“You do not blame the people for absenting themselves from divine service! Do you mean to insinuate, John, that my preaching is less able, less adequate to their needs, and——?”
“Yer preachin’ may be a’ ye wad claim for it, sir, an’ I’ll no argue wi’ ye aboot it: but I say this, an’ I’ll stick till’t, a kirk withoot a hell’s just no worth a d⸺ docken.”
’Twas coarse, but strong, and true.
In a Forfarshire parish, a number of years ago, the old beadle was an outstanding character even among his kind. The minister—a recent appointment—entered the churchyard one day accompanied by a gentleman friend—also a recent importation into the district—and approaching the beadle the following colloquy ensued:—
Minister—“This is Mr. So and So, John, he wishes to purchase a lair.”
Beadle—“Imphm! Ou, ay. Just that. Is it for himsel’?”
Gentleman—“No. It’s for my brother. He died last night.”
Beadle—“Ou, ay. Weel it’s a’ the same to me, of course, ye ken; but d’ye ken hoo he wad like to lie?”
Minister—“What do you mean, John?”