Forthcoming posts on this site will jot down shadier aspects of bygone life associated with religion, such as violence at the Reformation and afterwards, Protestant and Catholic martyrdom, and other dark morsels. But to ease us all in gently, here are a few anecdotes of times when the Kirk was the centre of the universe, around which all else orbited. These snippets on the lighter side of religion come either from the Rev Dr Charles Rogers or Robert Chambers. While some of the anecdotes are difficult to either find amusing or to make sense of (being from a vanished age), they do open the window on the past a chink.
Not that all the stories are entirely light hearted when you dig beneath them. Dr Rogers tells the tale of a local farmer hauled before the Presbytery of Brechin, to give evidence concerning the Rev. John Gillanders, minister of Fearn, who was accused of drunkenness. The lawyer who conducted the prosecution asked the witness if he had heard Mr. Gillanders acknowledge that he had been in the habit of drinking to excess.
'I never heard him say that,' the farmer said carefully, then added, 'But I have often heard him say that he was not.'
John Gillanders was born in Aberdeenshire in 1757. After being a schoolmaster at Tannadice he was ordained on 7th June 1786. He died unmarried in 1802, and no details have come my way to confirm or counteract the slander of alcoholism brought against him.
Many ministers at the past had the provervial gift of the gab, loquaciousness being a requirement of the calling, so to speak. In the late 18th century there were two particularly talkative ministers in charge of neighbouring parishes. When they were both at any gathering they competed to see who could monopolise the conversation the best, at the expense of all others. Once the two divines happened to be having breakfast together and one of them launched on an immense and unending story which went well beyond any of his previous storytelling exploits. So engrossed was he is his own oratory that he overfilled the teapot and did not even notice when it overspilled, first onto the table and then down on to the floor. When at last he paused in his monologue, announcing that he was near the end, his guest sourly remarked:
'Aye, ye may stop noo - it's rinnin oot the door!'
It was a common jibe against ministers that they spoke so much that they sometimes spoke nonsense, or at least got muddled in their speaking. The Rev. Alexander Imlach of Murroes (born 1727) was one such imprecise speaker, but the sole surviving instance of his verbal muddledness is no mild as to be near insensible. When he was preaching one day he loftily invoked an old saying and stated, 'O Lord, bless all ranks and degrees of persons, from the king on the dunghill to the beggar on the throne.' Then he corrected himself: I mean, from the beggar on the throne to the king on the dunghill!'
But other times it was the congregation who got misled by the speeches of the preachers, either through their own failings or because the ministers were too high falluting in their speeches. Until the time of the French Revolution it was a widespread tendency among the ministry to make constant mention of the Antichrist in their preaching, by which they meant the Pope of Rome. Times change, even in the kirk, and soon a milder exhortation to pray for the altar and the throne.
Some time after this change an old parishoner approached the Rev Mr M- of Montrose and asked him earnestly:
'Sir, I hae something to speir at ye, but ye maunna tak it ill.'
'Na,na,' assured the minister. 'I'll no tak it ill.'
'Ou, dear me,' said the auld wife. 'Is yon Annie Christie deid, or is she better, that ye prayed sae lang aboot, for I ne'er hear ye speak aboot her noo?'
the minister alluded to here may be the Rev James Mitchell (1763-1835), who was a tutor and close friend to Walter Scott, who described their association:
Mitchell left his charge at Montrose in 1805 because of local difficulties, chief of which was 'because he could not persuade the mariners of the guilt of setting sail of a Sabbath'.
Long ago, a newly appointed minister in Angus was coached about the character of his parishoners by a knowing elder:
'When you ca on John Ramage o the Hillfoot, sir, ye maun speak aboot anything except plooin and sawin.'
Why was that, the minister asked?
'John, ye see, sir,' replied the elder,' is sure tae notice your deficiency in thae matters; and if he should find oot that ye dinna ken aboot plooing an sawin, he'll no gie ye credit for kenning onything else.'
A different tale type is represented by the following story. Late one Saturday night an old and rather lame Angus minister asked a servant to fetch the pulpit bible from the kirk as he was anxious to consult it for something. The servant as first declined, saying he was too afraid to venture alone through the dark kirk-yard alone. A conversation ensued and a compromise was reached. The minister would accompany him, but as he couldn't walk his man would have to give him a cuddy-back. John grumbled and mumbled, but agreed to carry the minister and fetch the bible. On the way back, with the minister on his shoulders and large bible beneath his arm, he was alarmed to hear a voice ask from beneath a tombstone:
'Is he fat?'
Believing that the lurking ghost or bogle was querying his mortal burden (possibly with the purpose of devouring him),he discarded the minister and yelled,
'Tak him as he is!' and ran away.
Somehow the minister struggled back to the manse first. What he said to John is not recorded. Next day it was explained that two sheep stealers were in the area. While one of them kept watch behind a gravestone, the other was on the look out for a beast to steal. The overheard remark was actually a comment from the first about the size of the sheep his comrade had got hold of!
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| John Kay caricature of a distracted congregation |
Not that all the stories are entirely light hearted when you dig beneath them. Dr Rogers tells the tale of a local farmer hauled before the Presbytery of Brechin, to give evidence concerning the Rev. John Gillanders, minister of Fearn, who was accused of drunkenness. The lawyer who conducted the prosecution asked the witness if he had heard Mr. Gillanders acknowledge that he had been in the habit of drinking to excess.
'I never heard him say that,' the farmer said carefully, then added, 'But I have often heard him say that he was not.'
John Gillanders was born in Aberdeenshire in 1757. After being a schoolmaster at Tannadice he was ordained on 7th June 1786. He died unmarried in 1802, and no details have come my way to confirm or counteract the slander of alcoholism brought against him.
Many ministers at the past had the provervial gift of the gab, loquaciousness being a requirement of the calling, so to speak. In the late 18th century there were two particularly talkative ministers in charge of neighbouring parishes. When they were both at any gathering they competed to see who could monopolise the conversation the best, at the expense of all others. Once the two divines happened to be having breakfast together and one of them launched on an immense and unending story which went well beyond any of his previous storytelling exploits. So engrossed was he is his own oratory that he overfilled the teapot and did not even notice when it overspilled, first onto the table and then down on to the floor. When at last he paused in his monologue, announcing that he was near the end, his guest sourly remarked:
'Aye, ye may stop noo - it's rinnin oot the door!'
It was a common jibe against ministers that they spoke so much that they sometimes spoke nonsense, or at least got muddled in their speaking. The Rev. Alexander Imlach of Murroes (born 1727) was one such imprecise speaker, but the sole surviving instance of his verbal muddledness is no mild as to be near insensible. When he was preaching one day he loftily invoked an old saying and stated, 'O Lord, bless all ranks and degrees of persons, from the king on the dunghill to the beggar on the throne.' Then he corrected himself: I mean, from the beggar on the throne to the king on the dunghill!'
But other times it was the congregation who got misled by the speeches of the preachers, either through their own failings or because the ministers were too high falluting in their speeches. Until the time of the French Revolution it was a widespread tendency among the ministry to make constant mention of the Antichrist in their preaching, by which they meant the Pope of Rome. Times change, even in the kirk, and soon a milder exhortation to pray for the altar and the throne.
Some time after this change an old parishoner approached the Rev Mr M- of Montrose and asked him earnestly:
'Sir, I hae something to speir at ye, but ye maunna tak it ill.'
'Na,na,' assured the minister. 'I'll no tak it ill.'
'Ou, dear me,' said the auld wife. 'Is yon Annie Christie deid, or is she better, that ye prayed sae lang aboot, for I ne'er hear ye speak aboot her noo?'
the minister alluded to here may be the Rev James Mitchell (1763-1835), who was a tutor and close friend to Walter Scott, who described their association:
He was a young man of excellent disposition and a laborious student. From him I learned writing and arithmetic. I repeated to him my French lessons, and studied with him my themes in the classics. I also acquired by disputing with him (for this he readily permitted) some knowledge of school - divinity andchurch history, and a great acquaintance n particular with the old books describing the early history of the Church of Scotland, the wars and sufferings of the Covenanters, and so forth. I, with a head on fire for chivalry, was a Cavalier, my friend was a Roundhead ; I was a Tory, and he was a Whig. I hated Presbyterians, and admired Montrose with his victorious Highlanders ; he liked the Presbyterian Ulysses, the dark and politic Argyle, so that we never wanted subjects of dispute...
Mitchell left his charge at Montrose in 1805 because of local difficulties, chief of which was 'because he could not persuade the mariners of the guilt of setting sail of a Sabbath'.
Long ago, a newly appointed minister in Angus was coached about the character of his parishoners by a knowing elder:
'When you ca on John Ramage o the Hillfoot, sir, ye maun speak aboot anything except plooin and sawin.'
Why was that, the minister asked?
'John, ye see, sir,' replied the elder,' is sure tae notice your deficiency in thae matters; and if he should find oot that ye dinna ken aboot plooing an sawin, he'll no gie ye credit for kenning onything else.'
'Is he fat?'
Believing that the lurking ghost or bogle was querying his mortal burden (possibly with the purpose of devouring him),he discarded the minister and yelled,
'Tak him as he is!' and ran away.
Somehow the minister struggled back to the manse first. What he said to John is not recorded. Next day it was explained that two sheep stealers were in the area. While one of them kept watch behind a gravestone, the other was on the look out for a beast to steal. The overheard remark was actually a comment from the first about the size of the sheep his comrade had got hold of!
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