To another who had gone through a long course of parish official life a gentleman one day remarked—­“John, ye hae been sae lang about the minister’s hand that I dare say ye could preach a sermon yersell now.”  To which John modestly replied, “O na, sir, I couldna preach a sermon, but maybe I could draw an inference.”  “Well, John,” said the gentleman, humouring the quiet vanity of the beadle, “what inference could ye draw frae this text, ‘A wild ass snuffeth up the wind at her pleasure?’” (Jer. ii. 24).  “Weel, sir, I wad draw this inference, he would snuff a lang time afore he would fatten upon’t.”  I had an anecdote from a friend, of a reply from a betheral to the minister in church, which was quaint and amusing from the shrewd self-importance it indicated in his own acuteness.  The clergyman had been annoyed during the course of his sermon by the restlessness and occasional whining of a dog, which at last began to bark outright.  He looked out for the beadle, and directed him very peremptorily, “John, carry that dog out.”  John, looked up to the pulpit, and with a very knowing expression, said, “Na, na, sir; I’se just mak him gae out on his ain four legs.”  I have another story of canine misbehaviour in church.  A dog was present during the service, and in the sermon the worthy minister was in the habit of speaking very loud, and, in fact, when he got warmed with his subject, of shouting almost at the top of his voice.  The dog, who, in the early part, had been very quiet, became quite excited, as is not uncommon with some dogs when hearing a noise, and from whinging and whining, as the speaker’s voice rose loud and strong, at last began to bark and howl.  The minister, naturally much annoyed at the interruption, called upon the betheral to put out the dog, who at once expressed his readiness to obey the order, but could not resist the temptation to look up to the pulpit, and to say very significantly, “Ay, ay, sir; but indeed it was yersell began it.”  There is a dog story connected with Reminiscences of Glasgow (see Chambers’s Journal, March 1855), which is full of meaning.  The bowls of rum-punch which so remarkably characterised the Glasgow dinners of last century and the early part of the present, it is to be feared made some of the congregation given to somnolency on the Sundays following.  The members of the town-council often adopted Saturday for such meetings; accordingly, the Rev. Mr. Thorn, an excellent clergyman[178], took occasion to mark this propensity with some acerbity.  A dog had been very troublesome, and disturbed the congregation for some time, when the minister at last gave orders to the beadle, “Take out that dog; he’d wauken a Glasgow magistrate.”

The parochial gravediggers had sometimes a very familiar professional style of dealing with the solemn subjects connected with their office.  Thus I have heard of a grave-digger pointing out a large human bone to a lady who was looking at his work, of digging a grave, and asking her—­“D’ye ken wha’s bane that is, mem?—­that’s Jenny Fraser’s hench-bane;” adding with a serious aspect—­“a weel-baned family thae Frasers.”