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To the question: “Which calling or profession has contributed most to the general stock of wit and humour?” the answer would, as a rule, probably be that to the Legal profession—Bench and Bar combined—we owe most in that line.

Well, conceding this, or taking it for granted, it may be held that a good second—to say the least—is to be found in the supply furnished from Clerical sources, using the expression in the comprehensive sense. And the present chapter will be devoted to the justification of this claim.

A beginning may safely be made with one of the best known of the Victorian Prelates, Bishop Samuel Wilberforce, for many years Bishop of Oxford, and later of Winchester. He was a man of much distinction and most attractive personality, and, therefore, before quoting any of his witticisms, to insert a few words of personal reminiscence regarding him may not be out of place.

I saw him for the first time when he paid a visit to my grandfather, at Haddo House, in the year 1856. The visit included a Sunday. In regard to church attendance, Lord Aberdeen always followed the practice invariably adopted by Queen Victoria, King Edward, and their present Majesties, namely, that of attending the services of the Church of England while in England, and those of the Church of Scotland when residing in that country. And it need scarcely be said that my grandfather’s numerous tenants, who were nearly all Presbyterians, and who regarded him with peculiar respect and affection, immensely appreciated the fact that their laird worshipped with them in the Church of their fathers and of their native land.

It is quite probable that the Bishop would have been prepared to accompany his host to the Parish Church of Methlick—two miles from Haddo House—but my uncle—the late Lord Stanmore—who held decidedly High Church views, proposed that the Bishop, who was also his most intimate friend, should drive with him to the small and picturesque Scottish Episcopal Church, All Saints, about eight miles away, at Woodhead, near Fyvie. This was, of course, a natural arrangement, and indeed one which it might have been difficult for the Bishop to decline. I am alluding to this, partly in order to bring in a little episode which greatly tickled the Bishop, and which was narrated to me by the then Incumbent of the Chapel, namely, the late Dean Wilson—a lovable old man—father of the highly esteemed ex-Dean of St Mary’s Cathedral, Edinburgh, as to whom there is evidently a very prevalent feeling, throughout the membership of the Episcopal Church in Scotland, regarding the lasting benefit to the Church accruing from the manner in which he filled his late official position.

After the service, the Dean asked the Bishop to oblige him by coming, for a few minutes, to the Parsonage, as he was anxious to introduce a leading member of the congregation—an elderly lady—the occupant of a small farm near by, and “a Mother in Israel.” Gladly the Bishop consented, and on entering the room, at once expressed his greeting thus: “Well, Ma’am, it is very refreshing to find a Church here in the wilderness.”

To this the old lady instantly replied: “But indeed, my lord, we consider this one of the most fertile districts in Scotland.”

Of course, the Bishop greatly relished this literal interpretation of his figurative allusion to the isolated station of Episcopacy, amidst the surrounding Presbyterianism; but “I have my doubts” as to whether the old lady was in reality so slow at the “up tak” as she chose to appear; for she may not have quite appreciated the suggested inference as to her numerous Presbyterian friends and neighbours being ecclesiastically on a lower plane than the members of her own Church. For it should be noted that the little Church at Woodhead was one of those (more common in Aberdeenshire than in many other parts of Scotland) which might be described of the indigenous sort, the congregation consisting entirely of members of the farming or peasant community of the district. At the time now referred to, some of the older women members of the congregation could be seen wearing the picturesque and becoming “Mutch,” i.e., the old-fashioned white cap with crimped front—now almost quite extinct. Also, unlike the case of most Episcopal Churches in Scotland, there were no lairds amongst the members of the congregation at the time spoken of.

This remark recalls a little incident which was told to me by a former Parish Minister of Methlick, the late Dr James Whyte, who occupied that position for nearly half a century, namely, that when my great-uncle—Admiral William Gordon—who was for many years Member of Parliament for Aberdeenshire, happened to be staying with a certain laird on the east side of the county, his host observed on Sunday morning that the Admiral was preparing to go out, wearing his high hat.

“Hullo, Admiral,” he said, “where are you going?”

“I am going to Church.”

“Oh, but,” said the laird, “our Church is fully eight miles from here.”

“But” replied the Admiral, “I am going to the Parish Church.”

“O!” said the laird, adding, “Well, somehow, I never feel as if Presbyterianism is quite the sort of religion for a gentleman!”

In reply to this the Admiral remarked dryly, “Well, my brother, the Prime Minister always attends the Parish Church.”

My old minister friend assured me that this little tale—real or imaginary—was fully circulated amongst the people in his district, and was much relished.

The allusion, too, to that old-fashioned Admiral tempts a further digression, with a small story, which I heard told by the Earl of Selborne, while he was First Lord of the Admiralty.

A retired naval officer had a son, a smart boy, who joined the Navy. While the lad was with his ship at one of the British Naval Stations, it occurred to his father that as an old friend of his—a retired Admiral of some note—was living in the neighbourhood, he would send to his boy a note of introduction which he might present personally to the veteran Admiral, and this was done. The note was opened while the midshipman deferentially waited. The old Admiral, though kind-hearted, was somewhat gruff, outwardly, in manner. After reading the note he said: “So you have joined the Navy; fool of the family, I suppose—eh?”

“Oh no, sir,” was the respectfully uttered reply, “they’ve changed all that since your time, sir.”

And now, to come back to the Bishop of Oxford.

On the occasion many years ago, of one of the Royal Academy Banquets, when there is always a most interesting assemblage of notable persons, I happened to be present as a quite junior guest; and while chatting before dinner with a group which included that eloquent Prelate—Dr Magee—Bishop of Peterborough, and afterwards Archbishop of York, we were joined by Mr Bright, who was then advanced in years, but by no means lacking in animation. Bishop Magee was attired in the garb usually worn by Prelates of the Church of England on such occasions, the coat being of a dark violet hue. Addressing him, Mr Bright said: “Your coat, Bishop, reminds me of an amusing thing said by one of your former Episcopal brethren, namely, the late Bishop Wilberforce. Meeting him at some such function as this, I asked, ‘Why do you wear that rather peculiar coloured coat?’ to which he at once replied: ‘Oh! Mr Bright, don’t you know that a Bishop must always be in-violate?’ ”

Bishop Magee himself had a ready gift of repartee. It is said that once when travelling in a railway train, a young fellow who was with a companion in the same compartment, observing the Episcopal garb, began to interlard his talk with frequent swearing expressions. Meanwhile, the Bishop quietly continued his occupation, namely, writing of letters, without appearing to pay any attention to the jabber. After a while the youth reached his destination, but before leaving the carriage he said to the Bishop: “I hope, my lord, I have not annoyed you with my conversation? ye see I’m a plain man, and like to call a spade, a spade.” “Indeed,” said the Bishop, “I should have thought that you would have called it a bl——y shovel.”

It may have been this same Bishop who was asked by some cheeky person: “Can you tell me, my lord, the way to Heaven?” “Certainly,” replied the Bishop, “turn to the right, and keep straight on.”

One cannot help thinking that Bishops must sometimes feel that their distinctive habiliment is, when travelling, a source of inconvenience; but there was certainly no feeling of that sort on the part of the Bishop of Quebec, who mentioned at a meeting where I happened to be present, that soon after his arrival in Canada he had an interesting conversation with a fellow-passenger who, after a time, said: “I think, sir, you are an Englishman?”

“Yes,” replied the Bishop.

“I thought so,” added the passenger, “because I observe that you wear gaiters which I understand is the case with all Englishmen.”

If I had not heard the Bishop mention this incident I would certainly have been incredulous as to any Canadian having seriously made the above remark.

But I hasten to give another specimen of Bishop Wilberforce’s humour—not in the form of a pun. During his active career he became recognised as not only an excellent Bishop, but also a man of affairs, and, in particular, one possessing the gift of diplomacy, and this led to the invention of the nickname of “Soapy Sam.” And it is said that a young lady, who must have been decidedly precocious, ventured to ask the Bishop why this epithet had been applied to him, and to this he immediately replied in perfect good temper: “Oh! my dear, don’t you know? of course, it means that I frequently get into hot water, but that I always come out with my hands clean!”

Another specimen was told to me by the late Sir George Bowen. (To understand this item it should be explained that at that time there was an extremely prominent advertisement of “Thorley’s Food for Cattle,” and at most of the railway stations in England there was a big picture representing horses, sheep and oxen, eagerly partaking of this article of diet.)

On a certain occasion the Bishop had undertaken to give an address in his own Diocese, the audience being composed chiefly of farmers. At the outset, the Bishop remarked he had not been very well recently, and that his doctor had been reluctant to allow him to appear that evening, so that he would have to be brief. On hearing this, some would-be wag called out “Try Thorley’s Food, my lord!” “Ah! yes,” said the Bishop—“yes—Thorley’s food—good for horses—and” (looking in the direction of the interrupter)—“for asses; but it doesn’t suit Oxon.” (The Episcopal signature “S. Oxon.” had become quite familiar to the public.)

I happened to quote this little tale after breakfast one morning at Haddo, to some of our guests. It evoked some risibility; but one of the group said—partly to himself, but quite audibly: “The Bishop was mistaken, because Thorley’s Food does suit oxen very well.” It should perhaps be explained that this visitor was chiefly connected with the Society of Friends, and was evidently not familiar with the Episcopate.

Another example of the Bishop’s quickness was narrated to me by Sir George Bowen.

The late Baroness Burdett Coutts munificently provided the Columbia Market for the convenience of people living in the East of London. When it was completed, Miss Burdett Coutts—as she then was—asked the Bishop of Oxford to conduct a brief religious service in connection with the opening ceremony. To this he readily consented, and accompanied the donor to the place in her carriage. On the way, Miss C. remarked that one of her chief helpers in carrying out the enterprise was a prominent drysalter in the City; but, she added, “Perhaps your lordship doesn’t know what a drysalter is?” To this the Bishop instantly replied, “Ah! yes, Miss Coutts, indeed I do know what a dry psalter is; Tate and Brady’s, certainly.”

(For the information of any reader, except those of somewhat mature age, it must be mentioned that during the middle of last century it was the almost universal custom that every edition of the Church of England Book of Common Prayer contained at the end, what was described as “a new version of the Psalms” in metre, compiled by Tate and Brady, two Ecclesiastics whose reputation as scholars was, however, not of the most distinguished kind.)

Sir George Bowen informed me also that he recited this little tale while he was the guest of the Marquess and Marchioness of Dufferin, during their official residence in India; and he observed that Lady Dufferin did not join in the indication of amusement which the story evoked; so, afterwards, he said: “Perhaps your Excellency did not quite recognise the point of that little story about Wilberforce?” to which (according to Sir George) Lady Dufferin laughingly replied, “Oh! yes, of course I saw it; but with those A.D.C.’s and other young people about, I didn’t care to admit that I am old enough to know about Tate and Brady!”

I would fain linger yet with that resourceful Bishop, but there is much pasture ahead, especially in the Episcopal field. And indeed it is interesting to observe how often those who attain to positions of eminence in any Church, are endued with the gift of humour. And has not this promoted their promotion?

At any rate, there can be no doubt that to no calling is this gift of more essential value than to the ministers of religion; and indeed it should be placed as only second in importance to the inestimable benefit of a good wife. Surely there was much point in the petition of George Macdonald’s grandmother, who, on hearing that a new Pope had been installed at Rome, asked that he might be guided aright, and be granted a good wife.

The foregoing allusion to promotion in the sense of ecclesiastical preferment recalls a quaint misapprehension mentioned to me by Lord Crewe, many years ago. During a conversation with an ex-Cabinet Minister, who, by the way, was also a raconteur, Lord Crewe quoted the story of the clergyman who, when called upon to preach when Lord North—at that time Prime Minister—was present, took as his text the following verse from the Psalms, “Promotion cometh neither from the east or west, nor yet from the south.” On hearing this, Lord Crewe’s friend said, “Yes, that’s not a bad story, nor a new one: but I have always understood that Mr Pitt was the Prime Minister referred to(!)”

Apparently there was a little mix up, the story having been confused in the listener’s mind with that of the young clergyman who, preaching before Mr Pitt soon after he became Prime Minister, and when still extraordinarily young for that position, chose as his text, “There is a lad here that hath five barley loaves and two small fishes; but what are they among so many?”

This topic suggests allusion to a supposed occasion when Bishop Wilberforce aptly quoted from the first verse of the versification already mentioned (Tate and Brady’s). (The incident was described in that most excellent journal Public Opinion; and it must have been in one of the earliest numbers, for it was read aloud by the clergyman tutor mentioned in the first chapter of this book—with whom I stayed in 1863.)

The story was that, on the occasion of a weekend visit to a country house, there was a discussion on the Sunday morning (the usual experience in those days, when attendance at Church Service was much more habitual than, unfortunately, is the case now) as to the alternative of walking or driving to the Church, which was some little distance from the house. The Bishop, who was one of the party, at once declared his intention of walking, while Sir James Graham—who was also a guest—remarking that the weather seemed to be unsettled, indicated his preference for the carriage.

The walking party, of course, left the house first, the carriage with a full contingent following later. Before the Church was reached there was a slight shower of rain, and when the carriage overtook the pedestrians, Sir James Graham called out to the Bishop:

“How blest is he who ne’er consents

By ill advice to walk;”

but the Bishop instantly retorted by quoting the remainder of the verse:

“Nor stands in sinners’ ways, nor sits

Where men profanely talk.”

Before closing these allusions to Bishop Wilberforce, it should be recorded, at least by way of reminder, that while he was both a statesman and a wit, he also, and above all, was a sincere and devoted Christian leader and teacher.

This, of course, is fully manifested in the Memoir of his Life; and I cannot refrain from adding an example of his adaptability.

He was preaching one Sunday afternoon in the old Parish Church of St Alphege, Greenwich. It was then quite of the old-fashioned “three decker” style, and somewhat of a “sleepy hollow.” I noticed that the Bishop used no manuscript but simply leaned over the pulpit cushion, and spoke in an easy, informal way.

After the service, he walked with my uncle—the late Admiral Baillie Hamilton—to his home, Macartney House, which, like Rangers House, is on the border of Greenwich Park.

I was a mere lad then and, therefore, did not take part in the conversation, but listened. During the walk the Bishop said: “I felt that what those people needed, was a straight, simple talk; so I practically discarded the sermon which I had brought, and spoke in almost a conversational way.”

Although many more samples of wit on the part of dignitaries of the Church of England are within mental view, some of which may be drawn upon—if space permit—later, it seems fitting now to produce some choice specimens from leading members of other ecclesiastical bodies—particularly in Scotland.

Many years ago, a group of leading English Churchmen arranged to hold a meeting in London, for the purpose of offering a welcome and greeting to the Moderator of the Church of Scotland. The Archbishop of Canterbury, with characteristic broad-mindedness, presided, and Dean Stanley was also present. The only utterance of the occasion which I remember, was the declaration of his opinion as to the marked prevalence of a sense of humour amongst the Scottish clergy.

Illustrations of this quality have been given in a previous chapter, and a few more can now be added.

In the Scottish Churches there is a plan whereby a minister who, through advancing years, finds the burden of his charge too heavy, can be partly relieved by the appointment of what is known as an “assistant and successor.”

In this way an element of permanence is secured for the assistant or colleague, since, humanly speaking, it is only a matter of time when he will have full charge, and the full stipend, such as it may be.

And I remember that the late Dr Marshall Lang, who was a Moderator of the Church of Scotland, and latterly Principal of the University of Aberdeen, when speaking on a subject which included the above arrangement, said that he heard of an elderly minister who once said to his “assistant and successor”: “I suppose, my young friend, you are ‘thinking long’ for my dying?”^[1]

“Ah, no, sir,” replied the younger man, “you must not put it so; for it is your living that I desire.”

It is quite certain that in each of the Scottish Church Assemblies anything amusing is most welcome; and indeed it is probable that the same is the case in most ecclesiastical gatherings.

For a long period the foremost personality and leader in the United Free Church Assembly, was the late Principal Rainy. He was a man of marked ability and statesmanlike qualities, and he was sometimes spoken of as more a statesman than a theologian; but this was not really the case, as his friends (and he had many) knew very well.

I am indebted to Dr Rainy for an interesting anecdote regarding the celebrated preacher—the late Mr Spurgeon.

He had observed a few young men who occasionally attended the services at the Tabernacle (as Mr Spurgeon’s place of worship was called) and who, taking a position near the door of one of the galleries, did not remove their caps, apparently in order to indicate that they were present, not for the purpose of joining in the service devotionally, but simply to hear the oratory, as such, of an eloquent preacher.

Spurgeon decided that he would get those caps removed. And he accomplished this in the following manner.

On entering the pulpit, he said: “Before beginning my discourse, I would like to mention that quite recently I had an unusual experience, that of attending a special service in a Jewish Synagogue. Naturally, when entering a place of worship, I was about to take off my hat—but an attendant courteously checked me, saying: ‘Excuse me, it is our custom here to retain the head-covering,’ and of course I at once complied with the request; and” (looking towards a particular part of the gallery) “I shall be glad if our young Jewish friends, whom we are glad to see amongst us, will conform to our usage, in the same manner.” And needless to say, in a trice, off came the caps.

Although now dealing primarily with Scotland, we shall still come into touch with the Episcopal Order in that country.

Scotland has been, and is, fortunate in her Bishops. Although their respective communities form only a minority of the population, they—the Bishops—have uniformly taken an active and beneficent share in the promotion of the public welfare of the districts with which they are associated, and with the national life of the country as a whole. And this participation is very readily welcomed by the Presbyterian majority.

A striking example of this was manifested in the case of the late Bishop Chisholm, who was for many years Chairman of the Aberdeen School Board. In earlier years he was the Roman Catholic Priest for a district of which a small town, north of Aberdeen, was the centre. His experience there included a little incident which greatly amused him, and which he used sometimes to relate, so that it became well known in that region.

Returning home one night from a Church engagement in the country, he observed a man who, obviously as a result of too many potations, had subsided into the roadside ditch; and Father Chisholm, unwilling to leave the man in that plight, hoisted him up, and managed to pilot him along the road, into the town, where he propped him up against an iron railing, saying: “I expect you will be able to get home now.”

On this, the man solemnly extended his hand, and said very deliberately, “I’m obliged t’ye, Father.”

“Oh, then you knew me,” said the Priest.

“Fine do I ken wha ye are,” replied the man. “Ay, but I’m above prejudice.”

Another quaint experience was told to me by Dr Chisholm after he had been for many years Bishop. He had travelled to a town about 45 miles from Aberdeen to perform some Church function; and when this was completed, there was still a considerable time to wait before the next train. Accordingly, he adjourned to the hotel. There he was welcomed by the proprietor who said: “I think your lordship should take a seat in the commercial room; there is a good fire there, and a comfortable arm-chair.”

To this arrangement the Bishop at once agreed. There was no one else in the room at first; but soon a little man bustled in, and after surveying the intruder for a moment, said: “Excuse me, sir, but this is the commercial room—reserved for travellers.”

“Yes,” said the Bishop, “so I understand, but the proprietor was good enough to suggest that I should sit here.”

“Then may I ask what line you are in?”

“Well,” replied the Bishop, after a moment’s pause, “I’m in the spirit line.”

“Oh, in that case,” said the commercial man, “of course it’s all right.”

One other Bishop in Scotland should be mentioned; this time, of the Scottish Episcopal Church, namely, the late Bishop Campbell of Glasgow, greatly esteemed and deservedly popular.

I scarcely knew him personally, but I am sure that his gifts included that of humour, in full degree.

Two small incidents concerning him may be quoted.

At a large dinner party given by a former Lord Provost of Glasgow, Bishop Campbell was one of the guests. Towards the end of the dinner, he rose and “said Grace,” no doubt in one of the usual forms—such as, “For what we have received, etc.”

After the party had moved from the table, the Lord Provost said, confidentially, to the Bishop: “It was very kind of your lordship to say grace after dinner, but I confess I felt a little embarrassed, because my own minister of the Presbyterian Church to which I belong, was also present, and I was afraid he might feel that the natural thing would have been that I should have asked him to officiate, as to returning thanks.”

“I am indeed sorry, Lord Provost,” said the Bishop, “that there should have been any mistake; and in fact I understood that it was your wish that I should act as I did.”

“Indeed?” said the Lord Provost, and then the Bishop added: “Yes, one of the attendants whispered something in my ear indicating a message from yourself, in which I caught the word ‘benediction’ which I understood as meaning that I was to say grace.”

“Well,” replied the Lord Provost, “that’s curious—ah! now I see what happened; I did send a message, but it was to say that I thought you would find the benedictine—the liqueur—rather good; and evidently the word got mixed up.”^[2] Another reminiscence concerning Bishop Campbell which he probably narrated, or which at any rate would be thoroughly appreciated by him was, that some English friend, having addressed a letter to “The Right Rev. the Bishop of Glasgow, The Palace, Glasgow,” the letter was returned from the Post Office, marked, “Not known at the Palace—try the Empire.”

And in order to impart further credibility, if needed, I may mention that something in the same line actually came within my own observation not very long ago, for, while staying at the Palace Hotel, Aberdeen, amongst my letters which had been sent on from the Post Office, there was one addressed “The Palace,” but, fortunately, I observed in time that it was not intended for myself, but for my friend, the greatly valued Bishop Deane (Bishop of Aberdeen and Orkney) whose residence does not carry the designation of “Palace,” but the much more appropriate and attractive title of “Bishop’s Court.”

Having already in a previous chapter given an assortment of Scottish clerical specimens of humour, it will not be necessary to linger long on that topic; but no attempt to deal with the subject will be complete without, at least, some reference to the celebrated Dr Norman Macleod. In his biography, excellently accomplished by his brother—the Rev. Donald Macleod—it is mentioned that in his youth he had a great tendency to effective mimicry; but that would not be a prudent cult for a minister, and it was probably dropped, except within the most intimate circle; but the following extract from the Memoir gives a good idea of his prevailing sense of fun.

To his sister Jane:—

Dalkeith.

I feel terribly my loneliness, especially as preventing me from enjoying literary society. I began pondering in my mind whether there was anyone in the town who could share my pleasure in reading ‘The Prelude,’ and ‘In Memoriam,’ or have a talk with me about the tendencies of the age. Of all my acquaintances, I thought Mrs Huggins probably the most spirituelle, and off I went with ‘The Prelude.’ I found her in her usual seat by the fireside, her face calm and meditative, her thumbs still pursuing their endless chase after each other as if each had vowed an eternal revenge of his brother. There was an air of placid repose in her time-worn features.... I was disappointed with her views of poetry. I read the Introduction, and the following conversation ensued:—

‘I.—We have here, I think, a fine combination of the poet with the poetic artist.’

‘H.—I wadna doot. How’s yer sister?’

‘I.—Well, I thank you. She has been a long time cultivating the ideal under me; but her talent is small.’

‘H.—Is her coch (cough) better?’

‘I.—Rather, Mrs Huggins. But, pray, how do you like Wordsworth?’

‘H.—I dinna ken him. Whar does he leeve? In Pettigrew’s Close? Is he the stickit minister?’

Lastly, here is a specimen of the somewhat old-fashioned ministerial style.

The Rev. Walter Dunlop, former minister in Dumfries, met on the road a man driving a flock of geese. Owing to their wayward disposition, the man was losing his temper and called out “Deil choke them.” A little farther on Mr Dunlop passed a farmyard where a man was endeavouring to drive in a number of swine and banning them with “Deil tak’ them,” upon which Mr Dunlop stepped up to him and said, “Ay, ay, my man, your gentleman’ll be wi’ ye i’ noo; he’s jist back the road there a bit, choking some geese till a man.”

And now a few more Anglican gleanings.

The late Bishop Courtney, for many years Bishop of Halifax, Nova Scotia, told me of an occasion at an English Parish Church when for some inaugural occasion the musical provision for the service was supplemented by some amateur instrumentalists, every effort being made to produce a good effect in combination with the choir. The Bishop was present and preached the sermon.

After the service, the vicar, while walking with the Bishop said: “I hope your lordship was pleased with the musical part of the service? We had taken a good deal of trouble about it.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Bishop, “and one might also say that it was scriptural.”

The vicar, instead of being content with this utterance said: “I don’t quite follow your lordship’s allusion?”

“Oh,” replied the Bishop, “I was merely thinking of the verse: ‘The singers go before, the minstrels follow after.’ ”

Another little incident described by Bishop Courtney was this: At a country Church in the days when an offertory was not, as now, the invariable accompaniment of a Sunday service, a collection was being made, but the congregation being large, it was proceeding somewhat slowly. On observing this the rector beckoned to a worthy farmer who was seated near the chancel, and whispered to him: “They are not getting on very quick with the collection, Mr Giles; would you please step across to the rectory and look into the drawing-room—the door windows are open—and bring a silver basket which you will see on a table and help to take up the collection?”

Mr Giles departed and soon returned and moved amongst the congregation, but after a short time he returned to the chancel and whispered to the rector: “I done as you bid me, sir, but there’s none of them will ’ave any.” And then to his dismay, the rector perceived that the silver basket was full of mixed biscuits.

Members of the Church of England, at any rate of the younger generation, may be somewhat incredulous regarding the statement that the offertory was not, during the period referred to, recognised as an inherent part of every Church service, but such is the fact; one might, for instance, hear some such remark as this: “There is to be a Charity Sermon to-day, so there will be a collection,” and this would evoke such a reply as “Oh, indeed; could you give me change for half a crown?” And the curious thing is that at that time, and indeed one might say from time immemorial a collection was invariably part and parcel of every service in the Presbyterian Churches of Scotland, and presumably in those of other denominations. No doubt copper was the prevailing form of coin deposited in the collecting ladles, or at the door.

The late Dr Henry Philpotts, Bishop of Exeter, became so well and honourably known that he was often described as “Henry of Exeter,” a kind of complimentary adaptation of a use of former times in English history. He too was evidently a man of humour, as exemplified by the following example.

It happened that toward the latter part of his life, a Dr Philpott was appointed Bishop of Worcester. Soon afterwards at a meeting of Convocation he happened to address the assembly. He was followed by the Bishop of Exeter, who began by saying: “I’m afraid I cannot concur with the remarks of my singular brother.”

A good many years ago the late Dr Elliott was Dean of Gloucester. He was greatly liked, and when a vacancy occurred in the Bishopric it was much hoped by the Canons and all connected with the Cathedral that he would be the new Bishop. One morning a senior Canon, on taking up the newspaper observed an announcement that the appointment had been given to Dr Ellicott, but the Canon misread the name and mistook it for Elliott. Immediately he hastened to the Deanery and exclaimed: “Mr Dean, I am delighted to hear that you are to be our Bishop.” “Nay,” said the Dean smilingly, “I am only Elliott, without the ‘C’.”

These last two items were told to me by a dear and valued friend of ours—a splendid fellow in every way—and greatly beloved, namely “Robbie Bowen-Colthurst.” He was eminently a type and illustration of the combination of deep religious conviction and principle with pervading brightness and genial sense of fun.

Many years ago the University Authorities of Cambridge received an intimation that the members of an important embassage from Abyssinia desired to have an opportunity of visiting the University. The authorities felt that this was a request which ought to be complied with, and arrangements were made accordingly.

In due time the party of Orientals arrived, and were suitably received. They were fine looking men, of swarthy complexion, and they were all clad in white garments of an African type. They were accompanied by an interpreter.

Naturally, the great quadrangle of Trinity was visited. While there, one of the strangers, a strikingly tall, handsome man, advanced to the fountain, and, splashing the water with his hands, uttered at the same time some strange-sounding words. The interpreter was asked what this meant: “He is invoking the spirits of his ancestors,” was the reply.

Subsequently the party were escorted to the railway station; and when entering the train, one of them stumbled slightly over the lower folds of his long robe and knocked his shin against the iron step of the railway carriage. This seemed to evoke a smothered ejaculation, and a bystander remarked: “How curiously sometimes one touch makes the world kin; you might have imagined just now that this Eastern was an Englishman.”

Some time afterwards—but not soon—it began to leak out that the so-called Orientals were in reality young Englishmen, including several Cambridge undergraduates; and there is reason to believe that Bowen-Colthurst was a prominent member of the group. He it was, probably, who performed ablutions at the fountain.

I never heard of any investigation into the affair. Certainly there were no penalties. Perhaps the authorities felt that, all things considered, it would be advisable to “let sleeping dogs lie.”

Robbie Bowen-Colthurst was early in the War. One evening a sergeant in the trench where he was stationed observed something unusual at the end of the trench, and moved along to see what was happening. Our friend, characteristically, went with the sergeant, but he forgot that his notable height, and the comparative lowness of the rampart made it absolutely necessary that he should stoop low down; and alas! in a moment a bullet pierced his brain, and the heart of his bright attractive young wife.

So farewell to Robbie—for a while.

On a certain Sunday, after evening service at St Mary Abbot’s, the Parish Church of Kensington, of which my old and particular friend—Edward Carr Glyn, afterwards Bishop of Peterborough—was the vicar, I had what was always a much appreciated experience—a chat with him alone in his vicarage.

During our talk he happened to mention a little tale, namely, that a lady meeting the Bishop of London (Dr Temple) had said: “Oh! Bishop, I want to tell you something very remarkable. An aunt of mine had arranged to make a voyage in a certain steamer, but at the last moment she had to give up the trip; and that steamer was wrecked; wasn’t it a mercy that she did not go in it?”

“Well, but”—replied the Bishop, “I don’t know your aunt.”

I happened to have occasion that same night to write a note to Lord Granville, about some parliamentary matter—I forget what—and knowing that he always liked anything in the nature of a story, I put in the above little item as a P.S. In his reply (sent with his usual kind promptness) he added, “Thanks for your good story.”

At that time, Lord Granville had occasion frequently to see the late Sir William Agnew on business matters. It also happened that during the same period Sir William had acquired the chief proprietorship of Punch; and consequently, as he mentioned to us, he used to attend the “Weekly Dinner” of that renowned and historic institution; a fact of which, naturally, he was not a little proud. And I have not the least doubt that Lord Granville, in his next interview with Sir William, mentioned to him—in his genial way—the above anecdote, and that thus it found its way into the sanctum of Punch; at any rate, it appeared a few weeks later, of course disguised as to the appearance of the Bishop, but, as to the essential point, almost exactly as I got it from my friend.^[3]

The above specimen would indicate that the wit of the distinguished Prelate was often of a somewhat caustic style; and this element was perhaps reflected in his manner. But this was only external, for he was truly kind-hearted, and greatly liked as well as highly esteemed, by the clergy of his diocese, although some of them coined the phrase, adapted from a verse in the Psalms, namely, “there are no polished corners in our Temple.”

I thought this was very neat, and at a dinner-party I quoted it to the lady next to whom I was seated. She made no remark, but I became conscious that the quotation was regarded as decidedly feeble, and one which might as well, or better, have been left unsaid. After dinner I happened to tell a friend that I had mentioned the phrase to my neighbour at the table, but that it had evidently fallen very flat. “Yes,” he said, “it doubtless would, because the Bishop is her brother-in-law.”

That was sad, but indeed I have so many relations myself that in the case of some of the more remote, I have at times found it difficult to “place” the exact affinity; and one might be pardoned for a lapse in identification of relationship in other circles.

And if the above unfortunately quoted phrase ever came to the knowledge of the Bishop (as may quite possibly have been the case) I don’t believe he would have been in the least annoyed: but contrariwise, would have relished it; but that’s where humour comes in.

Another of the utterances attributed to him, was that, when he had driven down one evening to his official residence at Fulham, in a hansom cab, the driver, on receiving his fare (and having, of course, observed the Episcopal garb) said: “Well, my lord, I can’t help a’ thinkin’ that if I’d been driving Saint Paul, I’d ’ave got a better fare.”

“Oh—but, my friend,” said the Bishop, “you are mistaken as to that, for Saint Paul would doubtless have been at Lambeth, and that would only be a shilling.”

Whether this remark was actually uttered or not, Bishop Temple in due time became the occupant of Lambeth Palace; and a most excellent Archbishop he was.

And it is good that so distinguished a personage, who so well served his day and generation, should have been followed by a son who has already made his mark in such eminent degree as the present Bishop of Manchester.

It goes without saying that ecclesiastical circles in Ireland have not been unfruitful in their contributions to the store of humorous sayings, and one figure stands out so prominently in this respect, that he seems almost to dwarf the products of his contemporaries. The reference is to the late Rev. Father Healy, for many years the Parish Priest of Bray, County Wicklow. His witticisms were mostly of the entirely impromptu kind, and frequently contained the element of sarcasm. Nor did he like to be “trotted out.” Here are two illustrative specimens.

A young lady meeting him one morning, greeted him thus: “Oh, good morning, Father Healy. Now, won’t you say something funny?”—to which came the prompt reply (or retort), “Well, I’m glad to see you; isn’t it funny?”

And the other, containing the element of sarcasm—but not too much—was this.

A certain man who had built and furnished a new house was showing it to Cardinal Cullen, who was accompanied by Father Healy. In one of the rooms, on a shelf above the writing-table, there stood a neat row of books. Pointing to them, the owner said: “These, your Eminence, are my friends.” But Father Healy chimed in, “Yes, and he has treated them like friends; he has never cut them.”

The late Archbishop Crozier, latterly Primate of the Protestant Church of Ireland, often related amusing anecdotes, but the only one which I know is the following, which he gave on some occasion when I happened to be present.

Two brothers, named Dick and Tom, were at school together. They had an aunt who lived in a very quiet part of the country. From her they received, shortly before the summer holidays, a letter saying that she would be very pleased to have one of them to stay with her for a week. She could not conveniently take them both, but they could settle for themselves as to which of them should come. The boys felt that she would expect this invitation to be accepted; and in due time Dick appeared at the aunt’s residence.

“Well, Dick, I’m glad to see you, and how did you settle whether it was to be you or Tom?”

“Well, Auntie, as you left it to us to decide, we thought we’d better toss.”

“Oh, I see; and so you won!”

“Oh no,” said Dick; “I lost.”

[1]	“Thinking long”—a purely Scottish expression, signifying a wistful desire for something not at once attainable.

[2]	I believe there is another version of this incident, but I give it as I first heard, or at any rate interpreted, it.

[3]

Having been asked to verify the above, by a reference to the issue of Punch in which it appeared, I have done so. It will be found in Vol. XCIV, year 1888, March 31.Instead of “Steamboat,” a “Railway Train” is used; but of course this is immaterial. And perhaps the Railway Train is the preferable. But the Steamboat was the form in which I first heard the joke.