The Strange Economy of Scottish Church Candles and Peppermints

In the quiet corners of old Scotland, where stone kirks stood stoically amid rolling hills and heather-clad valleys, the Sabbath was a day of deep reverence—and peculiar rituals. The Scottish Church wasn’t just a place for spiritual edification; it was a microcosm of community life, shaped by shared habits, traditions, and, surprisingly, its own peculiar economy. This economy wasn’t driven by grand treasures or ornate embellishments but rather by humble tallow candles, clinking farthings in pewter plates, and an unexpected staple: peppermint lozenges.

To understand this quirky economy, we must venture into the dimly lit pews of rural Scotland, where practicality and thrift were elevated to near-religious virtues and where even the smallest details carried their own meaning.

Candles: The Flickering Light of Worship

Long before gaslights or electricity illuminated Scottish churches, worship services were lit by the warm, albeit dim, glow of tallow candles. These humble lights were far from extravagant—more functional than beautiful—but they were a necessity in Scotland’s often dreich (dreary) weather, where heavy clouds and short winter days plunged sanctuaries into premature gloom.

The candles were typically arranged in tin sconces along the walls or stood in rudimentary holders scattered throughout the church. While they provided enough light for the minister to navigate his sermon notes, they often left large portions of the congregation in semi-darkness—a fact not lost on mischievous young lads who would slip out unnoticed or engage in whispered antics under the cover of shadows.

But here’s where the economy of candles gets interesting: once the service ended, those precious remnants of wax and tallow didn’t go to waste. Boys, ever resourceful, saw value in the discarded candle stubs, which they gleefully pilfered to create turnip lanterns. These crude but creative crafts became a kind of black-market currency among schoolchildren, traded for marbles, "peeries" (spinning tops), or even favors.

For the church, the candles themselves were a modest expense, but one that reflected the congregation's collective responsibility. A portion of the weekly offering often went toward procuring fresh candles, ensuring that the spiritual light of the kirk continued to shine—even if it flickered and dripped unevenly down the walls.

Peppermints: The Scottish Pew Snack

While the candles illuminated the physical space, peppermint lozenges arguably played a role in keeping the congregation mentally alert. In an era when sermons often stretched to an hour or more (with two or three services on the same day), the dreich delivery of some ministers was enough to test even the most devout worshippers. Enter the peppermint lozenge—a pungent, sugary antidote to boredom.

Elderly women, especially, were known to carry an ample supply of these lozenges in their pockets. Their slow, deliberate sucking of the mints not only served as a distraction from droning sermons but also helped combat the cold in unheated churches. Peppermints, with their sharp, eye-watering flavor, could stave off drowsiness during a particularly "twaddly" (tedious) preacher’s monologue.

Over time, the practice of peppermint consumption became almost ritualistic. It wasn’t uncommon to hear the faint rustle of wax paper as someone unwrapped a lozenge mid-sermon. The act itself, though surreptitious, became a sort of communal gesture—everyone understood the need for a little stimulation to endure the three-part sermon structure that dominated Scottish preaching of the time.

However, this peppermint economy wasn’t without its quirks. Lozenges were often shared among pew-mates, passed along the rows with a subtle nod or gesture. In larger congregations, this act of sharing sometimes caused a surprising amount of hilarity or distraction, particularly if the recipient tried to discreetly reject the offering. The “peppermint shuffle” became an unspoken dance of solidarity among worshippers, a tiny rebellion against the monotony of the pulpit.

The Clinking Plate at the Door

Another cornerstone of the Scottish Church economy was the pewter collection plate. Positioned prominently at the entrance of the kirk, it was both a practical necessity and a source of quiet pride—or quiet embarrassment—for congregants. The distinctive clink of coins as they hit the plate revealed the nature of the offerings: farthings, halfpennies, and the occasional more generous shilling.

For those of modest means, the collection plate could be a source of anxiety. It was said that elders in the vestry could gauge the generosity—or lack thereof—of the congregation simply by listening to the sound the coins made. A noisy collection meant plenty of small change had been given, while a quieter plate hinted at larger, more respectable denominations.

The interplay between the plate, the candles, and the peppermints was subtle but significant. The funds gathered each Sunday had to cover the kirk’s modest expenses, from the purchase of candles and coal to the minister’s stipend. In particularly frugal congregations, the offerings barely stretched far enough, leading to humorous anecdotes about ministers receiving compensation in the form of chickens or sacks of oats rather than coins.

A Quirky Culture of Simplicity

What makes this candle-and-peppermint economy so fascinating is how it reflects the ethos of old Scottish life: thrifty, practical, and deeply communal. While modern churches may have digital screens and centralized heating, the rituals of the past remind us that even the smallest, humblest items—candles, lozenges, and farthings—carried weight in the life of a congregation.

They were symbols of shared responsibility, tokens of endurance through long winters and longer sermons, and, perhaps most importantly, tiny anchors in the social fabric of rural communities. The glow of a flickering candle or the sharp tang of a peppermint lozenge may seem trivial today, but in the quiet, unhurried world of old Scotland, they mattered.

So, next time you light a candle or pop a mint, think of those hardy Scots in their drafty kirks, clutching their hymnals and stealing a sly peppermint as the minister droned on about circumspicion or the Scarlet Woman. It’s a small but poignant reminder that even the simplest comforts can make a long day—whether in the pew or the pulpit—just a little brighter.

Adapted From: Inglis, J. (1894). Oor ain folk: Being memories of manse life in the Mearns and a crack aboot old times. Edinburgh: David Douglas