Auld Licht Idyls | Page 6

in the parish church. The scene was
the kirk itself, and the seats being put up to auction were knocked down
to the highest bidder. This sometimes led to the breaking of the peace.
Every person was present who was at all particular as to where he sat,
and an auctioneer was engaged for the day. He rouped the kirk-seats
like potato-drills, beginning by asking for a bid. Every seat was put up
to auction separately; for some were much more run after than others,
and the men were instructed by their wives what to bid for. Often the
women joined in, and as they bid excitedly against each other the
church rang with opprobrious epithets. A man would come to the roup
late, and learn that the seat he wanted had been knocked down. He
maintained that he had been unfairly treated, or denounced the local
laird to whom the seat-rents went. If he did not get the seat he would
leave the kirk. Then the woman who had forestalled him wanted to
know what he meant by glaring at her so, and the auction was
interrupted. Another member would "thrip down the throat" of the
auctioneer that he had a right to his former seat if he continued to pay
the same price for it. The auctioneer was screamed at for favoring his

friends, and at times the group became so noisy that men and women
had to be forcibly ejected. Then was Pete's chance. Hovering at the gate,
he caught the angry people on their way home and took them into his
workshop by an outside stair. There he assisted them in denouncing the
parish kirk, with the view of getting them to forswear it. Pete made a
good many Auld Lichts in his time out of unpromising material.
Sights were to be witnessed in the parish church at times that could not
have been made more impressive by the Auld Lichts themselves. Here
sinful women were grimly taken to task by the minister, who, having
thundered for a time against adultery in general, called upon one sinner
in particular to stand forth. She had to step forward into a pew near the
pulpit, where, alone and friendless, and stared at by the congregation,
she cowered in tears beneath his denunciations. In that seat she had to
remain during the forenoon service. She returned home alone, and had
to come back alone to her solitary seat in the afternoon. All day no one
dared speak to her. She was as much an object of contumely as the
thieves and smugglers who, in the end of last century, it was the
privilege of Feudal Bailie Wood (as he was called) to whip round the
square.
It is nearly twenty years since the gardeners had their last "walk" in
Thrums, and they survived all the other benefit societies that walked
once every summer. There was a "weavers' walk" and five or six others,
the "women's walk" being the most picturesque. These were
processions of the members of benefit societies through the square and
wynds, and all the women walked in white, to the number of a hundred
or more, behind the Tillie-drum band, Thrums having in those days no
band of its own.
From the northwest corner of the square a narrow street sets off, jerking
this way and that, as if uncertain what point to make for. Here lurks the
post-office, which had once the reputation of being as crooked in its
ways as the street itself.
A railway line runs into Thrums now. The sensational days of the
post-office were when the letters were conveyed officially in a creaking
old cart from Tilliedrum. The "pony" had seen better days than the cart,

and always looked as if he were just on the point of succeeding in
running away from it. Hooky Crewe was driver--so called because an
iron hook was his substitute for a right arm. Robbie Proctor, the
blacksmith, made the hook and fixed it in. Crewe suffered from
rheumatism, and when he felt it coming on he stayed at home.
Sometimes his cart came undone in a snow-drift; when Hooky,
extricated from the fragments by some chance wayfarer, was deposited
with his mail-bag (of which he always kept a grip by the hook) in a
farmhouse. It was his boast that his letters always reached their
destination eventually. They might be a long time about it, but "slow
and sure" was his motto. Hooky emphasized his "slow and sure" by
taking a snuff. He was a godsend to the postmistress, for to his failings
or the infirmities of his gig were charged all delays.
At the time I write of, the posting of the letter took as long and was as
serious an undertaking as the writing.