou, deed, ay. But you see, sir, I just sent ower the
lassie to the manse this mornin’ wi’ twa or three rows o’ fresh butter
and a curn eggs, d’ye see; an’ I was just wantin’ to say to ye, sir, that
ye micht speir some easy question at me. It’s no that I dinna read my
Book, an’ dinna ken, but I just get in a state o’ the nerves, like, afore
fouk, an’ micht mak’ a fule o’ mysel’; an’ that’s the reason I wad like
ye just to ask some very simple question when my turn comes.”
“I’m surely obliged to you for your present, Janet,” said the minister,
“and, depend upon it, I shall be careful to give you a question that will
be easily answered.” So saying, he bade her good morning and rode on.
Janet was forward in time; and when her turn came to be examined, the
minister, remembering his promise, said—
“Janet Davidson, can you tell me which is the Seventh Commandment?”
Simple as the question would have been to many present, Janet could not
answer it, and no voice responding, the question was repeated slowly and
with emphasis on the words—_Seventh Commandment_. Janet cast a beseeching
look at the minister, and in a half-reproving tone said—
“Eh, sir, after yon on the muir the day, I didna think ye wad hae askit
me that question!”
The people looked to one another with astonishment, whereupon the
minister prudently explained the whole matter.
When the venerable Ebenezer Erskine was minister of Portmoak, his
brother, the equally well-known Ralph, afore-mentioned, paid him a visit.
On his entering the manse Ebenezer exclaimed—
“Ralph, man, I’m glad to see you, ye hae come in gude time. I have a diet
of examination to-day, and I have also important business to attend to at
Perth. Ye’ll tak’ the examination, will ye, and let me gang to Perth?”
“With all my heart,” said Ralph.
“Weel,” said Ebenezer, “ye’ll find a’ my fouk easy to examine but ane,
and him, I reckon, ye had better no meddle wi’. He has an auld-fashioned
Scotch way o’ answering a’e question by putting anither, an’ he’ll maybe
affront ye.”
“Affront me!” said Ralph indignantly. “Do you think he’ll foil me wi’ my
ain weapons?”
“Aweel,” said his brother, “I gi’e ye fair warning, ye had better no ca’
him up.”
The individual thus referred to was Walter Simpson, the village
blacksmith, who at former diets of examination had proved himself
rather troublesome to his minister. The gifted Ralph, indignant to
the last degree at the idea of an illiterate blacksmith perplexing
_him_, determined to encounter him at once by putting a grand, leading,
unanswerable question. Accordingly, after putting a variety of simple
preliminary interrogations to some of the senior members of his brother’s
congregation present, he cried out with a loud voice, “Walter Simpson.”
“Here, sir,” responded the smith.
“Now, Walter, attend,” said the examiner. “Can ye tell me how long Adam
continued in a state of innocence?”
“Oh, ay, sir; just till he got a wife,” said Vulcan; “but can ye tell me
how lang he remained innocent after that?”
“Sit down, Walter,” said the discomfited divine, and proceeded to examine
another.
[Illustration: “Can ye tell me how long Adam continued in a state of
innocence?”—_Page 120._]
Scotch folks have each a mind of their own, which they respect. Still
they are seldom found to be doggedly unreasonable. When it was proposed
by the Secession congregation at Haddington to give _a call_ to the
afterwards celebrated Mr. John Brown, one of the adherents of the church
expressed his decided opposition. Subsequent to his ordination, Mr.
Brown waited on the solitary dissentient, who was threatening to leave
the meeting-house. “Why do you think of leaving us?” mildly enquired Mr.
Brown. “Because,” said the sturdy oppositionist, “I don’t think you a
good preacher.” “That is quite my own opinion,” replied the minister;
“but the great majority of the congregation think the reverse, and it
would not do for you and me to set up our opinion against theirs. I have
given in, you see, and I would suggest you might just do so too.” “Weel,
weel,” said the grumbler, quite reconciled by the candidate’s frank
confession, “I think I’ll just follow your example, sir.” All differences
were ended; and afterwards, than this same individual, the Rev. John
Brown had no greater admirer in the town of Haddington.
Old Hackstoun of Rathillet one day said to Mr. Smibert, the minister of
Cupar, who, like himself, was blessed with a foolish, or rather wild,
youth for a son—“D’ye ken, sir, you and I are wiser than Solomon.”
“How can that be, Rathillet?” inquired the startled clergyman.
“Ou, ye see,” said Hackstoun, “Solomon didna ken whether his son was to
be a fool or a wise man: but baith you and I are quite sure that our sons
are fools.”
These anecdotes and illustrations possess a value distinct from the rich
ore of humour they reveal. They are redolent of the soil, and serve as
“keek-holes” through which fitful glances are obtained of the manners
and customs of the “rude forefathers of the hamlet,” and the easy
relationship which in bygone days existed between the occupants of the
pulpit and the pew.
_Here endeth this lesson._