The late Lord Neaves, himself a man of a genial, humorous nature, was wont to complain pleasantly of his friend Dean Ramsay for having drawn so many specimens of Scottish humour from the sayings and doings of the native clergy. But the worthy Dean, to employ a figure of his own recording, simply “biggit’s dyke wi’ the feal at fit o’t;” in other words, he gathered most grain from the field which had produced the most abundant crop—the field of clerical life and work. Your typical pastor, it is true, has not to any extent been remarkable as a humourist—the reverse may with more truth be said of him. At the same time the Scottish pulpit has contained many earnest, good men, who were also genuine humourists. Yea, than the good old Scotch divines, certainly no other class or section of the community has laid up to its credit so many witty and humorous sayings that are destined to live with the language in which they are uttered. Every parish in the land has stories to tell of such pastors. It is only necessary to mention such prominent names as the Revs. Robert Shirra, of Kirkcaldy; Walter Dunlop, of Dumfries; John Skinner, of Longside, the author of “Tullochgorum”; Mr. Thom, of Govan; and the late Drs. Norman Macleod and William Anderson, of Glasgow, to suggest many other bright and shining lights. There have been many ministers of the Gospel, of course, who, not at all witty themselves, yet, by reason of certain idiosyncrasies of nature and eccentricities of character, have been the cause of wit in others. These, however, do not come within the scope of the present paper. Here we shall deal not with negative but with positive clerical humorists only.
Much of the old clerical humour of Scotland came direct from the pulpit, and was part and parcel of the pastoral matter and method of the time. The preaching of to-day gives but the faintest idea of the preaching of a hundred years ago. The sermon of the old divine was very much in the style of an easy conversation, interspersed with occasional parentheses applicable to individual characters or to the circumstances which arose before his eyes in church.
Dean Ramsay, in his faithful Reminiscences, tells of a clergyman who, observing one of his flock asleep during his sermon, paused, and called him to order, thus—“Jeems Robson, ye are sleepin’. I insist on your wauking when God’s word is preached to ye.”
“Look at your ain seat and ye’ll see a sleeper forby me,” answered Jeems, pointing to the clergyman’s lady in the minister’s pew.
“Then, Jeems,” said the minister, “when ye see my wife asleep again haud up your hand.”
By and by the arm was stretched out, and sure enough the fair lady was caught in the act. Her husband solemnly called upon her to stand up and receive the censure due to her offence, and thus addressed her—“Mrs. B., a’body kens that when I got ye for my wife I got nae beauty; yer freens ken I got nae siller; and, if I didna get God’s grace, I hae gotten a puir bargain indeed.”
It is fortunate for some folks, both you and I know, my reader, that Church discipline is not so rigorously enforced nowadays.
Mr. Shirra, of Kirkcaldy, distinguished for his homely and remarkable sayings, both in the pulpit and abroad, was greatly given to personal reproof in the course of divine service, and had a happy knack of sometimes killing two birds with one stone. One day, observing a young girl with a large and rather gaudy new bonnet, with which she herself seemed immoderately pleased, and also noticing or suspecting that his wife was indulging in a quiet nap, he paused in the middle of his sermon and said—“Look ony o’ ye there if my wife be sleepin’, for I canna see her for thae fine falderals on Jenny Bain’s new bonnet.” One day a weaver entered Shirra’s kirk dressed in the new uniform then procured for the volunteers, just raised. He kept walking about for a time as if looking for a seat, but really to show off his finery, which he perceived was attracting the attention of some of the less grave members of the congregation. He came to his place, however, rather quickly on Shirra quietly remarking, “Just sit down there, my man, and we’ll a’ see your new breeks when the kirk skails.”
This same Shirra was addicted to parenthetical remarks when reading the Scriptures, and one day, when reading from the 116th Psalm, “I said in my haste, all men are liars,” he quietly remarked—“Indeed, Dauvid, gin ye had lived in this parish ye might hae said it at your leisure.”
This, good as it is, was almost equalled by the remarks of an Edinburgh minister. The Rev. Mr. Scott, of the Cowgate, was a man of some popularity, but was seldom on good terms with his flock. One day, as he was preaching on Job, he said—“My brethren, Job, in the first place, was a sairly tried man; Job, in the second place, was an uncommonly patient man; Job, in the third place, never preached in the Cowgate; fourthly, and lastly, if Job had preached here, gude help his patience.”
The Rev. James Oliphant, of Dumbarton, was especially quaint in the pulpit. In reading the Scriptures, his habit was to make parenthetical comments in undertones. On this account the seats in nearest proximity to the pulpit were always best filled. Reading, one day, the passage which describes the possessed swine running into the deep and being there choked, he was heard to mutter, “Oh, that the deevil had been chockit too.” Again, in the passage as to Peter exclaiming, “We have left all and followed Thee,” the remark was, “Aye boasting, Peter, aye bragging; what had ye to leave but an auld, crazy boat, and maybe twa or three rotten nets?” There was considerable ingenuity in the mode by which Mr. Oliphant sought to establish the absolute wickedness of the devil. “From the word devil,” said Mr. Oliphant, “which means an enemy, take the d and you have evil; remove the e and you have vil (vile); take away the v and it is ill; and so you see, my brethren, he’s just an ill, vile, evil devil!”
A late minister of Crossmichael, in Galloway, did not disdain to illustrate his subjects with such images and allusions as were within the comprehension of his homely hearers. Accordingly, one Sabbath morning, he read a verse from the book of Exodus, as follows—“And the Lord said unto Moses—shut that door; I’m thinkin’ if ye had to sit beside the door yersel’ ye wadna be sae ready leavin’ it open; it was just beside that door that Yedam Tamson, the bellman, gat his death o’ cauld, an’ I’m sure, honest man, he didna let it stey muckle open.—And the Lord said unto Moses—put oot that dog; wha is’t that brings dogs to the kirk, yaff-yaffin’? Lat me never see ye bring yer dogs here ony mair, or I’ll put you an’ them baith oot.—And the Lord said unto Moses—I see a man aneath that wast laft wi’ his hat on; I’m sure ye’re clean oot o’ the souch o’ the door; keep aff yer bonnet, Tammas, an’ if yer bare pow be cauld, ye maun jist get a grey worset wig like mysel’; they’re no sae dear; plenty o’ them at Bob Gillespie’s for tenpence.” This said, he again began the verse, and at last made out the instructions to Moses in a manner more strictly in accordance with the text and with decency.
Another, remarkable for the simplicity and force of his style, was discoursing from the text, “Except ye repent ye shall all likewise perish,” and in order to impress upon his hearers the importance of attending to the solemn truth conveyed in the passage—“Yes, my freens,” he emphatically exclaimed, “unless ye repent ye shall all perish, just as surely as I’m gaun to ding the guts oot o’ that muckle blue flee that’s lichtit on my Bible.” Before the blow was struck the fly got away, upon which he struck the book with all his might and exclaimed at the top of his voice, “My freens, there’s a chance for ye yet!”
Dr. Paul, in his Past and Present of Aberdeenshire, tells of a minister who, while preaching on the subject of the wiles and crafts of Satan, suddenly paused, and then exclaimed—“See him sittin’ there in the crap o’ the wa’. What shall we do wi’ him, my brethren? He winna hang, for he’s licht as a feather; neither will he droon, my brethren, for he can soom like a cork; but we’ll shoot him wi’ the gun o’ the Gospel.” Then putting himself in the position of one aiming at an object, and imitating the noise of a shot, the minister called out exultingly, “He’s doon like a dead craw!”
This incident would have greatly delighted the man who thus described the kind of minister he was in search of—“Nane o’ your guid-warks men, or preachers o’ cauld morality for me! Gie me a speerit-rousin’ preacher that’ll haud the deil under the noses of the congregation and mak’ their flesh creep!”
It is related of a certain divine, whose matrimonial relations are supposed not to have been of the most agreeable kind, that one Sabbath morning, while reading to his congregation the parable of the Supper, in which occurs the passage—“And another said, I have bought five yoke of oxen, and I go to prove them; I pray thee have me excused. And another said, I have married a wife, and therefore cannot come,” he suddenly paused at the end of this verse, drew off his spectacles, and, looking on his hearers, said with emphasis—“The fact is, my brethren, one woman can draw a man farther away from the kingdom of heaven than fifty yoke of oxen.”
They were hard nuts to crack, many of these old preachers.
A late Earl of Airlie, when Lord High Commissioner, had the retiring Moderator to dinner with him on the evening previous to the opening of the General Assembly. In a spirit of mischief, the Earl tried to unfit him for his duties on the following day. As often as the reverend gentleman would endeavour to retire, the Earl met him with the exclamation, “Another glass, and then!” In spite of his late potations, the minister was in his place on the following day, and preached from the words, “The wicked shall be punished, and that right early.” Notwithstanding the manifest impatience of the Commissioner, the sermon was spun out to an inordinate length, the minister repeating with meaning emphasis each time that the sand glass which showed the half-hours was turned, “Another glass, and then! The wicked shall be punished, and that right early.”
A certain divine—or perhaps we should say an un-certain divine—preaching a sermon from the parable of the prodigal son, took as his text the words, “And when he came to himself,” and gave a reading of the passage at once unique and original. “We have here, brethren,” said he, “an instance of the wonderful depth of meaning there is in Scripture. We see how low this unprincipled young man had fallen. ‘When he came to himself’—what does it mean? Well, look at home. What do we do when our money’s gone and we’ve no credit? What do we turn to? The pawnshop. So did he. First, his coat would go; he might live a week on that. Then his waistcoat; that wouldn’t serve him long. Lastly, his shirt would follow; and then—ah, then, my friends, he came to himself! He couldn’t pawn himself, and so he went home to his father.”
The older style of preaching was often wonderfully graphic as well as amusing. Preaching from that text in Ecclesiastes—“Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour; so doth a little folly him that is in reputation for wisdom and honour,” a north country divine illustrated his subject by this example:—“See John at the kirk, an’ he looks amon’ folk like a man o’ mense; but follow him to the peat-moss, an’ ye’ll hear him tellin’ coorse stories to the loons an’ queans, haudin’ them lauchin’ at sin. There’s a dead flee in John’s sowl.” Sometimes, in his endeavour to give a vivid description, this same preacher became delightfully grotesque. Referring to Jonah—“The whawl,” he said, “shoutherin’ awa’ the waves, got at last geyan near the shore, and cried Byock-up. But Jonah didna come. Then the whawl cried [speaking it louder, and imitating the whale retching], Byock-up! But na! Jonah aye stack. Then the whawl cried [speaking it very loud and slow], Byock-up! Noo, sirs, divna ye see Jonah rinnin’, dreepin’, up the beach.” Once he described the progress of a sinner in a course of vice to the last stage of his hopelessness, when there is nothing left for him but a cry of pain—“Sirs, oot owre yon knowe there’s a sheepie tether’t, an’ in o’ reach o’ its tether there’s a breem buss [broom bush], an’ it gangs roond the buss, an’ roond the buss, till it’s hankit at the head, an’ then, what does it dee? It cries, Bae! That’s just the sinner cryin’ oot in its meesery.” In the same sermon, looking down upon the old women who sat near the pulpit and on the pulpit stair for the purpose of better hearing, in their clean white mutches, he said—“Here ye’re a’ sittin’, wi’ yer auld wither’t faces, that’s bonnier to me than a lass in her teens, for I ken ye hae seen sixty or seventy years, ilka ane o’ ye, an’ yer auld faces just say to me, ‘We hae served our Maister threescore years thegither, an’ we’re no tired servin’ Him yet.’” It does not surprise one to be told that this reference to the old women put them in a state of visible emotion.
The quaint homeliness thus manifested in the lesson and in the sermon found a place now and again in the prayers; and a west country divine, in the course of a wet harvest, in praying for more suitable weather, expressed himself thus:—“O Lord, gie us nae mair watter for a season, but wind—plenty o’ wind, an’ yet, O Lord, nane o’ yer rantin’, tantin’, tearin’ winds, but an oughin’, soughin’, winnin’ wind.”
Another, similarly circumstanced, prayed “that the floodgates of heaven might be shut for a season.” This was towards the close of a protracted period of rain and storm, and the weather had never been worse than on this particular Sabbath. And, just as the good man persisted in his petition, a fierce gust of wind bore the roof-window of the church down with a crash, which was succeeded by a terrific clatter of broken glass. “Oh,” he exclaimed, assuming an attitude of despair, “O Lord, this is perfectly ridiculous!”
He was more of a philosopher who, when his good lady told him that he did not insist enough when praying for a change of weather, replied, “Nae use o’ insistin’, Marget, until the change o’ the mune.”
The pastor of a small congregation of Dissenters in the West of Scotland, who, in prayer, often employed terms of familiarity towards the Great Being whom he invoked, was praying one day that such weather would be granted as was necessary for the ripening and gathering in of the fruits of the earth, when, pausing suddenly, he added in a lower tone of voice—“But what needs I talk! When I was up at the Shotts the other day, everything was as green as leeks!”
The Rev. Dr. Young, of Perth, used to be annoyed by a couple coming to church, sitting away in the gallery, “ssh-ssh” as they talked in lovers’ language all through the service. He could stand it no longer, so one Sunday he stopped in the middle of his sermon, looked up to the gallery, and said, “If that couple in the right hand gallery there will come to me on Monday I will marry them for nothing, if they will stop that ‘ssh-ssh’!”
The Rev. John Ross, of Blairgowrie, indulged a propensity for versifying in his pulpit announcements, and one day, at the close of the service, intimated that
And now we are induced to follow our subject out of the pulpit and into the wider sphere of pastoral life. It was here more particularly that the pungent and ready wit of the famous Watty Dunlop got full reign and enjoyed free play. The best known anecdote of this worthy relates to an occasion when he happened to be accompanying a funeral through a straggling village in the parish of Caerlaverock. Entering at one end of the hamlet he met a man driving a flock of geese. The wayward disposition of the feathered bipeds at the moment was too much for the driver’s temper, and he indignantly cried out, “Deevil choke ye!” Mr. Dunlop walked a little further on, and passed a farm-stead where a servant was driving a number of swine, and banning them with “Deevil tak’ ye!” Upon which Mr. Dunlop stepped up to him, and said, “Ay, ay, my man, yer gentleman’ll be wi’ ye i’ the noo; he’s just back the road there a bit chokin’ some geese till a man.”
Than Mr. Dunlop few ministers were more esteemed by their congregations as faithful and affectionate pastors, and so much respected by all denominations. And no doubt his freedom of speech and frankness of manner were important factors in bringing about this happy result. Here we have a capital example of his free and easy manner. While pursuing his pastoral visitations among some of the country members of his flock, he came one evening to a farmhouse where he was expected; and the mistress, thinking that he would be in need of refreshment, proposed that he should take his tea before engaging in exercise, and said she would soon have it ready. Mr. Dunlop’s reply was, “I aye tak’ my tea better when my wark’s dune. I’ll just be gaun on. Ye can hing the pan on, an’ lea the door ajee, an’ I’ll draw to a close when I hear the ham fizzlin’.” With the frankness so characteristic of him, this divine did not hesitate occasionally to intimate how agreeable certain presents would be to himself and his better-half. Accordingly, on a further “visitation” occasion, and while at a “denner-tea,” as he called it, at the close of a hard day’s labour, he kept incessantly praising the ham, and stated that Mrs. Dunlop at home was as fond of ham as he was. His hostess took the hint, and kindly offered to send Mrs. Dunlop the present of a ham. “It’s unco kind o’ ye—unco kind o’ ye,” replied the divine; “but I’ll no put ye to sae muckle trouble. I’ll just tak’ it hame on the horse afore me.” On leaving, he mounted, and the ham was put into a sack, but some difficulty was experienced in getting it to lie properly. His inventive genius, however, soon cut the Gordion knot. “I think, mistress,” said he, “a cheese in the ither end o’ the poke would mak’ a grand balance.” The gudewife could not resist an appeal so neatly put, and, like another John Gilpin, the crafty and facetious divine moved away with his “balance true.” Mr. Dunlop’s penchant for “presents” was, of course, well known, and on one occasion at least brought him into rather an awkward predicament. While engaged in offering up prayer in a house at which he was visiting, a peculiar sound was heard to issue from his greatcoat pocket. This was afterwards discovered to have proceeded from a half-choked duck which he had “gotten in a present,” and whose neck he had been squeezing all the time to prevent its crying.
On one occasion two irreverent young fellows determined, as they put it, “to taigle (confound) the minister.” Therefore, coming up to him in the High Street of Dumfries, they accosted him with much apparent solemnity, saying—
“Mr. Dunlop, hae ye heard the news?”
“What news?”
“Oh, the deil’s dead.”
“Is he?” quoth Mr. Dunlop; “then I maun pray for twa faitherless bairns.”
On another occasion, Mr. Dunlop met, with characteristic humour, an attempt to play off a trick on him. It was known that he was to dine with a minister whose house was situated close to the church, so that his return walk must be through the churchyard. Accordingly, some idle and mischievous fellows waited for him in the middle of the kirkyard, dressed in the popularly accredited habiliments of a ghost, hoping to put him in a terrible fright. “Is’t a general risin’?” inquired Watty, as he leisurely passed by the unco figure, “or are ye just takin’ a daunder yer lane?”
The celebrated Edward Irving had been lecturing at Dumfries, and a man who passed as a wag in the locality had been to hear him. He met Watty Dunlop the following day, who said—
“Weel, Willie, man, an’ what do you think o’ Mr. Irving?”
“Oh,” said Willie, contemptuously, “the man’s crackit.”
“Ah, Willie,” rejoined Dunlop, patting the man quietly on the shoulder, “but ye’ll aften see a bright light shinin’ through a crack.” No rejoinder was ever more pat.
Of similar grit with the facetious Watty Dunlop was another Watty: to wit, the Rev. Walter Morrison, a well-known north country divine. It is told of this worthy that when he was entreating the commanding officer of a regiment at Fort-George to pardon a poor fellow who had been sent to the halberts, the officer declared he would grant the culprit a free pardon on the condition that Mr. Morrison should accord with the first favour he (the officer) asked. The preacher at once agreed. The favour was to perform the ceremony of baptism for his young puppy. A merry party was invited to the christening, and much fun was expected at the minister’s expense. But they had been reckoning without their host. On his arrival, Mr. Morrison desired the officer to hold up the pup. “As I am a minister of the Kirk of Scotland,” said he, “I must proceed accordingly.” The Major said he asked no more. “Well then, Major, I begin with the usual question—You acknowledge yourself the father of this puppy?” The Major saw he had been over-reached, and threw away the animal amid the loud laughter of his brother officers.
The humour of John Skinner, for sixty-four years the Episcopal minister of Longside, who was the friend and correspondent of Robert Burns, and the author of “Tullochgorum,” “The Ewie wi’ the Crookit Horn,” “John o’ Badenyon,” and many other capital songs, was of the finest quality, standing in that respect in striking contrast to the humour of the U.P. minister of Dumfries. One specimen will suffice here, and I give it exactly as recorded by Dean Ramsay. Being present at a party (I think, says the Dean, at Lord Forbes’s), where were also several ministers of the Establishment, the conversation over their wine turned, among other things, on the Prayer Book. Skinner took no part in it till one minister remarked to him—
“The great fault I hae to your Prayer Book is that ye use the Lord’s Prayer sae aften. Ye just mak’ a dishclout o’t.”
Skinner’s rejoinder was, “Verra true; ay, man, we mak’ a dishclout o’t, an’ we wring’t, an’ we wring’t, an’ the bree o’t washes a’ the lave o’ our prayers.” The reply was witty and clever, and without gall.
Here you have another admirable example of the retort courteous. An old Edinburgh Doctor of Divinity, whose nose and chin were both very long, lost his teeth, and the nose and chin were thus brought, like the nose and chin of Willie Wastle’s wife, to “threaten ither.” A friend of his, accordingly, looking him broad in the face, jokingly observed—
“I am afraid, Doctor, your nose and chin will fight before long; they approach each other very menacingly.”
“I am afraid of it myself,” was the ready and good-humoured reply, “for a great many words have passed between them already.”
The Rev. Dr. Lawson, of Selkirk, a pious, able, and esteemed man, was reputed for indulging in those sallies of humour which not unfrequently avail in conveying salutary council when a graver method would prove ineffectual. His medical advisor, says Dr. Charles Rogers, had contracted the unworthy habit of using profane oaths. The Doctor had sent for him to consult him upon the state of his health, when, after hearing a narrative of his complaints, the physician rather angrily said, “Damn it, sir, you are the slave of a vile habit, and you will not soon recover unless you at once give it up.”
“And what is the habit you refer to?” inquired the patient.
“It is your practice of smoking—the use of tobacco is injuring your constitution.”
“I find it is an expensive habit,” said Dr. Lawson, “and if it is injuring me I shall abandon it; but will you permit me to give you a hint, too, as to a vile habit of your own; and which, were you to give it up, would be a great benefit to yourself and comfort to your friends?”
“What is that?” inquired the M.D.
“I refer to your habit of profane swearing,” replied the divine.
“True,” said Dr. —, “but that is not an expensive habit, like yours.”
“Doctor!” rejoined Lawson, “I warn you that you will discover it to be a very expensive habit indeed when the account is handed to you.”
Another anecdote of a similar nature is recorded of this divine. He was dining at a friend’s house. A gentleman of the party was, in conversation, frequently employing the words, “The devil take me.” Dr. Lawson at length arose, and ordered his horse. The host was surprised, and insisted upon his remaining, as dinner had scarcely begun. But nothing could prevail on him to do so; and when pressed to give a reason for his abrupt departure, he replied, “That gentleman there” (pointing to him) “has been praying that the devil would take him; and as I have no wish to be present at the scene, I beg to be allowed to depart.”
At a subsequent period of his ministry, Dr. Lawson was appointed Professor in the Divinity Hall of the Associate Church. One morning he appeared in the Hall with his wig somewhat tousie and all on one side. A student whispered to his neighbour, “See, his wig is no redd the day.” The Doctor heard, but took no notice of it at the time; but when it came to the turn of this student to deliver a discourse, he was invited to the pulpit with these words from the professor—“Come awa, Mr. —, and we’ll see wha’s got the best redd wig.”
Dr. Macfarlane, in his biography of Dr. Lawson, gives a story of another Selkirk minister—Mr. Law, afterwards of Kirkcaldy—who was equally remarkable with Dr. Lawson for wit and satire, piety and talent. There was a sort of scoffing character in the town in which Mr. Law lived, commonly called Jock Hammon. Jock had a nickname for Mr. Law, which, though profane, had reference to the well-known evangelical character of his ministry. “There’s the grace of God,” he would say, as he saw the good man passing by; and he actually talked of him under that designation. It so happened that Mr. Law had on one occasion consented to take the chair at some public meeting. The hour of meeting was past, the place of meeting was filled, but no minister appeared. Symptoms of impatience were manifested, when a voice was heard from one corner of the hall—“My freends, there will be nae ‘Grace of God’ here this nicht!” Just at this moment the door opened and Mr. Law appeared, casting, as he entered, a rather knowing look upon Jock Hammon, as Jock ejaculated these words. On taking the chair Mr. Law apologised for being so late. “I had,” he said, “to go into the country to preside at the examination of a village school, and really the young folks conducted themselves so well that I could scarce get away from them. If you please, I will give you a specimen of the examination. I called up an intelligent-looking girl, and asked her if she had ever heard of any one who had erected a gallows for another and who had been hanged on it himself? ‘Yes,’ replied the girl, ‘it was Haman.’ With that up started another little girl, and she said, ‘Eh, minister, that’s no true; Hammon’s no hanged yet, for I saw him at the public-hoose door this forenoon, and he was swearing like a trooper!’” (Upon this there was a considerable tittering among the audience, and eyes were directed to the corner where Jock was sitting.) “You are both quite right, my dears,” said Mr. Law. “Your Haman was really hanged, as he deserved to be; and” (turning towards the other) “your Hammon, my lammie, is no hanged yet—by ‘the grace of God,’” he added, with a solemnity of tone which removed every thought of irreverence from the allusion.
Very sharp and stinging was the wit and satire of the well-known Thom of Govan. One day when he was preaching before the magistrates, he is reported to have suddenly halted and said, “Dinna snore sae loud, Bailie Broon, ye’ll wauken the Provost.” On another occasion, the circumstances of which were very similar, he suddenly stopped in his discourse, took out his snuff-box, tapped it on the lid, and took a pinch of snuff with the greatest of deliberation. By this time the whole congregation was agog with eager curiosity to know what was wrong. Mr. Thom, after a little, gravely proceeded to say, “My friends, I’ve had a snuff, and the Provost has had a sleep, and, if ye like, we’ll just begin again.”
A country laird, near Govan, who had lately been elevated to the position of a county magistrate, meeting Mr. Thom one day on horseback, attempted jocularity by remarking that he was more ambitious than his Master, who was content to ride upon an ass. “They canna be gotten noo,” replied Thom; “they’re a’ made Justices o’ the Peace.”
Of the Rev. James Robertson, of Kilmarnock, who was possessed of high attainments as a theologian and scholar, there are many good stories. Like many another divine, Mr. Robertson was often annoyed by those busybodies who take charge of everyone’s business but their own. One day, when preaching upon the besetting sins of different men, he remarked, using a well-known Scottish saying—“Every ane, my friends, has his ain draff-pock. Some hae their draff-pock hingin’ afore them; ithers, again, hae their draff-pock hingin’ ahent them; but I ken a man that sits in my ain kirk that has draff-pocks hingin’ a’ around him. An’ wha dae ye think that is? A’body kens wha I mean—nae ither than Andro’ Oliphant.”
Mr. Robertson’s precentor displeased him very much by his loud singing, and accordingly was not only often reproved, but even stopped by him after commencing the psalm. One morning a tune was started upon a key a little higher even than usual, when Mr. Robertson rose up in the pulpit, and, tapping the musical worthy on the head, thus addressed him—“Andro’, Andro’, man, do you no ken that a toom barrel aye soonds loudest?”
Preaching before the Associate Synod at Glasgow, he introduced the probability of a French invasion as a punishment for national sin; and while admitting the immoral character of the infliction, he assured his hearers that “Providence wasna always nice in the choice of instruments for punishing the wickedness of men.” “Tak’,” he continued, “an example frae amang yersel’s. Your magistrates dinna ask certificates o’ character for their public executioners. They generally select sic clanjamphrie as hae rubbit shouthers wi’ the gallows themsel’s. And as for this Bonyparte,” continued the preacher, “I’ve tell’d ye, my friends, what was the beginning o’ that man, and I’ll tell ye what will be the end o’ him. He’ll come doon like a pockfu’ o’ goats’ horns at the Broomielaw!”
The Rev. Dr. M’Cubbin, of Douglas, had a humorous faculty peculiarly his own, and once at least was able to turn the tables on such an incorrigible joker as the Hon. Henry Erskine. They met at the dinner-table of a mutual friend. There was a dish of cresses on the table, and the doctor took such a hearty supply, and devoured them with such relish, using his fingers, that Erskine was tempted to remark that his procedure reminded him of Nebuchadnezzar. “Ay,” retorted Dr. M’Cubbin, “that’ll be because I’m eatin’ amang the brutes, I suppose.”
But the wit of the old fathers and brethren was generally keenest when turned against the wearers of their own cloth.
On one occasion, when coming to church, Dr. Macknight, who was a much better commentator than preacher, having been caught in a shower of rain, entered the vestry soaked through. Every means were employed to relieve him from his discomfort, but as the time drew on for divine service he became very querulous, and ejaculated over and over again, “Oh, I wish that I was dry! Do you think that I am dry? Do you think I am dry enough now?”
Tired by these endless complaints, his jocose colleague, Dr. Henry, the historian, at last replied, “Bide a wee, Doctor, an’ ye’ll be dry enough, I’se warrant, when ye get into the poopit.”
It was a very dry joke indeed.
The Rev. Dr. Dow, of Errol, and the Rev. Dr. Duff, of Kilspindie, long maintained a warm and uninterrupted intimacy. Once, on a New Year’s Day, Dr. Dow sent to his friend, who was a great snuffer, a snuff-box filled with snuff, and inscribed thus—
The minister of Kilspindie resolved not to be outdone either in generosity or pungent humour. The pastor of Errol, though withal a sober and exemplary man, was known to enjoy a glass of toddy with his friends. So his clerical brother retaliated on him with the present of a hot-water jug, bearing on the lid this couplet—
Shortly after the disruption of the Church of Scotland, two clergymen—father and son—were discussing the comparative merits of the Churches to which they belonged. The father, an upholder of Erastianism, had remained faithful to the Church in which he had been ordained; the son had joined the Non-intrusion party, and attached himself to the Free Church. The son expatiated at great length on the superiority of his Church over that of his father; of the advantages of its freedom from State control; of the privilege of its members to elect their own ministers; of its activity and zeal for the diffusion of religion, etc.; and while he did so, did not hesitate to pick holes large and many in the discipline and government of the Church with which his father had been so long connected, and from which he himself had so recently seceded. In his estimation the Auld Kirk had faults innumerable, the Free Church none. After hearing him for a while, the father closed the conversation by saying—
“When your Kirk’s lum, Andrew, has been as lang reekin’ as mine, I’m thinkin’ ye’ll find, lad, it will then need sweepin’ too.”
The Rev. Dr. Gillan, of Inchinnan, was a ready wit, of whom a number of capital stories are told, among them being the following:—One day a young elder, making his first appearance in the Glasgow Presbytery, modestly sat down on the very edge of a bench near the door. By and by the minister who had been sitting at the other end rose, and the young elder was just falling off when the door opened and Dr. Gillan entered, who, catching him in his arms, with his usual readiness exclaimed, “Sir, when you come to this place you must try and stick to the forms of the Church.”
Among the preachers who occupied the pulpits in Scotland in the days of other years, these fitful glances tend to reveal, were men not less famous for their eloquence and earnest preaching than for their wit and humour and popular eccentricities of character; and they were certainly not the less effective as pastors and preachers that they now and again gave reign to their fancies, and were moved to laughter like ordinary men. How much have the keen humorous sensibilities of Spurgeon, and Moody, and M’Neill, and others that might be named, contributed to the effectiveness of their pulpit ministrations? Indeed, there have been few great preachers, in any time or place, who have not had a lively sense of humour; although the converse, of course, does not obtain. The great Dr. Guthrie; the grand Dr. Norman Macleod; the erudite Dr. Anderson, of Glasgow; and the eloquent Gilfillan, of Dundee, were all humourists of the first water.
Referring to the fact that each successive generation considers itself a vast improvement on its predecessor, Dr. Guthrie once said, “I thocht that my father really didna ken very muckle, but my laddies seem to think I’m a born idiot.”
Dr. Norman Macleod’s faculty of humour was well known everywhere, for it manifested itself in various ways—most effectively, perhaps, in lyrical measures such as “The Waggin’ o’ oor Dog’s Tail,” “Captain Frazer’s Nose,” etc., but always to the order of uproarious fun. It is told of Norman that when walking down Buchanan Street, Glasgow, arm-in-arm with a merchant friend of the West, one day, the two were passed, first by the Most Rev. Bishop Irvine, of Argyll, then by the Bishop’s valet, following a few steps behind him; the one short and slim and the other long and thin, but both dressed clerically and seeming much alike. They each saluted the popular minister of the Barony as they passed, whereupon his merchant friend turned to him and enquired, “Who was the man with the choker on, walking behind the Bishop, who saluted you just now, Doctor?”
“Oh,” said Norman, “that’s the valet of the shadow of death.”
When Norman, not yet great, began his ministry in the Ayrshire parish of Loudoun, among his parishioners were some rather notable freethinkers, whose views the young divine, with the energy and earnestness characteristic of him, thought it proper to assail and denounce. Naturally this caused a good deal of commotion and excitement in what had hitherto been rather a sleepy parish. One of his elders, who thought his minister’s zeal outran his discretion, one day thus addressed him—“Mr. Macleod, hoo is it we ne’er heard o’ unbelievers hereaboot till ye cam’ among us?” “John,” said the ready minister, “saw ye ever a wasp’s bike?” “Hoot aye, aften.” “Weel, lat them be, and they’ll lat you be; but put your stick through the heart of it, and it’ll be anither story.”
No minister was ever more beloved by his people than was Dr. Macleod by the inhabitants of the Barony parish. There is a story which reveals this with rare effect, and which the great Norman himself told with much gusto. A dissenting minister in the district had been asked to come to a house in the High Street, and pray with a man who was thought to be at the point of death. He knew by the name and address given that the people were not connected with his congregation. Still, he went off at once as desired. When he had read and prayed—having previously noted how tidy everything looked about the room, and being puzzled by the thought of a family of such respectable appearance having no church connection—he turned to the wife and mother of the household, and asked if they were not connected with any Christian body in the city?
“Ou, ay,” she replied, “we’re members o’ the Barony.”
“You are members of the Barony! Then why didn’t you call in Dr. Macleod to pray with your husband, instead of sending for me?”
“Ca’ in the great Dr. Norman Macleod?” skirled the matron, with uplifted hands. “The man’s surely daft. Dinna ye ken it’s a dangerous case o’ typhus?”
Norman Macleod, Anthony Trollope, the novelist, and John Burns of Castle Wemyss, were great friends, and went together once on a tour in the Highlands. On arriving at an inn late at night they had supper, and then told stories, and laughed without stint half the night through. In the morning an old gentleman, who slept in a bedroom above them, complained to the landlord that he had not been able to sleep on account of the noise from the party below; and added that he regretted that such men should “take more than was good for them.”
“Well,” replied the landlord, “I am bound to say there was a good deal of loud talking and laughing; but they had nothing stronger than tea and herrings.”
“Bless me,” rejoined the old gentleman, “if that is so, what would Dr. Macleod and Mr. Burns be after dinner!”
“Willie” Anderson’s well-known “three-a-penny” story is perhaps the very best one which rumour persistently attaches to his name. The Doctor had been walking towards John Street Church one Sunday evening, when it suddenly commenced to rain, very much to the discomfiture of three well-dressed young men, who had come out to air their clothes and to see and be seen, who occupied the pavement immediately in front of the popular preacher. “What’s to be done?” exclaimed one; “we canna walk the streets in a nicht like this.” “We’re just comin’ on to John Street Kirk,” remarked another, “we’ll go an’ hear Willie Anderson preachin’.” The mention of his name caused the minister to play the part of eavesdropper for a moment, during which the young gentlemen made the discovery that two halfpennies formed the sum total of their united small cash. This fact, however, was not to be allowed to bar their entrance to the place of worship, “for,” said one, addressing the other two, “I’ll drap in a bawbee, an’ he’ll drap in a bawbee, an’ ye’ll mairch past the plate atween the twa o’s, an’ the thing’ll never be noticed.” Immediately this was agreed to, the erratic divine shot past the objects of his temporary attention. When they reached the church door he was standing beside the elder at the plate, and as they marched past a second later, and the “twa bawbees” were noisily dropped in, “There they go,” exclaimed the Doctor, “three-a-penny—three-a-penny!”
Dr. Anderson was a man of very fine musical taste, and one Sabbath, in John Street, after the first psalm had been sung, and sung badly, he addressed the congregation thus—“Are ye not ashamed of yourselves for offering up to God such abominable sounds? If you had to offer up a service of praise before Queen Victoria in her presence, then you would have met every night, if necessary, for weeks on end, but as God is unseen you evidently think anything is good enough for Him. I am ashamed of you.” Then, taking a pinch of snuff out of his waistcoat pocket, he said solemnly, “Let us pray.”
Gilfillan of Dundee was distinguished for his largeness of heart and generosity as well as for his erudition and oratorical powers. No deserving—seldom an undeserving—beggar went from his door unaided. To the poor of his own flock he was a true friend and faithful pastor. On a melancholy occasion, a member of School Wynd Church called at the manse in Paradise Road to invite the Rev. George to come and officiate in his clerical capacity at the funeral. After the usual condolence, the preacher remarked to the bereaved, “By the by, I have missed you from the church for some time. What is wrong?”
“Well, to be plain with you, Mr. Gilfillan,” said the man, “my coat is so bare, I’m ashamed to come.”
The big man immediately disrobed himself of his coat, and handing it to the distressed member of his congregation, said, “There, my man, let me see that coat every Sabbath until it becomes bare, and then call back.”
After so delivering himself, the divine returned to his study in his shirt-sleeves, and being observed by his worthy spouse, she approached and asked what he had done with his coat. His answer was, “I have just given it to God, my dear.”
To correct the popular but erroneous idea that the child receives its name at baptism from the minister, Gilfillan’s practice on occasions of the kind was not to mention the child’s name at all. Once, however, when the sacrament was asked to be administered, the parents insisted beforehand that the child’s name should be announced. “Very well,” was the reply. Accordingly, when the little one had been with all due solemnity received into the Church visible, the minister, looking abroad over the congregation, raised his voice and exclaimed, “The parents of this child wish the congregation to know that its name is John.”
George was never again asked to announce the name in a case of baptism.
Kindly and generous in the main, that Gilfillan could be severe too when he liked, is well known. Speaking of the county town of Forfarshire, which has no very high character for morality, he said, “When Satan was showing our Lord all the kingdoms of the earth, we may be sure he kept his thumb on Forfar.”