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 OF
the several leading religious denominations in Scotland, that known as the
Free Kirk possessed for me the greatest attraction. I must, however, confess
I am only familiar with religious Scotland as a stronghold of
Presbyterianism. There were three branches of this faith — the Established
Kirk, the 'U.P.'s' or United Presbyterians, and the Free Kirk. But the last
seemed to have the most honest independence, vitality, and enterprise, and
to draw to its
pulpit, as a rule, the strongest and most original men. As
typical a Free Kirk as any which I attended was
one
in a certain glen of the southern Highlands. The
building was of stone, very plain, and of modest size. In these things it
was like most country churches; but the interior was not so characteristic,
for it had been recently modernized, and had an inclined floor and steam
heat. Still, the pews were uncushioned, and there was no organ. Indeed,
organs are almost never found in rustic houses of worship, and are rarities
even in the large towns. Service was supposed to begin at half-past eleven,
but it was customary to allow some leisurely minutes of grace for the
benefit of the belated. Shortly before the appointed hour, the little bell
in the kirk cupola commenced a hurried tinkling, and the village ways, which
hitherto had been very quiet and deserted, were enlivened by groups of
soberly dressed worshippers faring on foot toward the church. On arriving at
the edifice it was to be noticed that the men were in no haste to go inside,
but lingered at the kirk gate or around the porch and visited. When the time
for service came, and the bell ceased ringing, the outside loiterers would
come stamping in. It was no wonder that their tread was emphatic, for their
shoes were exceedingly sturdy, and the soles were well studded with
heavy-headed nails. A pair of men's "strong-wearing boots " would weigh six
pounds, and the projecting iron pegs number two hundred or more in each.
The minister did not appear until the congregation,
including late comers, were all in the pews. Then the door
at the rear of the kirk opened, and he came rustling down the aisle in his
robes. In front of the pulpit was an open space with a railing around it.
There sat the members of the choir. Their leader, or " precentor," gave them
the key-note when they were about to sing, and he beat time. Nearly every
one in the congregation joined in the hymns, and the music was harmonious
and pleasing, and the lack of an organ did not seem serious. The worshippers
all had Bibles, and looked up the minister's texts and followed him in his
Scripture readings with great faithfulness. There were two sermons, a short,
simple one for the children, and a
long one, various-headed and more or less theological, for
the older hearers. Both discourses were vigorous and thoughtful, and showed
the preacher to be a man of sense and ability. He was listened to
attentively for the most part, about the only distractions being the
occasional passing of snuff-boxes and the sounding blasts of noses that
succeeded this ceremony. Not far from the pew I occupied on my first Sunday
sat a venerable farmer, who, from time to time, took his snuff-box from his
vest pocket and passed it to the elder in the seat behind, with the stealthy
quiet and sidelong glance of a schoolboy doing something he ought not, on
the sly. When the box returned to him, he indulged in a generous sniff
himself, and then got out a great colored
handkerchief; and it was a full minute before he had adjusted himself into
his original watchfulness of the points of the sermon.
I was told that this old farmer sometimes fell asleep and snored in
church, and that of late, finding ordinary methods of inducing wakefulness
insufficient, he had come to church generously provided with sweeties, on
which he ruminated between snuff-takings. The gossips affirmed that he made
such a noise cracking away at the sweeties after he got them between his
teeth, that you could have heard him all over a church three times as large
as the Free Kirk. This was perhaps an exaggeration, for I noted nothing of
the sort, nor any serious propensity on his part to drowsiness. He certainly
acquitted himself better than an old lady four seats in front of me. The
service was long, and toward its close she nodded into a nap and lost her
balance. There was a thump and a scrape, and then she started back erect. No
one smiled at the episode, and it was apparently too common an occurrence to
attract much attention.
Previous to its remodelling, the Free Kirk had a gallery, but this had
been for a long time superfluous, and it was torn out. Even with its reduced
seating capacity, the kirk was far from crowded. Vacant pews were sadly
numerous, where fifty years ago worshippers were so many that not only the
body of the church was full, but some had to be
seated in the aisles. In those days the glen was much more densely
populated, and there were many little farms and cotter's houses scattered
along the now lonely hillsides. The big farms have absorbed them, and the
walls of the little houses have gone into stone fences or new byres on the
large holdings that are at present customary. The cities and the new
countries beyond the seas have drawn many people from the glen. In 1845
thirty families left at one time for America. But in spite
of the diminished size of the congregation, the
parishioners pay their preacher £180
a year, and give him the use of the manse in which he makes his home.
This manse, in common with most of its kind, was a
plain, two-story stone dwelling with a garden at one side that overflowed
every summer with vegetables, small fruits, and flowers. Gravelled paths led
to the doors, and there was a bit of lawn and some shade trees at the front,
and the whole was enclosed by hedges.
It was the habit of the Free Kirk minister to walk or drive on Sunday
evenings to one of the outlying districts of the glen, and there conduct a
meeting in some cottage or schoolhouse. On mild summer Sabbaths these little
gatherings were often held in the open air. I attended one such. It was in a
little field back of a row of cottages. Chairs were brought from the houses,
and boards from a neighboring joiner's
shop were laid from seat to seat, and twenty or thirty of us
found places on them, while several boys sat on the grass by the hedge that
was close behind. For the convenience of the preacher a white-spreaded stand
was provided. We sang a number of times from Gospel Hymns, and the minister
prayed, read from Scripture, and preached a short, practical sermon. Two
great beeches, their leaves rustling in the light wind, overspread us, and
the low sun looked underneath and brightened their gray trunks. Could any
church be finer than this sylvan temple of nature ?
In what I saw of the U. P. Kirk, it was much like the Free, and there
seemed no special reason why the two denominations should not unite, as I
believe they have since throughout Scotland. But the Established Kirk, or
"Kirk of Scotland," has an individuality of its own. Official recognition is
given it by the government, and it is aided by a levy on the proprietors of
the land. Yet because this tax is an indirect one, it does not provoke the
discontent occasioned by tithes and church rates in England. To be sure, the
landowners who pay the tax add it to the rentals, but as it does not appear
as a separate item, its weight is not realized.
The church of the Established sect which I recall most vividly was one in
a well-settled country district that supported not only this but two or
three dissent ing churches.
There was a time when a good deal of bitterness was felt between the
government church and the dissenting branches; but in this particular
community the ancient animosities had apparently died out. I sometimes heard
the Established Kirk spoken of as "Auld Boblin" (Old Babylon), yet this
mention was made jokingly, and there was no sharpness in the epithet.
The church building was a low, gray stone structure standing well back
from the highway at the end of a narrow lane — a lane paved with loose
pebbles that made you feel as if you were doing penance as you walked over
them. Coarse pebbles up to the size of a hen's egg were a favorite material
for paths throughout the district. They even took the place of lawns, as,
for instance, in front of the neighboring schoolhouse, where quite a space
was overspread with them. The paths and approaches to all the local churches
were treated in the same rude way, and once or twice a year the bedrels
(sextons) were at great pains to scratch the walks over and pick out every
bit of grass that had started on them. If there was any doubt before as to
the stern material of which the walks were made, no such doubt could be
entertained afterward.
Round about the old church was the little parish burying-ground, with its
frequent headstones and simple monuments, some of them recent and some so
old that
the markings on them were quite worn away. Perhaps the most impressive of
them were certain ones marked with grewsome symbols, like skulls and
cross-bones, calculated to put the observer in a properly serious frame of
mind. Few were reserved for the grave of a single individual. Usually each
marked the burial-place of a family, and whenever one of the household died,
a fresh name was carved at the bottom of the list already on the stone. But
in the case of the humble majority in the parish, the graves had never been
marked at all, and the bedrel in his digging often unearthed ancient bones,
or struck the end of a coffin.
On the pleasant summer Sunday that I attended the old church I was early,
but the gate at the far end of the lane was thrown back, and the bedrel had
completed arrangements for the arrival of the worshippers. Just inside the
gate on the right-hand side was a little vestry, like a porter's lodge.
Across the path, on a rustic bench under a beech tree, sat the gnarled old
sexton. He looked as if he was there in solemn guard over the contribution
plate which was on a stand immediately in front of him. No collection is
taken up during service in the Scotch churches. A plate on a stand does duty
instead ; but as a rule this is just inside the entrance of the edifice, and
not, as here, at the portals of the churchyard. Every one, male and
female, old and young, seems
to feel it a privilege or duty to drop a coin on the plate, and there is
sure to be a goodly pile, though very likely mostly in coppers.
I deposited my mite as I went through the Auld Kirk gate, and continued
along the pebbles to the church. On looking in I decided I would prefer to
sit in the loft (gallery), but how to get there was a problem. It was plain
that within the church no way existed to gain the desired place unless one
was athlete enough to climb the supporting pillars. I did not think that
Presbyterianism would countenance such a performance on the part of its
gallery worshippers, and I concluded to explore outside. By going around to
the rear I found a narrow stone stairway, and I made the ascent to a tiny
balcony that clung high on the wall. A door led from the balcony to the
interior, and I soon had installed myself in a seat.
Through the middle of the room below ran a- single aisle, on each side of
which were rows of narrow pews with backs so high and perpendicular it made
one ache simply to look at them. Unhappily, the seats in the loft were built
on the same plan — a fact I realized more and more emphatically as time went
on. Everything was puritanically plain — bare plaster walls, and un-painted
pews that were brown and worm-eaten with
age. The
floor was dirty and littered, and I could not help fancying its acquaintance
with the broom dated back many months. This was indeed the case, as I
learned later. Twice a year only was the church swept and cleaned, and it
was then near the end of one of the undisturbed periods. Heat was supplied
by a rude stove that sent a long black pipe elbowing up to the ceiling. The
stove was placed just outside the overhang of the loft, and it apparently
smoked at times, for the gallery-front and the ceiling above were blackened
with soot.
None of the churches of the neighborhood had an organ, partly because it
would have been difficult to find any one in the district who could play
such an instrument, partly because the more old-fashioned people of the
region thought an organ was irreligious, or at least that its music was not
of a character suited for Sabbath use in a church. It was a sentiment of
much the same sort that formerly condemned stoves, as smacking too much of
worldly comfort. When the first church stove was introduced in the region,
an elderly worshipper in one of the other churches said disapprovingly, "It
is a great peety that their heirts are grown that cauld they maun hae a
stove in the kirk."
But a better reason for slowness in adopting artificial means of heating
was that the fireplaces in common
use in the homes
were entirely inadequate for a large building, and it was a long time before
a really practical stove could be had.
The rear gable of the Auld Kirk was surmounted by a diminutive turret in
which hung a bell. From it a rope dangled down the ivied wall, and the
sexton, in calling the worshippers to service, stood below on the grass. The
bell had a tinkling, unmusical sound, with about as much power in it as
there is in a large handbell wielded at the beginning of school sessions or
the close of recess by a New England district schoolmarm. Twelve o'clock was
the service hour, and the kirk bell rang for several minutes preceding. Its
summons was the signal for the visiting groups of people in the churchyard
to come inside, and when the bell presently stopped its clamor, everything
became very solemn and quiet. But there was no preacher in the high pulpit,
and the treacherous-looking sounding-board hung over vacancy. The minutes
dragged on, and the stiff seats grew steadily harder, and still no sign of a
minister. Yet the congregation did not seem at all anxious. The place had
very much the air of a prayer-meeting which is open for remarks that no one
is ready to offer. The people began to get sleepy, and made occasional
shifts to find more restful positions. But at ten minutes past twelve the
pastor came — a staid, comfortable-looking old gentleman in full, black
robes, who padded in as complacently as if he was
right on the dot. He climbed leisurely to the pulpit, got out his
handkerchief and laid it convenient at his right hand, adjusted his books,
and then put on his spectacles and gave out a psalm for us to sing.
Behind a little desk under the eaves of the pulpit sat a young man who
now rose to beat time and lead the singing. He kept up a marked swaying of
the body to match the music, and in his efforts to strike the high notes
properly, ran his eyebrows up under his hair. The rest of the young men and
women who made up the choir sat on the front seats round about, and rose
with the precentor. But the main body of the congregation only stood during
the prayers. It was a relief to get up ; yet the prayers were so long this
was a doubtful blessing after all, and most of the worshippers sought some
bodily support a good while before the end of the petitions.
The sermon lasted a full half-hour. Its subject was "The Joys of Christ,"
and the preacher went through a list of firstlies and secondlies up to about
tenthlies. He had a slow, droning voice, and the effort to keep awake in
those hard, straight-backed seats was painful. When the possibilities of the
more ordinary changes of position had been exhausted, the worshippers would
lean on the pew-backs in front of them or would bow themselves forward with
their elbows on their knees.
Some of the men gripped
their heads between their hands in a manner that suggested they were
suffering severely, and a few actually slept. There were female nodders,
too, and one young woman in the manse pew was several times on the point of
falling over altogether. She had continually to open her eyes with a decided
effort and look severely at the minister to keep from disgracing herself.
We were a very forlorn congregation, when at twenty-five minutes of two,
the minister finished his elucidation of the tenth of Christ's joys, and we
were released. The crowd filed out into the sunshine, and straggled along
the lane and roadway toward the village. Every one was on foot. Even from a
distance of three or four miles the people walked, whole families together.
Some of them were old ladies, with their outer skirts caught up over their
arms, stepping along as vigorously as if they were in their teens instead of
past threescore.
The adherents of "Auld Boblin" were not as devoted to their faith as the
worshippers at the other local churches, and though their numbers were
decidedly greater, and in spite of their government income, they fell
distinctly behind the dissenters in the support they gave their kirk and
minister. The minister himself had not the character of the other pastors.
His lacks were moral, not intellectual, for he was by
no means a dull or ignorant man. Some very ill stories were told of him, and
it was well known that both he and his wife drank at times a good deal
beyond moderation, even if their red-faced heaviness had not confessed the
fact.
But clerical tippling is not regarded as so detrimental to a pastor's
influence and efficiency in Scotland as it would be in America. The clergy
of the dissenting kirks, however, are now nearly all total abstainers. The
opposite is true of their fellows of the Established Kirk, and though the
temperance sentiment is undoubtedly growing among them, there are those who
are far from being a credit to their calling. I was told by one Scotch
minister that not many years ago, in his boyhood home near Oban, they had an
elderly clergyman who used to get drunk every time he went making parish
calls. At each home whiskey was set forth for him, after the time-honored
custom of the region, and this was so much to his liking, and the potations
he drank were so liberal, that by the time he had made a half dozen visits
it was necessary for some one to carry him back to the manse. The drink
habit grew on him, and at length he would appear intoxicated in the pulpit,
and be so maudlin the church elders would be obliged to interrupt him and
take him out of the kirk by force. In the end the Presbytery induced him to
resign. His habits, however, were less of a scandal
than they might have been in that particular community, had not his two
predecessors died of delirium tremens. No doubt this is an extreme case, but
that such a thing is possible is suggestive of conditions that are a little
surprising to say the least.
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