“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.”