“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.”