The Lindsays

by John K. Leys

I found the church filled with dreadfully narrow pews of unpainted wood, and facing them an immensely tall pulpit, with a subsidiary pulpit in front of the other at a lower elevation. There were carpets on the staircase which led up to the pulpits, and the desks of both were covered with red cloth, with elaborate tassels. From either side of the upper pulpit there projected slender, curving brass rods about two feet long, terminating in broad pieces of brass, fixed at right angles to the rods. What the use of this apparatus was I could not imagine. A steep gallery ran round three sides of the little building; and in front of the pulpit was a table covered with a white cloth.

I was not so uncharitable as to suppose that those who came here to worship were guilty of any intentional irreverence, but certainly they carried out the theory that no reverence ought to be paid to sacred places very completely. No male person removed his hat till he was well within the doors; and in many cases men did not uncover themselves till they were comfortably seated. No one so much as thought of engaging in any private devotions. I was surprised to see that the congregation (which was, for the size of the building, a large one) was composed almost entirely of women and children; but as soon as the bells stopped ringing, a great clatter of heavy boots was heard in the vestibule, and the heads of families, whom I had seen standing at the corner, poured into the place. Like wise men, they had been taking the benefit of the fresh air till the last available moment.

Hardly had the farmers taken their seats when a man appeared, dressed entirely in black, carrying an enormous Bible, with two smaller books placed on the top of it. Ascending the pulpit stairs, he placed one of the smaller books on the desk of the lower pulpit; and then, going a few steps higher, he deposited the other two volumes on the desk of the higher one. He then retired, and immediately the minister, a tall, dark man, with very long black hair, wearing an immense gown of black silk, black gloves, and white bands such as barristers wear, entered the church and ascended to the pulpit. He was followed by an older man dressed in a stuff gown, who went into the lower pulpit. Last of all came the door-keeper, who also went up the pulpit stairs and carefully closed the pulpit door after the minister. The man in the stuff gown was left to shut his own door, and he did so with a bang, as if in protest at the want of respect shown to him, and his inferior position generally.

The ritual part, as I may call it, of the service being over, the minister rose and gave out a psalm, just as old Mr. Lindsay does at prayers; and as he did so, the man in the stuff gown got up, and pulling out two thin black boards from under his desk, he skilfully fixed one of them on the end of the brass rod which projected from the right-hand side of the pulpit; and then, turning half round, he fixed the other upon the similar rod on the left-hand side. On each of these boards I read, in large gilt letters, the word ‘Martyrdom.’ I could not imagine, even then, the meaning of this ceremony; but Alec informed me afterwards that it was meant to convey to the congregation the name of the tune to which the psalm was to be sung, so that they might turn it up in their tune-books, if they felt so inclined.

When the minister had read the verses which he wished to have sung, he gave out the number of the psalm again in a loud voice, and read the first line a second time, so that there might be no mistake. He then sat down, and the little man beneath him, rising up, began to sing. I very nearly got into trouble at this point by rising to my feet, forgetting for the moment that the orthodox Scotch fashion is to sit while singing and to stand at prayer. (I am told that in the towns a good many churches have adopted the habit of standing up to sing and keeping their seats during the prayer; but older Presbyterians look upon this custom, as, if not exactly heretical, yet objectionable, as tending in the direction of ritualism, prelacy, and other abominations.) For a line or two the precentor was left to sing by himself, then one or two joined in, and presently the whole body of the congregation took up the singing. I was surprised to find what a good effect resulted—it was at least infinitely better than that of an ordinary choir of mixed voices led by a vile harmonium or American organ. Many of the voices were rough, no doubt; and the precentor seemed to make it a point of honour to keep half a note ahead of everybody else; but, in spite of this, the general effect of so many sonorous voices singing in unison was decidedly impressive.

As soon as the four prescribed verses had been sung, the minister rose up to pray, and everybody got up at the same time. You know I am not easily shocked, Sophy; and hitherto, though I had seen much that was ludicrous and strange, I had not seen anything that I considered specially objectionable; but I must say that the behaviour of these good folks at the prayer which followed did shock me. They simply stood up and stared at each other; perhaps I noticed it more particularly because I, being a stranger, came in for a good share of attention. Many of the men kept their hands in their pockets; some were occupied taking observations of the weather, through the little windows of plain glass, half the time. The minister, I noticed, kept his hands clasped and his eyes tightly closed; and some of his flock, among whom were my host and his daughter, followed his example; but the majority, as I have said, simply stared around them. They may have been giving, meanwhile, a mental assent to the truths which the minister was enunciating; I dare say some of them were; but as far as one could judge from outward appearances they were no more engaged in praying than they were engaged in ploughing. The prayer lasted a very long time; when it was over we heard a chapter read, and after another part of a psalm was sung the sermon began. This was evidently the event of the day, to which everything said or done hitherto had been only an accessory; and everybody settled himself down in his seat as comfortably as he could.

From what I had heard of Scotch sermons I was prepared for a well-planned logical discourse, and the sermon to which I now listened fulfilled that description. But then it was, to my mind at least, entirely superfluous. Granting the premisses (as to which no one in the building, excepting perhaps my unworthy self, entertained the slightest doubt), the conclusion followed as a matter of course, and hardly needed a demonstration lasting fifty minutes by my watch. I was so tired with the confinement in a cramped position and a close atmosphere that I very nearly threw propriety to the winds and left the building. Fortunately, however, just before exhausted nature succumbed, the preacher began what he called the ‘practical application of the foregoing,’ and I knew that the time of deliverance was at hand. And I must say that, judging from the fervour with which the concluding verses of a psalm were sung, I was not alone in my feeling of relief. As soon as the psalm was ended everybody rose, and the preacher, stretching out his arms over his flock, pronounced a solemn benediction. The ‘Amen’ was hardly out of the good man’s mouth when a most refreshing clatter arose. No one resumed his seat. Everybody hurried into the narrow passages, which were in an instant so crammed that moving in them was hardly possible. Here, again, I am convinced that there was no intentional irreverence; it was merely a custom arising from the extremely natural desire of breathing the fresh air after the confinement we had undergone. As we passed out I overheard several casual remarks about the sermon, which was discussed with the utmost freedom.

‘Maister McLeod was a wee thocht dry the day,’ said one farmer.

‘But varra guid—varra soon’,’ responded his neighbour.

‘I thocht he micht ha’ made raither mair o’ that last pint,’ said the first speaker.