The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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The First Sermon.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
The First Sermon.
Once, on a lovely day—it was in spring—
I went to hear a splendid young divine
Preach his first sermon. I had known the youth
In a society of far renown,
But liked him not, he held his head so high;
And ever and anon would sneer, and pooh!
And cast his head all to one side, as if
In perfect agony of low contempt
At everything he heard, however just.
Men like not this, and poets least of all.
I went to hear a splendid young divine
Preach his first sermon. I had known the youth
In a society of far renown,
But liked him not, he held his head so high;
And ever and anon would sneer, and pooh!
And cast his head all to one side, as if
In perfect agony of low contempt
At everything he heard, however just.
Men like not this, and poets least of all.
Besides, there are some outward marks of men
One scarcely can approve. His hair was red,
Almost as red as German sealing-wax;
And then so curled—What illustrious curls!
'Twas like a tower of strength. Oh, what a head
For Combe or Dr. Spurzheim to dissect,
After 'twas polled! His shoulders rather narrow,
And pointed like two pins. And then there was
A primming round the mouth, of odious cast,
Bespeaking the proud vacancy within.
One scarcely can approve. His hair was red,
Almost as red as German sealing-wax;
And then so curled—What illustrious curls!
'Twas like a tower of strength. Oh, what a head
For Combe or Dr. Spurzheim to dissect,
After 'twas polled! His shoulders rather narrow,
And pointed like two pins. And then there was
A primming round the mouth, of odious cast,
Bespeaking the proud vacancy within.
Well, to the Old Greyfriars' Church I went,
And many more with me. The place was crowded.
In came the beadle—then our hero follow'd
With gown blown like a mainsail, flowing on
To right and left alternate; the sleek beaver,
Down by his thigh keeping responsive time.
Oh, such a sight of graceful dignity
Never astounded heart of youthful dame!
But I bethought me, what a messenger
From the world's pattern of humility!
And many more with me. The place was crowded.
In came the beadle—then our hero follow'd
With gown blown like a mainsail, flowing on
To right and left alternate; the sleek beaver,
Down by his thigh keeping responsive time.
Oh, such a sight of graceful dignity
Never astounded heart of youthful dame!
But I bethought me, what a messenger
From the world's pattern of humility!
The psalm was read with beauteous energy,
And sung. Then pour'd the prayer from such a face
Of simpering seriousness—it was a quiz—
A mockery of all things deem'd divine.
Some men such faces may have seen among
The Methodists and Quakers—but I never.
The eyes were closely shut—one cheek turn'd up;
The mouth quite long and narrow like a seam,
Holding no fit proportion with the mouths
Which mankind gape with. Then the high curl'd hair
With quiver and with shake, announced supreme
The heart's sincere devotion: unto whom?
Ask not—it is unfair! Suppose to Heaven,
To the fair maids around the gallery,
Or to the gorgeous idol, Self-conceit.
Glad was my heart at last to hear the word,
That often long'd-for and desired word,
Which men yearn for as for the dinner-bell,
And now was beauteously pronounced, Ay-main!
And sung. Then pour'd the prayer from such a face
Of simpering seriousness—it was a quiz—
A mockery of all things deem'd divine.
Some men such faces may have seen among
The Methodists and Quakers—but I never.
The eyes were closely shut—one cheek turn'd up;
The mouth quite long and narrow like a seam,
Holding no fit proportion with the mouths
Which mankind gape with. Then the high curl'd hair
With quiver and with shake, announced supreme
The heart's sincere devotion: unto whom?
Ask not—it is unfair! Suppose to Heaven,
To the fair maids around the gallery,
Or to the gorgeous idol, Self-conceit.
Glad was my heart at last to hear the word,
That often long'd-for and desired word,
Which men yearn for as for the dinner-bell,
And now was beauteously pronounced, Ay-main!
Now for the sermon. O ye ruling Powers
Of poesy sublime, give me to sing
The splendours of that sermon! The bold hem;
The look sublime that beam'd with confidence;
The three wipes with the cambric handkerchief;
The strut—the bob—and the impressive thump
Upon the holy Book! No notes were there,
No, not a scrap—All was intuitive,
Pouring like water from a sacred fountain,
With current unexhausted. Now the lips
Protruded, and the eyebrows lower'd amain,
Like Kean's in dark Othello. The red hair
Shook like the wither'd juniper in wind.
'Twas grand—o'erpowering!—Such an exhibition
No pen of poet can delineate.
Of poesy sublime, give me to sing
The splendours of that sermon! The bold hem;
The look sublime that beam'd with confidence;
The three wipes with the cambric handkerchief;
The strut—the bob—and the impressive thump
Upon the holy Book! No notes were there,
No, not a scrap—All was intuitive,
Pouring like water from a sacred fountain,
With current unexhausted. Now the lips
352
Like Kean's in dark Othello. The red hair
Shook like the wither'd juniper in wind.
'Twas grand—o'erpowering!—Such an exhibition
No pen of poet can delineate.
But now, Sir Bard, the sermon? Let us hear
Somewhat of this same grand and promised sermon—
Aha, there comes the rub! 'Twas made of scraps,
Sketches from Nature, from old Johnson some,
And some from Joseph Addison—John Logan—
Blair—William Shakspeare—Young's Night Thoughts—The Grave—
Gillespie on the Seasons—Even the plain
Bold energy of Andrew Thomson here
Was press'd into the jumble. Plan or system
In it was not—no gleam of mind or aim—
A thing of shreds and patches—yet the blare
Went on for fifteen minutes, haply more.
The hems! and haws! began to come more close;
Three at a time. The cambric handkerchief
Came greatly in request. The burly head
Gave over tossing. The fine cheek grew red—
Then pale—then blue—then to a heavy crimson.
The beauteous dames around the galleries
Began to look dismay'd; their rosy lips
Wide open'd; and their bosoms heaving so,
You might have ween'd a rolling sea within.
The gruff sagacious elders peered up,
With one eye shut right knowingly, as if
The light oppress'd it—but their features
Show'd restlessness and deep dissatisfaction.
Somewhat of this same grand and promised sermon—
Aha, there comes the rub! 'Twas made of scraps,
Sketches from Nature, from old Johnson some,
And some from Joseph Addison—John Logan—
Blair—William Shakspeare—Young's Night Thoughts—The Grave—
Gillespie on the Seasons—Even the plain
Bold energy of Andrew Thomson here
Was press'd into the jumble. Plan or system
In it was not—no gleam of mind or aim—
A thing of shreds and patches—yet the blare
Went on for fifteen minutes, haply more.
The hems! and haws! began to come more close;
Three at a time. The cambric handkerchief
Came greatly in request. The burly head
Gave over tossing. The fine cheek grew red—
Then pale—then blue—then to a heavy crimson.
The beauteous dames around the galleries
Began to look dismay'd; their rosy lips
Wide open'd; and their bosoms heaving so,
You might have ween'd a rolling sea within.
The gruff sagacious elders peered up,
With one eye shut right knowingly, as if
The light oppress'd it—but their features
Show'd restlessness and deep dissatisfaction.
The preacher set him down—open'd the Bible,
Gave half a dozen hems; arose again,
Then half a dozen more—It would not do!
In every line his countenance bespoke
The loss of recollection; all within
Became a blank—a chaos of confusion,
Producing nought but agony of soul.
His long lip quiver'd, and his shaking hand
Of the trim beaver scarcely could make seizure,
When, stooping, floundering, plaiting at the knees,
He—made his exit. But how I admired
The Scottish audience! There was neither laugh
Nor titter; but a soften'd sorrow
Portray'd in every face. As for myself,
I laugh'd till I was sick; went home to dinner,
Drank the poor preacher's health, and laugh'd again.
Gave half a dozen hems; arose again,
Then half a dozen more—It would not do!
In every line his countenance bespoke
The loss of recollection; all within
Became a blank—a chaos of confusion,
Producing nought but agony of soul.
His long lip quiver'd, and his shaking hand
Of the trim beaver scarcely could make seizure,
When, stooping, floundering, plaiting at the knees,
He—made his exit. But how I admired
The Scottish audience! There was neither laugh
Nor titter; but a soften'd sorrow
Portray'd in every face. As for myself,
I laugh'd till I was sick; went home to dinner,
Drank the poor preacher's health, and laugh'd again.
But otherwise it fared with him; for he
Went home to his own native kingdom—Fife,
Pass'd to his father's stable—seized a pair
Of strong plough-bridle reins, and hang'd himself.
Went home to his own native kingdom—Fife,
Pass'd to his father's stable—seized a pair
Of strong plough-bridle reins, and hang'd himself.
And I have oft bethought me it were best,
Since that outrageous scene, for young beginners
To have a sermon, either of their own
Or other man's. If printed, or if written,
It makes small difference—but have it there
At a snug opening of the blessed book
Which any time will open there at will,
And save your credit. While the consciousness
That there it is, will nerve your better part,
And bear you through the ordeal with acclaim.
Since that outrageous scene, for young beginners
To have a sermon, either of their own
Or other man's. If printed, or if written,
It makes small difference—but have it there
At a snug opening of the blessed book
Which any time will open there at will,
And save your credit. While the consciousness
That there it is, will nerve your better part,
And bear you through the ordeal with acclaim.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |