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.”

“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.”

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

But what gin ye had dune it

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

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.