The Rev. Mr. M——­ of Bathgate came up to a street-paviour one day, and addressed him, “Eh, John, what’s this you’re at?” “Oh!  I’m mending the ways o’ Bathgate!” “Ah, John, I’ve long been trying to mend the ways o’ Bathgate, an’ they’re no weel yet.”  “Weel, Mr. M., if you had tried my plan, and come doon to your knees, ye wad maybe hae come mair speed!”

There once lived in Cupar a merchant whose store contained supplies of every character and description, so that he was commonly known by the sobriquet of Robbie A’Thing.  One day a minister, who was well known for a servile use of MS. in the pulpit, called at the store, asking for a rope and pin to tether a young calf in the glebe.  Robbie at once informed him that he could not furnish such articles to him.  But the minister, being somewhat importunate, said, “Oh!  I thought you were named Robbie A’Thing from the fact of your keeping all kinds of goods.”  “Weel a weel,” said Robbie, “I keep a’thing in my shop but calf’s tether-pins and paper sermons for ministers to read.”

It was a somewhat whimsical advice, supported by whimsical argument, which used to be given by an old Scottish minister to young preachers, when they visited from home, to “sup well at the kail, for if they were good they were worth the supping, and if not they might be sure there was not much worth coming after them.”

A good many families in and around Dunblane rejoice in the patronymic of Dochart.  This name, which sounds somewhat Irish, is derived from Loch Dochart, in Perthshire.  The M’Gregors having been proscribed, were subjected to severe penalties, and a group of the clan having been hunted by their superiors, swam the stream which issues from Loch Dochart, and in gratitude to the river they afterwards assumed the family name of Dochart.  A young lad of this name, on being sent to Glasgow College, presented a letter from his minister to Rev. Dr. Heugh of Glasgow.  He gave his name as Dochart, and the name in the letter was M’Gregor.  “Oh,” said the Doctor, “I fear there is some mistake about your identity, the names don’t agree.”  “Weel, sir, that’s the way they spell the name in our country.”

The relative whom I have mentioned as supplying so many Scottish anecdotes had many stories of a parochial functionary whose eccentricities have, in a great measure, given way before the assimilating spirit of the times.  I mean the old SCOTTISH BEADLE, or betheral, as he used to be called.  Some classes of men are found to have that nameless but distinguishing characteristic of figure and aspect which marks out particular occupations and professions of mankind.  This was so much the case in the betheral class, that an old lady, observing a well-known judge and advocate walking together in the street, remarked to a friend as they passed by, “Dear me, Lucy, wha are thae twa beddle-looking bodies?” They were often great originals, and, I suspect, must have been