“Aye, Provost, an’ did you see the eclipse?” said the Cooncillor.
The great man was amazed at the question, and replied in a tone that was meant to crush the questioner:
“Man, Donald, I wonder at ye speerin’ sic a thing; hoo cud I see the eclipse, an’ me at Friockheim?”
Nothing so uplifted Willie as to have to preside at any public meeting in the Toon Hall. For a day or two previously he would be in such a state of excitement that any work in his shop, short of a coffin to be made, was entirely out of the question. Several times a day he would have to “gang doon the toon on business,” which meant on each occasion one or two bottles of ale, with cronies, at the inn; and it generally happened that by the time he came to mount the platform, he was prepared to make a speech that would take the palm as the most amusing item on the programme. One Hallowe’en night a party of musical folks had given an entertainment in the “Hall,” in aid of some contemplated local improvements. The Provost rose to thank the visitors for their kindly help. “Gentlemen an’ ladies,” he said, “A’m sure we’re a’ vera muckle obleeged to the freens that’s fushen ye here the nicht. Ye’ve gien us a concert that couldna be beaten in the big toon o’ Aiberdeen. I howp we’ll a’ gang hame like gude bairns, an’ be thankfu’ that we leeve in sic an enlichtened toon. There’s a heap mair I could say aboot it; but—but—I mean—I think we’ll draw the meetin’ to a con—con close, wi’ a verse o’ the netteral anthum. Whaur’s the precentor? Oh! ye’re there, are ye, Rob? Just strike up—“God Save the Queen.”
Tammas Brown’s remarks on his successor were more forcible than polite.
“What in a’ the worrld gars the useless, bletherin’ cratur stand up and mak’ a fule of hissel’ an’ the Toon Cooncil? He fair bates a’. Gin I had a neep (turnip)—big eneuch, I could mak’ a better man oot o’t wi’ my knife.”
Tammas was an Episcopalian of a type that is fast passing away, more’s the pity. In his young days he had received his religious training under a succession of clergy who had imbibed freely of the teaching of the great Oxford Revival. Church doctrine was set forth with no uncertain sound; but, there was no attempt at anything of the nature of ceremonial. The services in St. John’s were plain but reverent. There was no chanting of the Psalms—priest and people read them antiphonally, Tammas leading the people’s part in clear stentorian tones. He had a perfect horror of anything that savored of ritualism.
During my first winter there the heating arrangements of the church were not of a very satisfactory kind, and on several occasions we were nearly frozen out. I had contracted a severe cold in my head, and to protect my bald pate had taken to wearing a small silk skull-cap. For several Sundays no notice was taken of this; but one day the storm burst. I was taking off my surplice in the vestry when the door opened and Tammas stood before me. His face was severe; my greeting fell unheeded. He pointed to the cap, and said sternly:
“We want nane o’ thae Popish things here, Maister Gray. Thae bannets may do a’ vera weel among the puir craturs in Edinbro that ken nae better, but they’ll no do here.”
I assured him that our own Bishop himself wore one; but that argument was worse than useless.