Friend Mac Donald Part 9

"What milksops those Frenchmen are!"

For the honour of the French flag, I would mix myself a gla.s.s of toddy; and by just taking a sip every quarter of an hour, make it last out the sitting, which seldom ended before two in the morning.

By a little after midnight, the tongues seem to tire, and conversation flags. At regular intervals come the solemn puff, puff, puff, from the smokers' lips, and the long spiral columns of smoke float noiselessly upwards. The faces grow long and solemn to match: it is the Bible rising to the surface. Soon it floats--as I explained just now--and conversation starts again on theology. Each has his own manner of interpreting the Scriptures, and burns to explain it to his neighbour.

Then follow the subtlest arguments, the most interminable discussions. I listen. If I have not many talents, I have at least one--that of being able to hold my tongue in English, Scotch, and all imaginable languages.

The whisky continues to pa.s.s from the bottle to the gla.s.ses, and from the gla.s.ses to the throats of the company. The Bible comes up faster than ever. When the guests are well emptied of theology, everyone takes his nightcap--the signal for breaking up. The nightcap is generally the little whisky left in the decanter; to do it honour, it is taken neat.

All get up, shake hands, and say Good-night. As you leave your host, you ask him at what time breakfast is served, and he replies:

"At eight."

At eight! Can he mean it? Deducting the necessary time for undressing, and for getting through your morning toilet, there remain scarcely five hours for sleep. The thought that you must make haste and get to sleep, in order to have a chance of being able to wake between seven and half-past, is just enough to prevent you from closing your eyes for the night. Thank goodness, your host, in his solicitude, has foreseen the difficulty. At seven o'clock, a horrible din makes you start up in bed and tremble from head to foot. It is a servant sounding the gong--a sort of tam-tam of Chinese invention--which fills the house with a noise fit to make you reproduce all the contortions that manufacturers of porcelain attribute to the Celestials. You rise, and dress as fast as you can. Your features look drawn; your head feels upside down; your eyes seem coming out of your head; you have the hairache: but you console yourself with the thought of the others. What will they be like? What a figure they will cut at table!

You were never more mistaken. In they come, the l.u.s.ty rascals, looking as bright as the lark. Nothing on their faces betray the libations of over night, or the scanty measure of sleep they have been able to get.

"What an iron race, these Scots!" I have often exclaimed to myself. "Who could hope to compete with them?"

CHAPTER IX.

Religion and Churches in Scotland. -- Why Scotch Bishops cut a poor Figure. -- Companies for insuring against the Accidents of the Life to come. -- Religious Lecture-Rooms. -- No one can serve two Masters. -- How the Gospel Camel was able to pa.s.s through the Eye of a Needle. -- Incense and Common Sense. -- I understand, therefore I believe. -- Conversions at Home. -- Conversions in open Air. -- A modest Preacher. -- A well-filled Week. -- Touching Piety. -- Donald recommends John Bull and Paddy to the Lord.

Great Britain boasts two State Churches: the Anglican, or Episcopal, Church in England and Wales, and the Presbyterian Church in Scotland.

The Presbyterian Church is not under the jurisdiction of a bishop, but of a General a.s.sembly, composed of lay and ecclesiastical deputies elected by the towns and universities, and presided over by a Moderator, elected by the a.s.sembly, and a Lord High Commissioner, appointed every year by the Queen, and requited for this arduous task with two thousand pounds.

The Scotch Presbyterian Church was established in 1560; but the Stuarts re-established the Episcopalian Church in 1662. The Revolution of 1688, followed by the accession of the Prince of Orange to the throne of England, made Presbyterianism flourish again, and its ministers still receive emoluments from the State.

The Episcopalian Church still exists in Scotland, governed by seven bishops; but, by the irony of fate, she has become, as it were, a sort of dissenting Church.

Scotland has many Catholics. Two archbishops and four bishops watch over the spiritual health of this flock.

In 1843, many Scotchmen, having discovered that it was contrary to Scripture to have ministers appointed by the State, founded the Free Church, which at the present time rivals the Presbyterian in importance.

The religious zeal of the Scotch may be judged from the fact that, in the year of the separation, a sum of nearly 400,000 was contributed by the faithful desirous of founding a Free Church. This Church has eleven hundred pastors, receiving salaries of about 200 a year. Not less than 560,000 were sent, in 1882, to the Chief Moderator, to help meet the expenses of this free faith.

Such are the large centres of religious activity. Besides these, there are, as in England, nearly two hundred dissenting sects.

You may imagine whether the Devil has a hard time of it in Scotland.

All these spiritual insurance companies live in perfect harmony, and are flourishing.

It is only the Scotch bishops who cut a rather pitiable figure. To be a lord bishop, and not to be able to lord it a little, is hard. When I was in the North of Scotland, I saw one arrive at Buckie station, on his way to inspect the church of the town. The clergyman had come to meet him.

They took the road to the vicarage, _pedibus c.u.m jambis_, and my lord bishop's gaiters attracted no more attention from the good Buckie folk than did the ulster of your humble servant.

In Catholic countries, where religion exacts a life of sacrifice and abnegation from its ministers, the priesthood is a vocation. In Protestant countries, where religion imposes but few restrictions on those who serve about the altar, the Church is a profession.

Scotch places of worship are much alike inside and out. Outside, the roofs are more or less pointed; inside, the singing is more or less out of tune.

Let us go into the first we come to.

Four whitewashed walls, with a ceiling to match, or a roof supported by bare rafters; no pictures, no statues; just straight-backed benches, and a high desk or pulpit: it is a lecture-room. Not a single outer sign of fervour: no kneeling, no clasped hands, or other sign of supplication.

The faces are cross-looking and forbidding, or else apathetic.

It is curious to reflect that these unmoved faces belong to people who would die to defend their liberty of conscience.

Drawling hymns, psalms and canticles sung in the twelve different semi-tones of the chromatic scale; sermons full of theological subtleties, objections raised and explained away.

The preacher does not seek to appeal to the soul by eloquence, to the heart by tenderness and grace, or to the taste by style. He addresses himself to the reason alone.

Some preachers read their sermons, some recite them, others give them _ex tempore_. These latter are the most interesting.

Here and there I heard sermons that were enough to send one to sleep on one's feet; you can imagine the effect upon an audience who had to hear them in a sitting posture. But Scotland has not the monopoly of this kind of eloquence; from time immemorial it has been the custom of a certain proportion of church-goers to shut their eyes to listen to the sermon.

Religion is still sterner in Scotland than in England. It is arid, like the soil of the country; angular, like the bodies of the inhabitants; th.o.r.n.y, like the national emblem of Scotland.

One Sunday I went to a church in Glasgow. The preacher chose for his text the pa.s.sage from St. Matthew's Gospel commencing with "No man can serve two masters," and ending "Ye cannot serve G.o.d and Mammon."

About three thousand worshippers, careworn and devoured by the thirst for lucre, listened unmoved to the diatribes of the worthy pastor, and were preparing, by a day of rest, for the headlong race after wealth that they were going to resume on the morrow.

What a never-ending theme is the contempt for riches! What sermons in the desert, preached by bishops with princely pay, or poor curates who treat fortune as Master Reynard treated certain grapes that hung out of reach.

I was never more edified than on that Sunday in Glasgow, especially when the a.s.sembly struck up--

"O Paradise, O Paradise!

'Tis weary waiting here; I long to be where Jesus is, To feel, to see him near.

O Paradise, O Paradise!

I greatly long to see The special place my dearest Lord In love prepares for me!"

"Ah! my dear Caledonians," thought I, seeing them in such a hurry, "it is better to suffer, even in Glasgow, than to die!"

_Mieux vaut souffrir que mourir C'est la devise des hommes._

By the bye, dear reader, how do you like the expression _special place_?

Did I exaggerate when I told you the Scotch expect to find places specially reserved for them in Heaven?

This is how I learned by experience never to enter into theological discussions with the Scotch.

I had been to morning service in an Edinburgh church with a Scotchman, and there again had heard a sermon on the worthlessness of riches. The minister had preached from the text, "And again I say unto you: it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of Heaven."