As I was passing under the archway of Queen’s College with a Presbyterian doctor of divinity from Cincinnati he intercepted an old gentleman and inquired the name of the church with the handsome spire across the street.
“That’s the Fifth Presbyterian Church,” was the polite reply.
“And what church is that over yonder, whose spire we see beyond the college?”
“That’s the Twenty-seventh Presbyterian Church.”
“You seem to have an abundance of Presbyterian churches in Belfast; you ought to feel certain of salvation.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” was the reply. “I’m not convinced that a Belfast Presbyterian is any more certain of salvation than the rest of us. We once had here a famous doctor of divinity. He was a great man and a good man, and you will see his statue in bronze down beyond the railway station in the middle of the square—Rev. Dr. Cooke. He was highly respected and revered by the community, but his son was a scapegrace and gave the old gentleman a great deal of trouble and anxiety. One Sunday morning the good doctor found Harry at breakfast and remarked pleasantly:
“‘I hope you are going to meeting this morning, Harry?’
“‘Well, I’m not,’ replied Harry with a grouch.
“‘And why not?’ asked his father.
“‘I’m never going to meeting any more; I never got any good from meetings.’