When discoursing on the humours of old Scotch divines, I designedly recounted only such anecdotes as revealed the minister holding the “heft end” of the argument. In the present paper, which is wider in its scope, the honours will be found more equally divided, and the illustrations of the national character and humour laid under contribution will, on that account, prove not less entertaining and amusing.

To “get the better” of the minister has always meant fame of a kind—largely because of the rarity of such an achievement—and one can imagine how the parish would ring during the proverbial “nine days” with the fame of the old dame who, when her spiritual adviser called at her house to enquire of her the reason why recently she had suddenly turned “Seceder,” retorted, “Weel, ye just took a hale fortnicht to put Jonah into the whawl’s belly, and anither hale fortnicht to tak’ him oot; and what sort o’ fool’s preachin’ d’ye ca’ that?”

A Fifeshire laird, in a somewhat similar way, scored heavily against the minister of his parish. The latter had called on the laird to solicit a subscription from him to aid in putting a stove in the church, which, he said, the congregation found very cold. “Cauld, sir, cauld?” snorted the chief heritor; “then warm them up wi’ your doctrine, sir. John Knox never askit for a stove in his kirk.”

Equally pungent was the retort which issued from a country pew on the north of the Tay. “Ye’re sleepin’, John,” said the minister, pausing in the middle of a humdrum discourse, and looking hard in the direction of the drowsy member thus addressed—“Tak’ a snuff, John.” “Put the snuff in the sermon,” grunted John; and the broad grin that scampered over the upturned faces of the congregation showed how much the suggestion was deemed fit. But it is seldom the sleeper is found so wide-awake, if the expression will be allowed. His mental condition for the time being acts against the ready exercise of wit, and he is generally caught napping in a double sense. And, indeed, many who are popularly termed “pillars of the kirk,” might with equal appropriateness be termed sleepers. In a certain church in Forfarshire, there was no worse offender in this way than the minister’s own wife. One Sabbath she was actually asleep before the text was given out, a fact which her husband was not slow to observe. The minister had a quiet humour of his own; and the passage chosen for treatment that day had more than its original meaning to many present, when, “fixing his glassy eye” on the family pew he said, “The words, my brethren, to which I wish to direct your particular attention at the present time, are these—‘He giveth His beloved sleep.’”

Some folks apparently make a mistake in not taking their nightcaps to church with them. It has been told of a Dumbartonshire cattle-dealer that, going to hear (?) a young minister of repute who was preaching for a day in the parish kirk at Bonhill, immediately after the opening devotional services and the reading of chapter, he spread his hands on the book-board, forming them into a temporary pillow, on which he laid his drowsy head and prepared to enjoy a comfortable “snooze.” The preacher’s voice was powerful, and the style of his declamation such as to admit of considerable grandiloquence. Accordingly, after some minutes, minister and people were attracted by Bauldy raising his head just a little, and saying, quite audibly, “Ye’re just fully lood for me—ay, fully lood.” He laid down his head again, and the preacher, proceeding, waxed more eloquent and more vociferous as he warmed with his theme. At length, after a grand burst which closed some great passage, Bauldy sat right bolt up, and looking up at the minister, said, “Hang it! ye’re far ower lood. There’s nae mortal man could sleep wi’ a noise like that.”

It is frequently only one step from the sleeping to the wide-awake members, and, the latter being preferable company, we will now see how some of those have conducted themselves. Perhaps the prejudice against read sermons lingered longer in Scotland than anywhere else; and, of course, it was among the class that distinguished clearly between the legitimate uses of a pew and a bed that the individuals who concerned themselves in these matters were found.

“Eh, he’s a grand preacher!” whispered an old spinster to her sister, as they listened for the first time to a young minister.

“Wheesht! Bell,” was the reply, “he’s readin’!”

“Readin’, is he?” said the eulogist, changing her tone. “The paltry fellow! We’ll gang hame, Jenny, and read our Book.”

In 1772, when Dr. Thomas Blacklock, the well-known poet, who was blind, was preaching one of his trial discourses on the occasion of his being presented, by the Earl of Selkirk, to the living of Kirkcudbright, an old woman who sat on the pulpit stairs inquired of a neighbour if she thought he was a reader.

“He canna be a reader,” was the reply, “for he’s blind.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said the ancient dame; “I wish they were a’ blind!”

The ladies have always exercised a lively surveillance of the pulpit, and vended many an apt criticism.

“How did you like that young man we had to-day?” was once asked of a discerning village matron.

“Weel, I had just three fauts to his sermon,” was the reply.

“And what were these, if I may ask?”

“Weel,” said she, “firstly, it was read; and, secondly, it wasna weel read; and, thirdly, it wasna worth readin’!”

A sweeping criticism, and no mistake.

Dr. Norman Macleod was once preaching in a district in Ayrshire, where the reading of a sermon was regarded as the greatest fault a minister could be guilty of. When the congregation dispersed, an old woman, overflowing with enthusiasm, addressed her neighbour with, “Did ye ever hear onything sae grand? Wasna that a sermon?”

“Oh, ay,” replied her friend sulkily, “but he read it.”

“Read it,” reiterated the other with indignant emphasis, “I wudna hae cared gin he had whustled it.”

How the great Norman would enjoy this we can easily imagine! And yet it was not always plain sailing with the preacher who was a victim to “the paper.”

A certain minister had a custom of merely writing the heads of his discourses on small bits of paper, which he arranged and placed on the Bible before him, to be used in succession. One day, while he was expounding the second head, he became so excited in his manner that by a wave of his arm the ensuing slip was, unperceived by himself, swept over the edge of the pulpit, and, being caught in an air current in falling, was carried right out through the window, which for ventilation sake had been left partly open. On reaching the end of the second, he looked down for the third slip, but, alas! it was not to be found. “Thirdly,” he cried, looking round him with great anxiety. After a little pause, “Thirdly,” he again exclaimed, but still no thirdly appeared. “Thirdly, I say, my brethren,” pursued the bewildered clergyman, but not another word could he utter. At this point, while the congregation were partly sympathising in his distress, and partly rejoicing in such a decisive instance of the evil of using notes in preaching, an old woman came to the minister’s rescue with the remark—“Deed, sir, ye needna fash yersel’, for thirdly gaed oot at the window a quarter o’ an hour syne.”

That clergyman had not the inventive ingenuity of a Perth minister I have heard about. The latter had one really good sermon, which he styled the “White Horse,” and on occasions when he was called out to preach, which were few and far between, he invariably trotted out his “White Horse.” On one occasion he arranged to conduct the forenoon service in a church at some considerable distance, the regular minister of which being from home expected to return in time to preach himself in the afternoon. In the forenoon, the “White Horse” did the usual gallant service, but in the interval of public worship, the intelligence arrived that some untoward circumstance had prevented the native clergyman’s return, and that he (the Perth divine) would require to conduct the afternoon service also. Here was a demand which our Boanerges from the Fair City had not calculated on. He had brought no other sermon with him, and, even although he had, it would not have sustained the impression made by the “White Horse.” What was to be done? A moment’s reflection, and the difficulty was removed. “My dear brethren,” said he, when he stood up in the place of execution in the afternoon, “it was told to me in the interval that some of you when leaving the church were saying that the sermon which I preached from this place in the forenoon was not sound doctrine. I maintain that it was perfectly sound; and as I wish to convince everyone of you that it was so, I now ask you to give me your attentive hearing and I will preach the sermon over again.” And he did.

The hero of the next story was like unto the author of the “White Horse”:—

A Scotch gentleman, previous to a Continental tour, engaged as a travelling companion, a rather dissolute and ignorant Highland student, named Alexander Macpherson. Before they had been long abroad, the gentleman, to his regret, found himself compelled to part with his compagnon de voyage owing to his intemperate habits, and heard no more about him for several years. Happening, however, to drop into a secluded little Dissenting chapel in Wales, presided over by the Rev. Jonas Jones, as the board at the little gate revealed, he was astonished to find his dismissed servitor officiating in the pulpit, and astounded to hear him several times during the reading of the preliminary chapter turn the English into Highland Gaelic, prefacing his translation always in a sententious manner by the words, “or, as it is in the original,” and he was further astonished to hear from several of the congregation that Mr. Jones passed among them as a man of deep learning. After the conclusion of the service, he accosted the minister as he was leaving the church without any signs of recognition on that worthy’s part. “Do you not know me?” cried the gentleman, grasping his hand.

“Really, I beg your pardon, but there must be some mistake,” said the minister, endeavouring to move on.

“Oh, no mistake whatever, I assure you,” returned the gentleman. “Are you not Mr. —?”

“I am Mr. Jonas Jones,” put in the pastor, hastily.

“Aye,” replied the gentleman, sarcastically, observing that he was determined to ignore all recollection of him, “or, as it is in the original, Sandy Macpherson o’ Inveraray!”

To be “sound” was the main essential in those days. A certain clergyman had been suspected of leanings towards Arminianism, or of being a Rationalist, and much anxiety in consequence was felt by the flock he was called on to superintend. He put their fears suddenly to flight, however, for he turned out to be a sound divine as well as a good man. On the Monday after his sermon had been delivered, he was accosted in his walk by a decent old man, who after thanking him for his able discourse, went on—“Od, sir, the story gaed that you was a rational preacher; but glad am I, and a’ the parish wi’ me, to find that you are no’ a rational preacher after a’.” The minister thought it a dubious compliment, no doubt.

An old farmer, wishing to pay his minister a compliment on the occasion of his being made a D.D., said, “I kent ye wad come to something, sir, for, as I have aye said, ye neither fear God nor regard man.”

Speaking of the old-fashioned “rousing sermons” with which some ministers used to delight and terrify their hearers, Mr. Inglis, in his recent work Our Ain Folk, relates a conversation that took place between two severe old Covenanters after hearing a sermon of this type. “What do you think o’ that sermon, Jamie?” said Willie, as they wended their way down the street. “Think o’t,” said Jamie. “Man, it was jist a gran’ sermon. I havena heard ane I likit better for mony a day. What do you think o’t yersel’?” “Ae, man,” said Willie, “it was an awfu’ sermon, a fearfu’ sermon. It fair gar’d my flesh a’ grue. I’m shiverin’ yet, an I’m sure I canna tak’ my denner.” “What?” said Jamie, wi’ a snort o’ indignation; “what do you want? What wad ye ha’e, man? Do you want the man to slide ye down to hell on a buttered plate!”

A little band of old women on their way home from the kirk on the evening of a special day’s preaching, shortened the road by discussing the merits of the various divines who had addressed them, when one worthy dame thus honestly expressed herself, “Oh, leeze me abune them a’,” exclaimed she, “for yon auld, beld, clear-headed man that spoke sae bonnie on the angels. When he said, ‘Raphael sings, and Gabriel tunes his goolden herp, and a’ the angels clap their wings wi’ joy,’ oh, but it was grand! It just put me in mind o’ oor geese, at Dunjarg, as they turn their nebs to the south an’ clap their wings when they see rain comin’ after a lang drouth.”

The Rev. Mr. Yule, a Perthshire divine, was in the habit of going through the village on the Sabbath afternoons in summer, and inviting the people to open-air service on the green in the evening. Entering one afternoon where there were a number of the inhabitants congregated for no special purpose further than the discussion of current local events, the good man had not time to declare his mission when a douce village matron folded her hands complacently on her lap, and, looking towards the minister, said, “Eh! yon was a grand sermon ye ga’ed us this forenoon, Mr. Yule.”

“I am glad you were pleased with it, I am sure,” the minister modestly replied.

“Pleased!” echoed the matron. “I was just so perfectly feasted wi’ it that I cam’ hame an’ ga’rd Tammas turn up ‘Matthew Hendry,’ and read it a’ ower again to me.”

In Perth, about twenty years ago, there lived one, Kirsty Robertson, who earned her living by washing. The poor body had to work from morning till night to keep herself in food and clothing. She managed, however, to make a respectable appearance on Sundays, and was a regular attender of the kirk. The minister observed her decent and obvious poverty, and thought he ought to call on her, and see if he could assist her. He accordingly did so, and going in one night he saw Kirsty sitting by the fire, wearied out with her day’s labour. On hearing the minister come in Kirsty started up with an exclamation of surprise. He bade her be seated, and kindly enquired into her welfare, both spiritual and temporal. Before leaving, he inquired: “And I hope, Mrs. Robertson, you receive much good from your regular attendance at the ordinances?” “Ou ay, sir,” replied Kirsty, “it’s no’ every day I get sic a nice seat to sit on, an’ sae little to think aboot.”

Two men were talking about sermons. “Hoo did your minister get on last Sabbath?” asked the one. “Get on!” said the other; “he got on—just like a taed amang tar.”

A well-known Edinburgh lecturer—the late “Sandy” Russel of the Scotsman—was some years ago, it is said, enjoying a brief holiday in a quiet Highland retreat, which afforded excellent scope for the plying of the “gentle art,” and the Sabbath coming round in due course, he resolved, in order to dispel the tedium of the day, to attend the village church. The worthy parson noted the intellectual-looking stranger among his sparse congregation, and, on making enquiries, was informed of his personal identity. On the Monday following, the parson took a walk along the river side and very soon encountered the popular editor busy with rod and line.

“You are a keen fisher, I believe, Mr. Russel,” was the preacher’s introductory remark.

“Yes, I am, pastor,” was the instant and decided reply.

“I am a fisher too,” remarked the minister dreamily, “but a fisher of men;” the latter words were delivered with great unction.

“Oh, indeed,” dryly responded the editor, “I had a keek into your creel yesterday; ye didna seem to ha’e catch’d mony.”

Taking a walk through his parish one day a minister came upon a woman seated at her door reading a book, which he at once concluded was the New Testament, but which was really Blind Harry’s Wallace. Expressing his gratification at finding her so well employed, he said it was a book which no one would ever grew weary reading.

“Atweel, sir,” said she, “I never weary o’t; I’ve read it through an’ through I dinna ken hoo aften, an’ I’m just as fond o’t yet as ever.”

“Ah, Janet,” exclaimed the enraptured divine, “I am glad to hear you say so; and how happy I would be if all my parishioners were of the same mind, and what benefit it would be to themselves, too! For oh, to think, Janet, what He did and suffered for us!”

“Deed, ay, sir, an’ that’s true,” answered Janet, “an’ to think how he soom’d through the Carron water on a cauld frosty mornin’, wi’ his braidsword in his teeth. It was awfu’!”

The Rev. Mr. M’Dougall was one of those preachers who keep their hearers awake by sheer strength of lung. Preaching one day in a strange church, he espied an old woman applying her handkerchief very frequently to her eyes. Attributing her distress to a change for the better, he kept his eye on her, and at the close of the service, found an opportunity to speak to her, and said, “You seemed to be deeply affected, my good woman, while I was preaching to-day?”

“Ay, sir, I was rale muckle affected,” she replied.

“I am truly glad of that,” quoth the minister; “and I hope the impression may be a lasting one.”

“I doot, sir,” said she, “ye’re takin’ me up wrang. I was only thinkin’ on Shoozie.”

“Shoozie!” exclaimed the astonished divine; “what do you mean by Shoozie?”

“Oh, ye ken, sir,” replied the matron, “that was a cuddie we had. She dee’d twa or three weeks syne, and she was a kindly beast; an’ I just thocht whiles when I heard ye in yer raptur’s the day it was her roarin’, an’ I fairly broke doon wi’t.”

It was customary long ago to speak of the topic of a sermon as its ground or grund, and the story is told of an old woman bustling into church rather late one day. The preacher, a young man, had commenced his sermon. The old dame, opening her Bible, nudged her next neighbour with the inquiry, “What’s his grund?”

“Oh,” rejoined the other, “the silly elf’s lost his grund lang syne; he’s just soomin’!”

It was no use trying to throw dust in the eyes of such practical people.

Another plain-spoken dame said of a preacher of diminutive stature, who occasionally officiated in the church in which she was a regular hearer, and to whom she cherished some antipathy, “If there’s an ill text in a’ the Bible, that ugly wratch o’ a creatur’ is sure to tak’ it.”

A city congregation not long since presented their minister with a sum of money, and sent him off to the Continent for a holiday. Soon after, a gentleman, just returned from the Continent, meeting a prominent member of the congregation, said, “Oh, by the by, I met your minister in Germany. He was looking very well—he didn’t look as if he needed a rest.” “No,” said the member calmly, “it wasna him, it was the congregation that was needin’ a rest.”

Shortly after a Congregational chapel had been planted in a small burgh in the North, an incident occurred which showed that the powers of its minister were appreciated in certain quarters. A boy named Johnnie Fordyce had been indiscreet enough to put a sixpence in his mouth, and accidentally swallowed it. Mrs. Fordyce, concerned both for her boy and the sixpence, tried every means for its recovery, consulted her neighbours, and finally, in despair, called in the doctor, but without result. As a last resort, a young girl present suggested that they should send for the Congregationalist minister. “The minister?” chorused mother and neighbours. “Ay, the minister,” rejoined the girl. “My faither says if there’s siller in onybody he’ll tak’ it oot o’ them.”

The following illustrates how careful a minister should be to fulfil his promises. A poor old deaf man, residing in Fife, was visited one day by the parish minister, who had been recently inducted. Talking with the spouse of the afflicted parishioner, the minister professed to be greatly interested in the old man’s case, and promised before leaving that he would call regularly and pray with him. He, however, did not darken the door of their home again until about two years after, when happening to go through the street in which the old man lived, he found the wife standing at the door, and of course made anxious inquiry regarding her husband.

“Well, Margaret,” said he, “how is Thomas?”

“Nane the better o’ you,” was the rather curt reply.

“How, how, Margaret?” inquired the minister.

“Oh, ye promised twa years syne to ca’ and pray ance a fortnicht wi’ him, and ye hae never ance darkened oor door sin’ syne.”

“Well, well, Margaret, don’t be so short. I thought it was not so very necessary to call and pray with Thomas, for he’s so deaf, you know, and couldn’t hear me.”

“Ay, but, sir,” rejoined the woman, “the Lord’s no’ deaf!”

He was well answered.

That story suggests another which I have heard told by the worthy divine in whose experience it happened. He had on his “sick list” an old male parishioner, on whom he made frequent calls, and invariably read and prayed with the family before leaving. One day there were only the old man and the old woman in the house. The customary chapter was read, after which the divine engaged in prayer. On looking round at the conclusion of the latter, he was astonished to discover that the woman had disappeared. He had scarcely recovered from the bewilderment of the occasion, however, when she came timidly slipping through the doorway. “Hech, sirse!” she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, “are ye dune already?” then added, by way of explanation, “Ye see, sir, the Kirkintilloch flute baund gaed by there a maument syne; oor Jamie’s in’t, an’ I just ran oot to see the crood, thinkin’ I wad be back again afore ye wad ken.”

Here is a worthy companion story to the above. A country minister had occasion to call upon one of his parishioners who kept a toll-bar, and after some conversation he proceeded to pray with him. He had not uttered many words when he was interrupted by an exclamation from the tollman—“Wheest a minute, sir; I think I hear a cairt!” and out he went.

A Rev. Dr. Henderson of Galashiels in the course of his pastoral visitation, called on a widow with a large family, and asked how they all were, and how things were getting on. She said, “A’ richt, except Davie; he’s been troubled wi’ a sair leg, and no fit for wark.” The doctor could not remember which one Davie was, but did not like to hurt the widow’s feelings by betraying his ignorance, and in his prayer he pled that David’s affliction might be blessed to him. On going home, he said to his wife, referring to his call, “Which of the sons is David?”

“Hoot,” she exclaimed, “Davie’s no a son, Davie’s the cuddie!”

It was the minister there. In the next story it was the other way about. A former minister in the parish of Kilspindie, in the Carse of Gowrie, in the course of his parochial visitation called at the house of a ploughman where the oldest boy, a lad of ten, had been severely coached by his mother in anticipation of the “visit,” and with the hope of his making a good show. When, by and by, the minister took notice of the boy, “Ay,” interposed the mother, “an’ he can say his Carratches, too.” “Indeed!” exclaimed the minister, still eyeing the lad, “how nice! Who made you?”

“God.”

“Quite correct. Who redeemed you?”

“Christ.”

“Right again. You’re a clever little fellow, and [putting his hand on his head] who cut your hair?”

“The Holy Ghost,” was the reply; and the interview terminated.

“Sir,” said the long-haired lessee of a small farm in the North one day as he came up to the door of the Free Church Manse, “this is awfu’ weather w’ drooth; an’ I ha’e come across to see if you wad put up a petition for a shooer o’ rain, for my neeps are just perishin’.”

“You are a member of the Established Church,” said the clergyman addressed; “why not ask your own minister to intercede on behalf of your turnips?”

“It’s no very likely he’ll pray for rain for my neeps,” was the blunt response, “when his ain hay’s no in yet.”

It is quite true that—

But perhaps this worldly-minded agriculturist wronged his minister. There have been many kind, generous souls among them. I remember, says Dr. John Brown, a story of a good, old Anti-Burgher minister. It was in the days when dancing was held to be a great sin, and was dealt with by the Sessions. Jessie, a comely, blythe, and good young woman, and a great favourite of the minister, had been guilty of dancing at a friend’s wedding. She was summoned before the Session to be “dealt with”—the grim old fellows sternly concentrating their eyes upon her as she stood trembling in her striped short-gown and her petticoat. The Doctor, who was one of divinity, and a deep thinker, greatly pitying her and himself, said, “Jessie, my woman, were ye dancin’?”

“Yes,” sobbed Jessie.

“Ye maun e’en promise never to dance again, Jessie.”

“I will, sir; I will promise” (with a curtsey).

“Noo, what were ye thinkin’ o’, Jessie, when ye were dancin’?—tell us truly,” said an old elder, who had been a poacher in youth.

“Nae ill, sir,” sabbed out the dear little woman.

“Then, Jessie, my woman, aye dance!” cried the delighted Doctor.

It was capital!

When the Rev. Mr. (now the esteemed Dr.) Macgregor, of Edinburgh, settled in Glasgow as minister of the Tron Kirk, he had occasion, a few weeks after, to visit a family in one of the poorer districts, where he was as yet unknown to the eyes of his flock, although their ears had heard his name, and his personal appearance had become in some vague way familiar to their minds. He inquired of the goodwife whether the head of the house was at home, and, being informed that he was not, was kindly invited to await his arrival. This not occurring so soon as the goodwife had expected, she suggested to her visitor, who had not acquainted her with his name or station, that he should “gang oot an see the pigs,” the mother-pig having brought into the world a fine litter, a few days before. This, of course, Mr. Macgregor cheerfully consented to do. The inmates of the sty having been duly inspected, and the virtues of the mother-pig extolled till the old woman’s vocabulary refused to supply another adjective, she informed her visitor that “the young piggies had a’ been named aifter different fouk;” according as their personal appearances seemed to offer points of resemblance. And she indicated this and that one, as the bearer of some well-known name, honoured or otherwise, until she came to the last one, a rather diminutive, but active specimen of the porcine breed. “An’ this ane,” said she to her unknown and attentive listener, “this wee black deev’luck, we ca’ Wee Macgregor o’ the Tron!”

The genial Doctor himself has frequently told the above story with great and unaffected gusto.

The Christenin’, the Waddin’, the Catakeezin’ (now an unknown institution), and the Burial—these were occasions which brought the occupants of the pulpit and the pew into the closest relationship, and from which many capital illustrations of the national humour and character have arisen.

Baptism, of course, sometimes had a different significance for different persons. “What is Baptism, John?” a minister, in the course of a public catechising, asked his beadle.

“Baptism?” answered John, scratching his head, “weel, ye ken, it’s sometimes mair and sometimes less, but, as a general rule, it’s auchteenpence to me and a shillin’ to the precentor.”

“Hoo mony o’ the Elect will there be on the earth the noo, think ye, Janet?” said one old crone to another. “Ten?”

“Na: naething like it, woman.”

“Hoots, Janet, ye think there’s naebody good enough for heaven but yersel’, and the minister.”

“Deed,” replied Janet, “I hae sometimes very grave doots aboot the minister.”

Here was a more generous spirit. The late Dr. Wilberforce, while paying a visit at Taymouth Castle during the lifetime of the last Marquis of Breadalbane, a devoted adherent of the Free Church, was taken by Lady Breadalbane (nee Baillie of Jerviswoode) into one of the cottages on the estate occupied by an old Highland woman—a “true blue” Presbyterian—who was greatly pleased by the Bishop’s frank and friendly manner. A few days afterwards the Bishop left the castle, and Lady Breadalbane paid another visit to her old friend, when the following conversation took place:—“Do you know who that was, Mary, that came to see you last week?” “No, my lady,” was the reply. “The famous Bishop of Oxford,” said her ladyship. On which the denizen of the mountains quietly remarked, “Aweel, my lady, he’s a rale fine man; and a’ I can say is, that I trust and pray he’ll gang to heaven—Bishop though he be!”

“I hope you have made due preparation, and are in a fit state to have the Sacrament of Baptism administered to your child, John,” said a minister to one of his parishioners, a ploughman, who had called at the manse in connection with a recent event in his domestic circle.

“Weel,” said the ploughman, “I haena been ower extravagant in the way o’ preparation, maybe. I’m a man o’ sma’ means, ye ken; but I’ve gotten in a bottle o’ whisky and the best hauf o’ a kebbuck o’ cheese.”

“Tuts, tuts!” interrupted the minister, “I do not mean preparation of the things that perish. Is your mind and heart in proper condition?”

“Do you mean that I’m no soond in the head?” queried the ploughman.

“No, I do not mean that at all,” said the divine. “You do not appear to have an intelligent idea of the matter that has brought you here.”

Then, after a minute’s reflection, he continued—“How many Commandments are there, John?”

“I couldna tell ye jist exactly on the spur o’ the meenit,” said John, scratching his head, “but there’s an auld beuk lyin’ i’ the hoose yonder, gin I had it here I could sune answer yer question.”

“John,” said the minister, “I am afraid you are not in a fit state to hold up your child for baptism.”

“No fit to haud him up?” echoed the ploughman, starting to his feet, and posing in the attitude best calculated to display his great muscular form. “Me? Man, I could haud him up gin he were a bull stirk!”

And ludicrous incidents have occurred even in the supreme moment occupied by the ceremony of the baptism of a child, and when no one was very seriously to blame. In Paisley, some time ago, the father of a child was from home at the time of its birth, and was not expected to return for two or three months. The mother, desiring that the baptism of the child should not be delayed so long, was consequently obliged to present the infant herself, the ordinance being administered in private. The officiating clergyman was an old man, who, when in the act of dispensing the sacrament, asked the name by which the child was to be called. The mother, who had a thickness in her speech, politely said, “Lucy, sir.”

“Lucifer!” exclaimed the old and irritable divine, in exasperated horror, “I shall baptise no child by the name of the Prince of Darkness, madam. The child’s name is John.”

But perhaps the very best specimen story on record is the well-known one which is associated with the name of Ralph Erskine, the father of the Scottish Secession Kirk, and which the late Robert Leighton, the poet, rendered so happily into rhyme under the title of “The Bapteezement o’ the Bairn.” Mr. Erskine was a most proficient performer on the violin, and so often beguiled his leisure hours with this instrument that the people of Dunfermline believed he composed his sermons to its tones, as a poet writes a song to a particular air. But to the story:—A poor man in one of the neighbouring parishes having a child to baptise resolved not to employ his own clergyman, with whom he was at issue on certain points of doctrine, but to have the office performed by some minister of whose tenets fame gave a better report. With the child in his arms, therefore, and attended by the full complement of old and young women who usually minister on such occasions, he proceeded to the manse of —, some miles off (not that of Mr. Erskine), where he inquired if the clergyman was at home.

“Na; he’s no at hame the noo,” answered the servant lass; “he’s doon the burn fishing; but I can sune cry him in.”

“Ye needna gie yersel’ the trouble,” replied the man, quite shocked at this account of the minister’s habits, “nane o’ yer fishin’ ministers shall bapteeze my bairn.”

Off he then trudged, followed by his whole train, to the residence of another parochial clergyman, at the distance of some miles. Here, on his inquiring if the minister was at home, the lass answered:

“Deed, he’s no at hame the day; he’s been oot since sax i’ the mornin’ at the shooting. Ye needna wait, neither; for he’ll be sae dune oot when he comes back, that he’ll no be able to say boo to a goose, lat-a-be kirsten a wean.”

“Wait, lassie!” cried the man, in a tone of indignant scorn; “wad I wait, d’ye think, to haud up my bairn afore a minister that gangs oot at sax i’ the mornin’ to shoot God’s creatur’s? I’ll awa doon to gude Mr. Erskine at Dunfermline; and he’ll be neither oot at the fishin’, nor shootin’, I’m thinkin’.”

The whole baptismal train then set off for Dunfermline, sure that the father of the Secession, although not now a placed minister, would at least be engaged in no unclerical sports to incapacitate him for performing the sacred ordination in question. On their arriving, however, at the house of the clergyman, which they did not do till late in the evening, the man, on rapping at the door, anticipated that he would not be at home any more than his brethren, as he heard the strains of a fiddle proceeding from the upper chamber. “The minister’ll no be at hame,” he said, with a sly smile to the girl who came to the door, “or your lad wadna be playin’ that gate to ye on the fiddle.”

“The minister is at hame,” quoth the girl, “mair be token it’s himsel’ that’s playin’, honest man; he aye tak’s a tune at nicht, afore he gangs to bed. Faith, there’s nae lad o’ mine can play that gate; it wad be something to tell if ony o’ them could.”

“That the minister playin’!” cried the man, in a degree of horror and astonishment far transcending what he had expressed on either of the former occasions. “If he does this, what may the rest no do? Weel, I fairly gie them up a’ thegither. I have travelled this hale day in search o’ a godly minister, an’ never man met wi’ mair disappointment in a day’s journey. I’ll tell ye what, gudewife,” he added, turning to the disconsolate party behind, “we’ll just awa’ back to oor ain minister after a’. He’s no a’ thegither soond, it’s true; but lat him be what he likes in doctrine, deil ha’e me, if ever I kenn’d him to fish, shoot, or play on the fiddle in a’ his days!”

Weddings have been the occasion of much joy in the world, and are clustered around with capital stories. “Jeanie, lassie,” said an old Cameronian to his daughter, who was asking his permission to marry, “mind ye, it’s a solemn thing to get married.”

“I ken that, faither,” returned the sensible lass, “but it’s a solemner thing no to be married.”

“It’s the road we’ve a’ to gang,” said the short-sighted old maid, solemnly, mistaking a passing wedding party for a funeral procession. So also seemed to think the heroine of the following anecdote and no mistake about it:—A clergyman, having three times refused to marry a man who had as often come before him drunk, on the third occasion said to the woman, “Why do you bring him here in that state?”

“Please, your reverence,” said she, “he’ll no come when he’s sober.”

The Rev. Dr. Wightman, of Kirkmahoe, was a simple-minded clergyman of the old school. When a young man, he paid his addresses to a lady in the parish, and his suit was accepted on the condition that it met with the approval of the lady’s mother. Accordingly, the Doctor waited upon the matron, and, stating his case, the good woman, delighted at his proposal, passed the usual Scottish compliment, “’Deed, Doctor, ye’re far ower gude for our Janet.”

“Weel, weel,” was the instant rejoinder, “ye ken best; so we’ll say na mair aboot it.” And he never did, although the social intercourse of the parties continued as before; and forty years after Doctor Wightman died an old bachelor, and the affiancee of his youth died an old maid. Ah, it’s a solemn thing marriage!

A humorous old divine, who had strong feelings on the subject, was in the habit of prefacing the ceremony thus—“My friends,” he would say, “marriage is a blessing to some, a curse to many, and a great risk to all. Now, do you venture?” And no objections being made—“Then let us proceed.”

A clergyman, in marrying a couple, failed at the crucial part of the service to obtain any indication from the bridegroom as to whether he would accept the bride as his helpmeet. After a considerable pause, the bride indignant at the stolidity of her intended husband, pushed down his head with her hand, at the same time ejaculating, “Canna ye boo, ye brute?” That young lady should have been courted by the hero of the next story.

Some time ago a couple went to a clergyman to get united in the bands of wedlock. As the custom is, before pronouncing their doom, the minister asked the bridegroom if he was willing to take the young woman whom he now held by the hand to be his lawful wife. He nodded assent. The bride was then asked the same question.

“No sir,” said she.

“What are your reasons,” asked the worthy divine, “for drawing back after you have come this length?”

“Oh,” replied she, hanging down her head, “I ha’e just ta’en a scunner at him.”

They accordingly went away; but in about a week they returned. When the minister asked her if she now consented to take this man to be her husband,

“Yes, sir,” was the answer.

He then asked the bridegroom if he was willing to take this woman to be his wife.

“No, sir,” he replied.

“And what has come over you now?” inquired the minister, in a tone of surprise.

“Oh,” said he, “I ha’e just ta’en a scunner at her.”

And so away they went a second time without being married.

They came back a third time, however, in about a fortnight after, now both thoroughly resolved; but when the minister saw them coming, he hurried downstairs and shut the door, and, returning to his study, cried over the window to them—

“For gudesake, gae awa’ hame, you twa, for I’ve ta’en a scunner at you baith!”

“Eh, minister, I maist think shame to come to ye,” said an old dame, who had sought the clergyman’s offices in this way on four previous occasions.

“What’s the matter, Margaret, that you should think shame to come to me?”

“’Deed, sir, it’s just this, I’m gaun to be married again.”

“Well, Margaret, I do not see that you have any cause for shame in coming to me for such a purpose. Marriage, you know, is honourable in all.”

“Nae doot, sir, nae doot. But eh! (bursting into tears) there never was surely ony puir woman fash’d wi’ sic a set o’ deein’ men as I’ve had.”

Another dame who had a similar experience in husbandry, took a brighter view of the situation. “Ay,” she said, “first it was John Tamson, then it was Dawvit Soutar, syne Peter Anderson, then Tammas M’Farlane. Noo it’s Willie Simpson; and eh! I wonder whase dear lamb I’ll be next?”

The practice of house-to-house visitation and congregational catechising have yielded a host of anecdotes, one or two of which must suffice here. A country minister, accompanied by one of his elders, was visiting in the most outlying parts of his parish, and early in the afternoon arrived, after a long walk, at the house of a maiden lady, who kept a cow, a pig, and a few hens, etc. The house was so far removed from every other human habitation that anyone who reached it was in instant need of refreshment. On the arrival of her minister and elder, the good lady accordingly produced the kebbuck, a dish of milk, and a quantity of cakes. They were a welcome feast, for the visitors were famishing of hunger after their long and arduous walk. They therefore “laid their lugs amang” the eatables in a style which struck terror to the heart of their extra frugal hostess. By and by, and still “pegging away” at the pile of cakes and whangs of well-seasoned cheese, the minister looked over to Janet and remarked that he was very glad to see her in the church on Sabbath last, and asked her if she remembered the subject of his discourse.

“Ay, fine that,” said she; “’twas the parable o’ the loaves an’ the fishes.”

“Exactly, Janet,” said the minister; “and what useful lesson did you derive from the exposition of the parable?”

“Weel, naething particular at the time, sir, but I was just sittin’ thinkin’ aboot it there a meenit syne.”

“Well, Janet, that is very interesting; and what thought occurred to you a minute since in connection with the subject?”

“Weel, sir, I was just thinkin’ that gin the elder an’ you had been amang the multitude there wadna have been sae mony basketfu’s left.”

The answers vouchsafed in diets of catechetical examinations were often shrewd, if sometimes ridiculous. “What are the decrees of God?” was once asked of an old dame.

“’Deed, sir, He kens that best Himsel’,” was the shrewd reply.

“Why did the Israelites make a golden calf?” was the question put to a little girl.

“Because they hadna as muckle siller as wad mak’ a coo,” she replied.

These examinations were invariably intimated from the pulpit, and the families in each district were invited to meet the minister on a certain day, at an appointed hour, and in a particular house. The farmers’ wives, not better informed than the humble parishioners, yet considered themselves superior persons, and afraid lest they should be affronted by having a question put to them that they could not answer, the catechiser was frequently bribed by a basketful of eggs and a few pounds of fresh butter being sent over to the manse on the morning of the diet. Thus, a certain minister was intercepted whilst crossing a moor on his way to the house of meeting one day.

“Good morning, Janet,” said the divine; “but are you not to present yourself at the diet of examination in the house of John Anderson, at noon to-day?”

“Ay am I, sir. Ou, deed, ay. But you see, sir, I just sent ower the lassie to the manse this mornin’ wi’ twa or three rows o’ fresh butter and a curn eggs, d’ye see; an’ I was just wantin’ to say to ye, sir, that ye micht speir some easy question at me. It’s no that I dinna read my Book, an’ dinna ken, but I just get in a state o’ the nerves, like, afore fouk, an’ micht mak’ a fule o’ mysel’; an’ that’s the reason I wad like ye just to ask some very simple question when my turn comes.”

“I’m surely obliged to you for your present, Janet,” said the minister, “and, depend upon it, I shall be careful to give you a question that will be easily answered.” So saying, he bade her good morning and rode on. Janet was forward in time; and when her turn came to be examined, the minister, remembering his promise, said—

“Janet Davidson, can you tell me which is the Seventh Commandment?”

Simple as the question would have been to many present, Janet could not answer it, and no voice responding, the question was repeated slowly and with emphasis on the words—Seventh Commandment. Janet cast a beseeching look at the minister, and in a half-reproving tone said—

“Eh, sir, after yon on the muir the day, I didna think ye wad hae askit me that question!”

The people looked to one another with astonishment, whereupon the minister prudently explained the whole matter.

When the venerable Ebenezer Erskine was minister of Portmoak, his brother, the equally well-known Ralph, afore-mentioned, paid him a visit. On his entering the manse Ebenezer exclaimed—

“Ralph, man, I’m glad to see you, ye hae come in gude time. I have a diet of examination to-day, and I have also important business to attend to at Perth. Ye’ll tak’ the examination, will ye, and let me gang to Perth?”

“With all my heart,” said Ralph.

“Weel,” said Ebenezer, “ye’ll find a’ my fouk easy to examine but ane, and him, I reckon, ye had better no meddle wi’. He has an auld-fashioned Scotch way o’ answering a’e question by putting anither, an’ he’ll maybe affront ye.”

“Affront me!” said Ralph indignantly. “Do you think he’ll foil me wi’ my ain weapons?”

“Aweel,” said his brother, “I gi’e ye fair warning, ye had better no ca’ him up.”

The individual thus referred to was Walter Simpson, the village blacksmith, who at former diets of examination had proved himself rather troublesome to his minister. The gifted Ralph, indignant to the last degree at the idea of an illiterate blacksmith perplexing him, determined to encounter him at once by putting a grand, leading, unanswerable question. Accordingly, after putting a variety of simple preliminary interrogations to some of the senior members of his brother’s congregation present, he cried out with a loud voice, “Walter Simpson.”

“Here, sir,” responded the smith.

“Now, Walter, attend,” said the examiner. “Can ye tell me how long Adam continued in a state of innocence?”

“Oh, ay, sir; just till he got a wife,” said Vulcan; “but can ye tell me how lang he remained innocent after that?”

“Sit down, Walter,” said the discomfited divine, and proceeded to examine another.