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A congregation in Connecticut had lost their pastor, and were desirous of filling his place. But their last minister had been self-taught, and the aristocracy—to wit, the deacons, etc.—stipulated that the new minister should have a classical education. In order to be sure of their man, the deacons agreed to let applicants preach a sermon on trial. At last a Welshman heard of the vacancy, but he was less learned than the one who had left; still, he determined to try. The day was arranged, the appointed minute arrived, and the candidate mounted into the pulpit. He got well on in his sermon, when he suddenly recollected that he was expected to show his learning.
“My friends” he said, “I will now quote you a passage in Greek.”
With a solemn look he repeated a verse in his native tongue. The effect was marvelous; approving nods and smiles were exchanged among the deacons. Thus encouraged, he followed up his advantage by saying:
“Perhaps you would also like to hear it in Latin?”
He then repeated another passage in Welsh; this was even more successful than before. The preacher cast his eye over his flock, and saw that he was regarded with looks of increasing respect. Unfortunately, there was also a Welshman in the congregation; he was sitting at the back, almost choked in his efforts to stifle his laughter. The minister’s eye fell on him, and took in the whole situation at a glance. Preserving his countenance, he continued:
“I will also repeat it in Hebrew.”
He then sang out in his broadest Welsh: “My dear fellow, stop laughing, or they will find it out.”
The other understood, stifled his laughter, and afterward dined with his successful countryman.—Tit-Bits.