“Ou, ye see,” said Hackstoun, “Solomon didna ken whether his son was to be a fool or a wise man: but baith you and I are quite sure that our sons are fools.”
These anecdotes and illustrations possess a value distinct from the rich ore of humour they reveal. They are redolent of the soil, and serve as “keek-holes” through which fitful glances are obtained of the manners and customs of the “rude forefathers of the hamlet,” and the easy relationship which in bygone days existed between the occupants of the pulpit and the pew.
Here endeth this lesson.
CHAPTER V
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.