Max O'Rell

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 pass 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.

G

reat 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 Assembly, composed of lay and ecclesiastical deputies elected by the towns and universities, and presided over by a Moderator, elected by the Assembly, 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 cum jambis, and my lord bishop's gaiters attracted no more attention from the good Buckie folk than did the ulster of your humble servant.

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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.

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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; thorny, like the national emblem of Scotland.

One Sunday I went to a church in Glasgow. The preacher chose for his text the passage from St. Matthew's Gospel commencing with "No man can serve two masters," and ending "Ye cannot serve God 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 assembly 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!"

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."

In my innocence, or rather in my ignorance, I had always seen in these words of our Lord a condemnation of riches—a condemnation without appeal, and looked upon the man who sought to be rich, and the man who did not scatter his wealth, as persons who willingly forfeited all chance of entering Heaven.

On leaving the church, my companion and I began to talk of the sermon. The Scotch discuss a sermon on their way home from church, as we French people discuss the merits of a new play that we have just seen at the theatre. As we went along, I communicated my views to my friend. He turned on me a glance full of compassion.

"It is easy to see, my dear sir," he said, "that you have been brought up in a religion that does not encourage discussion. The result is that you swallow without resistance theories which would make our children start with indignation. If Christ's phrase could be interpreted in your fashion, it would be neither more nor less than an absurdity. He meant to say that it was more difficult for a rich man than a poor one to be saved, but not that it was impossible."

"But," I began, "it is impossible for a camel to go through the eye of a needle."

Here my companion's smile became more sarcastic. I foresaw that his explanation was going to stagger me, and so it did.

"You seem to be in earnest," said he; "let me enlighten you. There existed at Jerusalem, in our Saviour's time, a gateway called the Needle's Eye. Although one of the principal entrances to the city, this gateway was so narrow that a camel could only get through it with difficulty. So Christ meant to say——"

"Enough," I cried, "my ignorance is terrible. I never felt it so much as at this moment."

"You see," he added in a rather bantering tone, "in Scotch churches there is no incense ... but there is common sense."

Nothing mystic in the religion of the Scotch. The Old and New Testaments are submitted to the finest sifting. Every passage is explained. They are served up as an intellectual food.

Here people do not see because they believe; they believe because they see. Faith is based upon reason.

It is easy to understand why the Scotchman, still more than the Englishman, is common sense personified.

You will see young fellows, scarcely come to manhood, meet together, and discuss the most subtle questions of theology with all the earnestness of doctors of divinity.

It is a powerful school. Reason ripens in the open air of discussion.

Very practical this religion of the Scotch!

I extract the following passage from the letter of a young Scotchman, magistrate in India:—

"Time passes tolerably here. For that matter, we are too busy to be much bored. Week follows week, and each is rather like the one that went before; but all are well filled up. Last Monday, I condemned an Indian to six months' imprisonment and held three inquests. On Tuesday, I presided at a meeting called for the purpose of hearing the report of the Zanana Missions. On Wednesday, I went to races and won £25. Everyone had bet on Mignonne, who was backed at two to one; but seeing that the ground was damp and slippery, I chose Phoebus, a heavier horse, backed at ten to one. I was lucky in my choice. On Thursday, after the work of the day, I went to see the Nautch girls dance. It is a little risquÉ; but I have often heard you say that a man should see everything, so as to be able to judge between good and evil. There was a regatta on Friday. I went in for one race, but only came in second. On Saturday, I had to make out over a hundred summonses, and try several petty offences. An uninteresting day. It is with a feeling of apprehension that I always await Saturday. I have one more examination to pass before I can sentence the natives to more than one year's imprisonment, and two before I can send them to the gibbet. On Sunday, I read the lessons in church. In the afternoon I addressed a congregation out of doors. They seemed greatly impressed, and I count on several conversions."

You must admit that this was a well-filled week. I thought the mixture of sacred and profane quite delicious.

In Scotland, as in England, open-air services are very common. They are conducted by good folks, not over afflicted with modesty, who believe that they were chosen by Heaven to go and convert their fellow creatures—would-be St. Paul's, operating in the Athens of the North, and elsewhere.

Following the advice of Horace, these apostles plunge straight into their subject. They will attack you with the question, whether you are not too fond of the things of this world? or else, whether you have made your peace with God?

The utter conceit of these amateur clergy is matchless. They are either hypocrites of the worst stamp, or fanatics of the first water, "airing their self-righteousness at the corners of the streets." The monotony of their tunes, the commonplaces of their would-be sermons, their long visages, and their grimaces as they pray—all this is the reverse of attractive.

I prefer the soldiers of the Salvation Army. They are rough, but they do not banish cheerfulness from their services. They are lively, and break the awful silence of the British Sabbath. Their services at first struck everyone as blasphemous; but one gets used to everything in this country.

I must not pass over the open-air orator, who, to excuse his faults of grammar, said to his hearers, of whom I was one: "My dear friends, I have had no education, and I know very well I am not a gentleman; but that does not prevent me from accepting the mission that I have received from Heaven to come and preach the Gospel to you. Jesus Christ was not a gentleman—He was a carpenter. The Apostles were not gentlemen either—they were fishermen."

Modest, is it not?

There are Scots so sure of their salvation that they pray but to thank God that they are not as other men are. These Christians, whom Burns has named the unco' guid, are charitable: they pray for their neighbours. There are, on the west of Scotland, two small islands inhabited by a race whose piety is really touching. Every Sunday, in their churches, they commend to God's care the poor inhabitants of the adjacent islands of England, Scotland, and Ireland!

They have their own future safety assured, and, in their charity, think of their neighbours.

Donald presenting Paddy and John Bull to the Lord! The scene is as touching as it is amusing.