“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!