Mr. Robertson’s precentor displeased him very much by his loud singing, and accordingly was not only often reproved, but even stopped by him after commencing the psalm. One morning a tune was started upon a key a little higher even than usual, when Mr. Robertson rose up in the pulpit, and, tapping the musical worthy on the head, thus addressed him—“Andro’, Andro’, man, do you no ken that a toom barrel aye soonds loudest?”
Preaching before the Associate Synod at Glasgow, he introduced the probability of a French invasion as a punishment for national sin; and while admitting the immoral character of the infliction, he assured his hearers that “Providence wasna always nice in the choice of instruments for punishing the wickedness of men.” “Tak’,” he continued, “an example frae amang yersel’s. Your magistrates dinna ask certificates o’ character for their public executioners. They generally select sic clanjamphrie as hae rubbit shouthers wi’ the gallows themsel’s. And as for this Bonyparte,” continued the preacher, “I’ve tell’d ye, my friends, what was the beginning o’ that man, and I’ll tell ye what will be the end o’ him. He’ll come doon like a pockfu’ o’ goats’ horns at the Broomielaw!”
The Rev. Dr. M’Cubbin, of Douglas, had a humorous faculty peculiarly his own, and once at least was able to turn the tables on such an incorrigible joker as the Hon. Henry Erskine. They met at the dinner-table of a mutual friend. There was a dish of cresses on the table, and the doctor took such a hearty supply, and devoured them with such relish, using his fingers, that Erskine was tempted to remark that his procedure reminded him of Nebuchadnezzar. “Ay,” retorted Dr. M’Cubbin, “that’ll be because I’m eatin’ amang the brutes, I suppose.”
But the wit of the old fathers and brethren was generally keenest when turned against the wearers of their own cloth.
On one occasion, when coming to church, Dr. Macknight, who was a much better commentator than preacher, having been caught in a shower of rain, entered the vestry soaked through. Every means were employed to relieve him from his discomfort, but as the time drew on for divine service he became very querulous, and ejaculated over and over again, “Oh, I wish that I was dry! Do you think that I am dry? Do you think I am dry enough now?”
Tired by these endless complaints, his jocose colleague, Dr. Henry, the historian, at last replied, “Bide a wee, Doctor, an’ ye’ll be dry enough, I’se warrant, when ye get into the poopit.”
It was a very dry joke indeed.
The Rev. Dr. Dow, of Errol, and the Rev. Dr. Duff, of Kilspindie, long maintained a warm and uninterrupted intimacy. Once, on a New Year’s Day, Dr. Dow sent to his friend, who was a great snuffer, a snuff-box filled with snuff, and inscribed thus—
“Dr. Dow to Dr. Duff,
Snuff! Snuff! Snuff!”