THE OLD SCOTTISH BEADLE—HIS CHARACTER AND HUMOUR
The beadle, or betheral—frequently gravedigger, church officer, and
minister’s man all in one—bulks largely in every representative
collection of the Scottish national humour and character—next to the
minister here, indeed, as elsewhere—and furnishes the collector with his
choicest specimens of Scotch wit and humour of the dry and caustic order.
The type of beadle, of course, which fifty or a hundred years ago gave
tone and character to the class, and has made them famous in story and
anecdote, is now almost a defunct species. This being so, let us turn
aside and review the “bodie” where he is preserved, “in his manner as he
lived,” in the many stories and anecdotes which have survived him. See
him there! He is a shrewd, canny-going, scranky-looking individual. Fond
of snuff, and susceptible to the allurements of a sly dram. He is proud
of his office—the more solemn and conspicuous duties of which he performs
with a dignity of deportment and solemnity of countenance which casts the
minister almost hopelessly into the shade. He is heard to speak of “_me_
and the minister;” and should there chance to come a young probationer
to occupy the pulpit for a day, who appears flurried and nervous just
before he is to ascend to the “place of execution,” he (the preacher)
will receive a kindly tap on the shoulder, and be warned not to let his
feelings get the better of him. “I can never see a young chap like you
gaun up into the poopit,” he will continue, “without bein’ reminded o’
the first Sawbath that I took up the Bible. I shook like the leaf o’ a
tree! I dinna shak’ noo: an’ ye’ll get ower yer nervousness, too, sir,
wi’ practice, just as I ha’e dune. I fand it the best plan—an’ dootless
sae will ye, gin ye’ll try it—never to think aboot what ye’re doin’, nor
wha’s lookin’ at ye, but just stap up the stair and gang through wi’ the
business as if you didna care a rap for a livin’ sowl o’ them.”
His intimacy with the minister—the semi-private work he performs about
the manse, and elsewhere, affording him an occasional keek behind the
solemnity that doth hedge a clergyman—places him on easy conversation
with his reverend master, and of this circumstance much of his humour is
born and given to the world. The minister’s condescendences towards him
not unfrequently have had the effect of giving him an exaggerated notion
of his own importance. His knowledge of what is going on at the manse
makes him a welcome visitor at the houses of the gossiping members of the
congregation; and Dean Ramsay tells a story which admirably illustrates
this interesting phase of his character.
A certain country beadle had been sent round the parish to deliver
notices at all the houses of the catechising which was to precede the
preparation for receiving the Communion. On his return it was evident
that John had partaken rather freely of refreshments in the course of the
expedition. The minister rebuked him for his improper conduct. The beadle
pleaded the pressing hospitality of the parishioners. The preacher would
not admit the plea, and added, “Why, John, I go through the parish, and
you do not see me return home fou’, as you have done.”
“Ay, minister,” replied John, with an emphatic shake of the head, “but,
then, ye’re no sae popular in the parish as I am.” The self-complacency
of the reply could scarcely be surpassed.
It is told of another of the consequential breed that being asked by a
member of the kirk—one of the humbler order—if he knew whether or not the
minister was to be preaching himself on the approaching Sabbath, he dryly
replied, “It’s ill for me to ken a’ that the minister intends doin’. Come
ye to the kirk, an’ whether the minister’s there or no, ye’ll see me in
the poopit as usual, at ony rate.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Robert Fairgrieve, the beadle of Ancrum, one day to
the minister, “Huz (us) that are offish-bearers (meaning the minister and
himself) should be examples to the flock.”
The self-same functionary when on his death-bed was visited by the
minister, who was a little concerned to find him in a restless and
discontented humour. On enquiring into the cause of his uneasiness,
Robert replied, “Weel, sir, I was just mindin’ that I have buried 598
fowk since I was made bedral o’ Ancrum, and I was anxious, gin it were
_His_ will, that I micht be spared to mak’ it the sax hunder.”
When beadle meets beadle, as is the common practice with persons in other
walks of life, they enter glibly into a free-and-easy criticism of their
respective chiefs. One is admittedly “strong in prayer,” whilst another
is set aside as “weak in doctrine,” and so forth.
“I think oor minister does weel,” said one. “Man! hoo he gars the stoure
flee oot o’ the cooshions!”
“Stoure oot o’ the cooshions!” sneered another. “If ye’ve a notion o’
powerfu’ preachin’, come owre an’ gie us a day’s hearin’. Wad ye believe
it?—for a’ the short time yon man o’ ours has delivered the Word amang
us, he has knockit three poopits a’ to shivers, an’ has dung the guts out
o’ five Bibles!”
“The last minister I was wi’,” said one, “had a great power o’ water; for
he grat, an’ swat, an’ spat like the very mischief.”
“Well, Saunders,” said a country clergyman to his beadle on Monday
morning, “how did you like that minister who was preaching for me
yesterday?”
“Oh, just very middlin’ ways, sir,” replied Saunders. “Just very middlin’
ways. He was far owre plain and simple for me. I like a preacher that
jummils the joodgement and confoonds the sense awee; and dod, sir, I
never heard ony o’ them that could beat yersel’ at that.”
Well said, Saunders! There are many people about who estimate a
preacher much in the same fashion—measure his eloquence by his success
in “jummlin’ their joodgement” and “confoondin’ their senses.” They
desire sermons so “deep” that they cannot see to the bottom of them; the
more incomprehensible the preaching, the more profound the preacher is
declared to be.
“Eh, he was grand the day!” said an old lady on her return from church.
“In what respect?” inquired her lord and master.
“Just terrible deep,” said she. “I didna understand a word o’t; but, eh!
it was grand!”
“What makes you laugh, James?” inquired a country minister of his
beadle one Sabbath in the Session-house between the preachings, as the
humbler functionary stirred up the fire and “hottered and leuch,” in a
semi-suppressed manner. “It is unseemly, James. What is there to amuse
you?”
The minister, it should be explained, had a reputation for giving his
people what is well understood when described as “cauld kail het again.”
“Eh, naething particular,” said Jamie, still laughing. “I was only
thinkin’ o’ something that happened when the kirk was skailin’ a maument
syne.”
“What was it? Tell me about it.”
“Weel, minister, dinna be angry wi’ me,” said Jamie, “an’ I’ll tell ye.
Whether ye ken it or no, sir, ye’re blamed for preachin’ an auld sermon
noo an’ than, an’ I think I rather got the better o’ some o’ them the
day—some o’ the kirk-fouk, I mean.”
“How so, James?”
“’Deed, simply eneuch, an’ I’ll tell ye hoo. Just as soon as the hinmost
psalm was finished, ye see, I gaed aff as usual an’ opened first the West
door, and syne ran round and opened the East door, and as I was comin’
back round the kirk again, wha should I meet but Newmains, an’ twa or
three ither o’ the farmers, an’ by the way they were lauchin’ an’ nudgin’
ane anither wi’ their elbucks, I kent fine what they were ettlin’ to say,
so I tak’s the first word wi’ them, an’ says I, ‘Weel, lads,’ says I, ‘ye
canna say that yon was an auld ane ye got the day, for it’s no abune sax
weeks since ye got it afore.’ An’ I think I got the better o’ them, sir.
An’ that’s hoo I canna help lauchin’.”
The beadle of a northern city kirk was a pavior to trade, and the
minister with whom he was regularly “yokit” every Sabbath coming up one
day to where John was busily engaged laying causey, was struck with a
fine simile, as he thought, and said, “John, you and I toil daily with
the same object in view, namely, to _mend the ways_ of our fellow-men.
But, I am afraid, you make much better progress than I do.”
“Ay,” replied the pavior-beadle, dryly, “but maybe if ye was as muckle
_on your knees_ at your wark as I am, sir, you would come better speed.”
A capital rejoinder.
One of the beadle’s weaknesses is the “dram,” as has been already hinted
here, and as this must be taken on the sly, his defence must be strong,
even though unscrupulous. Alexander M’Laughlan, a Blairgowrie beadle,
had contracted a habit of tippling, and entering the Session-house one
morning with the evidence of guilt in his breath, the minister deemed the
occasion a fitting one on which to administer a reproof, and said—
“Saunders, I much fear that the bottle has become——”
“Aye, sir,” interrupted the officer, “I was just about to remark that
there was surely a smell o’ drink amang’s!”
In another case of the same kind, the defence was less equivocal.
“You have been drinking again, John,” said the minister. “Why, John, you
should really become a teetotaler.”
“Do you never tak’ a drap yersel’, sir?” inquired John.
“I do; but, John, you must consider the difference between your
circumstances and mine.”
“Very true, sir,” said John; “but do ye ken hoo the streets o’ Jerusalem
were keepit clean?”
“No, I am not sure that I do, John.”
“Weel, then, I’ll tell ye. It was just by ilka bodie keepin’ their ain
door-stane soopit.”
The argument, doubtless, was not further continued on that occasion.
The minister of one of the Dundee parish churches had a beadle called
Donald, who was a worthy and useful man. No fault could be found against
him except his being too fond of a dram. At a meeting of the Session one
night Donald was so unsteady in his gait that, to prevent an accident,
one of the elders had to go to his assistance in lighting the gas, which
could only be reached by a chair, or steps. The habit had become so
marked of late that it was decided to have Donald “up.” On his appearing,
the minister, in his most impressive manner, said, “Donald, the Session
has asked me to remonstrate with you on your intemperate habits, which
seem to have become worse recently.”
Donald, with as great a look of offended dignity as in the circumstances
he could assume, replied, “I never takes more than what’s good for me,
shir; did you ever see me the—(hic)—worse of drink?”
The Session was not a little amused; but the minister, still keeping his
gravity, said, “Well, Donald, we have pretty plain evidence to-night. And
not very long ago I saw you clinging to a railing in the Nethergate, and,
so that you might not know I saw you, I crossed to the other side of the
street.”
Drawing himself up to his full height, the beadle replied, “Well, you
did wrong, shir—very far wrong; it was your duty, shir, to have stopped
and admonished me.” The minister was pleased enough to see Donald’s back,
as by this time it was very apparent the sympathies of the Session were
with the accused.
We rarely find the beadle at loggerheads with the minister, however.
He rather inclines to regard the minister’s and his own interests
as identical, and is disposed to be friendly and confidential. So
confidential, indeed, that it is recorded of one that, when the minister
was in a state of exasperation about something or other, John looked
sympathisingly towards him and said, “Gin ye think that an aith wad
relieve ye, sir, dinna mind me!”
“John,” said a parish minister in Perthshire to his beadle not very long
ago, “that Disestablishment cry is becoming serious. Dr. Hutton and his
crew are apparently not to rest until they have us all put out of church
and manse together. Why, I see there’s to be a set of agitators from
Glasgow and elsewhere to be holding a meeting in our very own parish
this week.” “Dinna ye bother yersel’, minister,” was the beadle’s reply,
“dinna ye bother yersel’. If the kirk continues to do her duty, the very
gates o’ hell will no prevail against her. We have Scripture for that. As
an instance, sir. Ye mind o’ yon five dissenters wha tried to put me oot
o’ the grave-diggin’ twa years syne, _I’ve happit four o’ them noo_!”
“Drunk again, John,” said a north country minister one day to his beadle,
meaning, of course, that John was clearly the worse of liquor.
“Don’t mention’t,” replied John, with a bleary wink, “I’m geyan weel on
mysel’, sir.”
[Illustration: “Drunk again, John,” said a north country minister to his
beadle (meaning, of course, that John was clearly the worse of liquor).
“Don’t mention’t,” replied John, with a bleary wink, “I’m geyan weel on
mysel’, sir.”—_Page 131._]
“That’s a damp, cold morning,” said the minister, as he entered the
Session-house, chaffing both hands and feet.
“Deevilish, sir, deevilish!” replied John, catching the _sense_ perhaps,
although the _sound_ reached him imperfectly.
And, by the by, the word _sound_ just reminds me of a very good beadle
anecdote, and one which illustrates how expressive a monosyllable may
sometimes be made. A certain country congregation had been hearing
candidates, with a view to filling the pulpit. The third on the short
leet, a young spark of a fellow, had preached, as it were, yesterday,
and desiring to ascertain, not only what impression he had himself made,
but also the esteem in which the members of the kirk held those who had
preached before him, he sauntered around, looking for some suitable
person to _sound_ on the matter. In course of time he espied the beadle
busily exercised in opening a grave, and, going towards the digger,
he talked with him quietly for a time on matters likely to interest
the rural inhabitant, and gradually arrived at the subject which was
uppermost in his own mind.
“And what are the people saying about the candidate who preached first?”
at length asked the budding divine.
“Soond!” replied John, throwing up a spadeful.
“And of the second one?” queried the preacher.
“_No_ soond!” was the ready and emphatic answer.
“And do you know what opinion they entertain of myself?”
“_A’_ soond!” snorted the beadle, and drove the spade into the loam with
a thud that was even more eloquent than the words of his mouth.
Perhaps it was to this self-same functionary that a gentleman one day
remarked—
“Ye hae been sae lang aboot the minister’s hand, John, that I dare say ye
could preach a sermon yersel’ noo.”
“Oh, na, sir,” was the modest reply; “I couldna preach a sermon.” Then,
after a brief pause, he remarked, “But maybe I could draw an inference,
though.”
“Well, John,” said the gentleman, humouring the quiet vanity of the
beadle, “what inference could you draw from this text—‘A wild ass
snuffeth up the wind at her pleasure’ (Jer. ii. 24)?”
“Weel,” replied John, “the only naitural-like inference that I could
draw frae it is just this, that she wad snuff a lang time before she wad
fatten on’t.”
In a country parish in the Lothians the dwelling-house of the beadle
was in close proximity to the manse, and both were on the summit of a
hill overlooking the neighbouring village. The minister was greatly
esteemed for his piety, and it was Sandy’s ambition to be regarded as the
one other _unco gude_ man in the parish. They frequently foregathered
and exchanged experiences and views, and always on the basis of their
spiritual superiority to all their neighbours. During a certain Saturday
night, a great storm of wind and snow had caused such drifts to
accumulate about the doors of the villagers that when Sunday dawned all
were prisoners within their dwellings except the minister and the beadle.
Mr. Blank emerged from the manse, and stood on the hill-top surveying the
scene. In a little while he was joined by Sandy; and whether the minister
could interpret the situation or not, the beadle had fully mastered
its significance. “Gude mornin’, Maister Blank,” said Sandy; “ye mind
what the Word says, ‘He causeth His rain to fall upon the just and the
unjust.’” Then slowly sweeping his outstretched arm over the imprisoned
village, he added, with a peculiar emphasis, “But faith, sir, _the snow
finds the sinners oot_.”
Several capital examples of our subject’s power of withering sarcasm have
been already quoted, but the following would be difficult to rival:—
“Gin ye mention our local magistrates in yer prayers, sir,” said the
beadle of a small burgh town to a clergyman who had come from a distance
to officiate for a day—“gin ye mention our local magistrates in yer
prayers, dinna ask that they may be a terror to evil-doers, because the
fack o’ the maitter is, sir, the puir, auld, waefu’ bodies could be nae
terror to onybody.”
To a notorious infidel, who gloried in his profanity, and was once
denouncing the absurdity of the doctrine of original sin, a Falkirk
beadle remarked, “It seems to me, Mr. H., that you needna fash yersel’
aboot original sin, for to my certain knowledge you’ve quite as muckle
ackual sin as will _do_ for you.”
An infidel citizen of an Ayrshire burgh built a handsome mausoleum for
himself and family in the local cemetery. He spared no expense, and was
rather proud of his family burial-place. Indeed, he closely superintended
the operations of the workmen, and noted their progress. As he was going
to the place one day, he met the beadle of the Secession kirk, and asked
him if he had seen the new vault. “Ou ay,” was all the answer he got.
Nothing daunted, he proceeded to expatiate on the theme, and concluded by
saying, “Yon’s a gey strong place. It’ll tak’ us a’ our time to rise out
o’ yonder at the last day.”
“My man,” said the beadle, “dinna gie yersel’ ony trouble about _risin’_,
for they’ll maybe just ding the bottom out an’ let ye gang _doun_
instead.”
They are generally found having a single eye to business, and one is
reported to have rejoiced to hear that an epidemic had broken out in the
parish; “for,” said he, “I haena buried a livin’ sowl for the last six
weeks, binna a scart o’ a bairn.”
John Prentice of Carnwath put his plaint in a more pleasant form. “Hech
wow!” he would say, when told of the death of any person. “Ay, man, an’
is So-and-So dead? Weel, I wad rather it had been anither twa!”
A person once asked John Prentice if he considered himself at liberty
to pray for his daily bread. “Dear sake, sir,” he answered, “the Lord’s
Prayer tells us that, ye ken.”
“Ay, but,” said the querist, “do you think you can do that consistently
with the command which enjoins us to wish no evil to our neighbours?”
“My conscience!” cried John, in astonishment, “the folk maun be buried!”
“Rin awa’ hame, bairns,” a well-known Perthshire beadle was in the habit
of saying to such of the children as curiosity or playfulness had brought
to the churchyard. “Awa’ wi’ ye! an’ dinna come here again on yer ain
feet.”
Just after an interment one day in the same churchyard, and as the
mourners were returning towards the gate, one of the party gave a cough,
which caused the beadle to prick his ears, and, looking towards a friend
who stood by, “Wha ga’e yon howe hoast (hollow cough)?” said he. “He’ll
be my way gin March!”
“I’m gettin’ auld an’ frail noo, Jamie,” said a timorous and “pernickity”
old lady one day to this same functionary; “there’s a saxpence to ye to
buy snuff. An’ if I sud be ta’en awa’ afore I see ye again, Jamie, ye’ll
mind an’ lay me in oor wastmost lair.”
“A’ richt,” said Jamie, “but there may be ithers i’ the family that wad
like the wastmost lair as weel as you, so, to save disappointment, ye’d
better hurry up an’ tak’ possession.”
The late Rev. Mr. Barty, of Ruthven, was a man brimful of humour, and
many good stories are told of him. A vacancy having occurred in the
office of gravedigger, one, Peter Hardie, made application for the
appointment. The parish is small, consisting of five farms. The rate per
head having been duly fixed, the minister and Peter had just about closed
the bargain, when Peter, with an eye to self-interest, said, “But am I to
get steady wark?” “Keep’s a! Peter,” answered Mr. Barty, “wi’ steady wark
ye wad bury a’ the parish in a fortnicht!”
But the beadle sometimes meets with folks as inhumanly practical as
himself.
“What’s to pey, John?” asked a scrubby farmer of the sexton of
Kilwinning, as the finishing touches were being given to the sod on the
grave of the farmer’s wife.
“Five shillin’s,” said John.
“Five shillin’s for that sma’ job? It’s oot o’ a’ reason. Ye’re weel
pey’d wi’ hauf-a-croon.”
“She’s doon seven feet,” said John; “an’ I’ve tell’t ye my chairge.”
“I dinna want to quarrel wi’ ye here the day, John,” said the farmer,
gruffly; “so there’s four shillin’s, but I winna gi’e ye a fardin’ mair!”
“See here!” said John, holding the money on the palm of his left hand
just as he had received it, whilst he seized the handle of the spade in a
businesslike way with the other, “doon wi’ the ither shillin’, or up she
comes!”
Another was remonstrated with for making an overcharge. “Weel, you see,”
said the beadle, making a motion with his thumb to the grave, “him and me
had a bit troke about a watch a dizzin o’ years syne, and he never paid
me the difference o’t. Noo, says I to mysel’, this is my last chance.
I’ll better tak’ it.”
“Ay, man, it’s a bonnie turff,” one is reported to have said. “It’s a
peety to see it putten doon on the tap o’ sic a skemp!”
Of another deceased person another beadle said, “He was sic a fine chield
I howkit his grave wi’ my new spade.”
Not long ago a funeral party in the North on arriving at the kirkyard
and placing the coffin over the grave, discovered that the latter was
not long enough to admit of the interment. “Man, John,” said the chief
mourner to the beadle, “ye’ve made the grave ower short.”
“It canna be,” retorted John very gruffly, “I measured the coffin wi’ my
ain hand, and was very particular about it.”
“Ye made a mistak’ in the measuring, then, John,” said the party, “or
ye’ve gane wrang wi’ the howkin’.”
“_Me_ wrang!” snorted the beadle, livid with rage; “see that ye haena
brocht the wrang corp.”
A physician in Dumfries, who was also a member of the Kirk-Session,
meeting the beadle “the waur o’ a dram,” threatened to expose him.
“Man, doctor,” said the gravedigger, with a twinkle in his eye, “I hae
happit _mony_ a faut o’ yours, an’ I think ye micht thole _ane_ o’ mine.”
[Illustration: “Man, doctor,” said the gravedigger, with a twinkle in his
eye, “I hae happit _mony_ a faut o’ yours, an’ I think ye micht thole
_ane_ o’ mine.”—_Page 138._]
The translation of the Rev. Donald Macleod from Linlithgow to Glasgow
was deeply resented by the beadle, who also held the office of sexton.
When Mr. Macleod first went to Linlithgow, the beadle took him into the
graveyard, and, showing him the resting-places of his predecessors, said,
“There’s whaur Dr. Bell lies; and there’s whaur Dr. Dobie lies; and
there’s whaur you’ll lie if you’re spared.” As Mr. Macleod was taking his
departure, the beadle said, “Weel, sir, ye’re the first minister that was
ever lifted out o’ Linlithgow except to the grave.”
In the memoir of the late Dr. William Lindsay Alexander there are some
choice beadle anecdotes; and the following, which is identified with his
first pulpit appearance in the congregation which had known him “man
and boy,” the rev. doctor himself told in a church meeting not very
long before his death. “As well as I remember,” he said, “I discharged
the duty to the best of my ability. But, on coming down to the vestry,
one of the worthy deacons came to me and said some very disparaging
things about my sermon, saying plainly that this sort of thing would
never do! Among other things he said it was too flowery. Saunders, the
church-officer, who was in the vestry and was standing with his hand on
the door, turned round and said, ‘Flooers! an’ what for no? What ails ye
at flooers?’ After the deacon went out I went up to Saunders and thanked
him for taking my part. ‘Weel, Maister Weelum, I jist didna like to see
him ower ill to ye; but, atween oorsel’s, he wasna far wrang, ye ken.
Yon’ll no dae!”
The Doctor one day told “Jimms,” who had been gardener and minister’s man
at Pinkieburn when he (the minister) was a boy, that he had planned a new
approach to the house, and intended to set about and have it made at once.
“Na, na, Doctor, that’ll no dae at a’,” Jimms sturdily exclaimed, when
explanations of the plan had been laid before him.
“Well, but I have resolved to have it done,” Dr. Alexander said, and
quietly reminded Jimms that he was there to carry out orders.
“Nae doot, Doctor, in a certain sense that’s true,” was the prompt reply.
“Still I’m here to prevent ye frae spoilin’ the property.”
When, however, the new walk was an accomplished fact, and approved of by
the visitors, Jimms took his full share of the credit.
“Ou, ay,” he would say, “nane o’ yer landscape gardeners here. Me an’
the Doctor, we managed it a’.”
In course of time this “Jimms” went where all good beadles go, and his
mantle fell on his successor, John Sloan. This worthy and the Doctor got
on capitally together.
“There were never words atween me an’ the Doctor,” said Sloan. “I did my
wark, and said straicht what cam’ into my head, an’ the Doctor liked it.”
Sloan seldom volunteered advice, but when he did, it was always with
good effect. On one occasion he found himself in the Deacons’ vestry
putting coals on the fire, when the subject under discussion was whether
a service, at which a special collection was to be asked, should be held
on Sunday afternoon or evening. Dr. Alexander had just said that he would
prefer the afternoon, when Sloan paused for a moment, coal-scuttle in
hand, and facing round, said, “The Doctor’s richt. In the afternoon we’ll
ha’e oor ain fouk; at nicht there’ll be a wheen Presbyterians—I reckon
them at thruppence a dizzen!”
He did not wait to see the effect of his shot, but it ended the
discussion.
“I don’t think I should put on my gown to-day, John,” said a country
minister to his beadle, “the weather is so very hot. I will preach better
without it.”
“Put on the goun, sir,” said John, “it mak’s ye mair impressive like, an’
ye need it a’.”
In a congregation in the North the beadle had been systematically
pilfering just as much of the church-door collection money as would keep
himself in snuff. The acting elder habitually counted the money in the
presence of the minister, put it in the box, turned the key in the lock,
and left it there. By and by it was discovered that small sums were being
regularly abstracted. Suspicion fell on the beadle. So one Sabbath after
the minister had seen the elder count over the day’s drawings, and place
it in the box in the usual way, he returned to the Session-house after
the Sabbath School was dismissed, and, counting over the money again,
noticed that the usual small portion had disappeared. He accordingly
summoned the beadle. “David,” said the minister, “there is something
wrong here. Some one has been abstracting the church money from the box;
and you know that no one has access to it but you and I.”
The minister thought he had the beadle thoroughly cornered, and that
he would confess his guilt. But David cleared his conscience, and
dumfoundered the minister by this strange proposal:
“Weel, minister,” said he, “if there is a deficiency, it’s for you and me
to mak’ it up ’atween us, and say naething about it!”
A highly respectable minister, who had no preaching gifts, was one day
going to officiate for a country brother who was from home. The manse
to which he was going was some miles from the railway station, and the
minister’s man, John, was in waiting with the conveyance for the stranger
when the train arrived in the winter afternoon. John, after receiving him
kindly, told him that he had some messages to do in the town close by the
station, which would take him about half an hour, and that if he would
go along to the hotel the landlord would give him a comfortable seat at
the fireside till he was ready. The minister readily agreed, but when,
instead of half an hour, considerably more than an hour elapsed before
John appeared, he upbraided him when he came for his unnecessary delay,
and threatened to report him to his master. At length John could stand it
no longer, and said, “Weel, sir, if ye maun hae the truth, I was tell’t
by the maister to put aff at the toun till it was dark, so that the folk
in the parish micht na see wha was to preach the morn.”
When the Rev. Mr. Mitchell had been translated from a country parish to
a church in Glasgow, a friend of his, visiting the old parish, asked the
beadle how he liked the new minister.
“Oh,” said the beadle, “he’s a very good man, but I would rather hae Mr.
Mitchell.”
“Indeed,” said the visitor; “I suppose the former was a better preacher?”
“No; we’ve a good enough preacher now.”
“Was it the prayer of Mr. Mitchell, or his reading, or what was it you
preferred him for?”
“Weel, sir,” said the beadle, “if you maun ken the reason, Mr. Mitchell’s
auld claes fitted me best.”
It is a truism that much depends upon the way in which a thing is done. A
young spark of a fellow had been made a minister, neither very _wisely_
nor very _well_, as we may in fairness suppose, for, being appointed to
a country charge where the manse was situated at a considerable distance
from the church, he very soon shocked the finer sensibilities of the
lieges by driving tandem to and from the Sunday service—that is, having
two horses yoked to his machine, the one running in front of the other.
The like had never been seen nor heard of before. He would require to be
spoken to about it at once. Driving of itself was tolerable, but _tandem_
was out of the question. Accordingly, the elders laid their heads
together, and one of them tackled the reverend gentleman on the question
at the close of the service.
“Why, you drive to church yourself,” said the minister to the elder.
“Ay, but in a very different manner frae that heathenish way that you do
it,” retorted the elder—“that _tandem_ way.”
“I see nothing more scandalous in driving horses tandem than running them
abreast,” coolly argued the minister; “but if you can convince me that
there is, I will cease from doing it.”
“I just dinna like it,” said the elder, failing to discover a better
argument at the moment.
“That’s just it,” sneered the minister. “You don’t like it. It’s a sheer
case of conventionality and narrow-minded prejudice.”
“Maybe it is. But it disna look weel,” insisted the elder.
“Look! Look is nothing,” returned the minister, “but a mere matter of
taste.”
“The elder’s richt,” broke in the beadle, who had been standing aside
listening to all the argument. “Look has a hantle to do wi’t. An’
if ye’ll aloo me, sir, I’ll convince ye o’ that by a very simple
illustration. See ye here noo, sir. When ye pronounced the benediction
twa or three minutes since, it lookit grand an’ consistent-like when ye
did it
[Illustration: _This way!_]
But what gin ye had dune it
[Illustration: _That way?_”]
The minister stood convinced, and never proposed tandem again as long as
he lived.
Of a Durisdeer beadle it is told that having received from the minister—a
comparative new-comer—the gift of a half-worn coat, he sidled to the
door, and turning round gave him a lesson in the traditions of his office
by explaining, “Mr. Smith used to gi’e me the waistcoat too.”
The greatly esteemed Principal Caird was minister of Errol before he
was appointed Professor of Divinity in Glasgow. While there the Doctor
discovered the acoustic properties of the church to be by no means of the
best, and his congregation being scanty, he suggested to the beadle that
an improvement might be effected by boarding up one of the side aisles.
“That may do very weel for you,” replied the shrewd old Scotchman, “but
what will we do for room if we should get a popular preacher to follow
you?”
Robert Burns tells us that
“The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip
To haud the wretch in order,”
and the asseveration of the bard received favourable commentary at the
instance of a sage country beadle not very long ago. The minister had
for some time previously been favouring the free and easy theology
which excludes belief in eternal punishment. He had, indeed, told his
people from the pulpit that such an arrangement was not, in his opinion,
consistent with the character and being of the Creator of the universe.
From this point there was a marked falling off in the attendance at
church on the Sabbath, and the preacher was, naturally, concerned.
“John,” he said to the beadle one day between the preachings, “the people
are not turning out to public worship nearly so well as they used to do.”
“I dinna blame them for’t,” was John’s dry reply.
“You what, John?”
“I dinna blame them for’t, I’m sayin’.”
“You do not blame the people for absenting themselves from divine
service! Do you mean to insinuate, John, that my preaching is less able,
less adequate to their needs, and——?”
“Yer preachin’ may be a’ ye wad claim for it, sir, an’ I’ll no argue wi’
ye aboot it: but I say this, an’ I’ll stick till’t, a kirk withoot a
hell’s just no worth a d⸺ docken.”
’Twas coarse, but strong, and true.
In a Forfarshire parish, a number of years ago, the old beadle was
an outstanding character even among his kind. The minister—a recent
appointment—entered the churchyard one day accompanied by a gentleman
friend—also a recent importation into the district—and approaching the
beadle the following colloquy ensued:—
_Minister_—“This is Mr. So and So, John, he wishes to purchase a lair.”
_Beadle_—“Imphm! Ou, ay. Just that. Is it for himsel’?”
_Gentleman_—“No. It’s for my brother. He died last night.”
_Beadle_—“Ou, ay. Weel it’s a’ the same to me, of course, ye ken; but
d’ye ken hoo he wad like to lie?”
_Minister_—“What do you mean, John?”
_Beadle_—“Weel, ye see, there’s some likes to lie wi’ their feet to the
east, some wi’ their feet to the wast. There, just for instance, ahent
ye, lies the auld minister an’ his wife; him wi’ his feet to the east,
an’ her wi’ her feet to the wast. They were contrar’ a’ their days, an’
they’re contrar’ yet.”
In a short time a lair was selected, after which the minister enquired of
John how long he had been about the place.
_Beadle_—“I’ve been howkin’ awa’ in this corner for mair than fifty year,
sir.”
_Minister_—“And I suppose you have buried one or more out of every house
in the parish, John?”
_Beadle_—“Na’, sir, na’. Thae folk o’ Todhills there have run nearly twa
tacks o’ their farm, an’ they havena’ broken grund yet.”
_Minister_—“Indeed, that’s very remarkable, John, and old Todhills
himself looks wonderfully hale and hearty still.”
_Beadle_—“Hale an’ hearty, ay, hale an’ hearty eneuch, an’ tichtenin’ his
grip on the warld every day. But folk sud live an’ lat live, sir. I say,
folk sud live an’ lat live.”
The minister and his friend thought John should take the same advice to
himself, but preferred not to say so, and the interview terminated.