law."

"I move that we adjourn," interjected Ronald M'Gregor, alarmed for the
retirement of Sinai, and fearful of a too early spring.

"I second that," said a rugged patriarch, hitherto silent.

"But I hope the moderator 'll permit me to express the hope that he'll
no' shorten up the services, and that he'll gie the young fowk mair o'
the catechism than we hae been gettin', and mak' the sacraments mair
searchin' to the soul," said Saunders M'Tavish.

"Ye're oot o' order," interrupted the clerk; "there's a motion to
adjourn afore the Chair."

"But I maun tak' ma staun," exclaimed Saunders.

"Ye mauna," retorted the clerk, "ye maun tak' yir seat," and Saunders
dropped where he stood, while his fellow-elders looked into each other's
faces as if to say that this thing might have befallen any one of them.

VI

_The FIRST PARISH ROUND_

I soon began, of course, the visitation of my flock. Although my title
to youth was at that time undisputed, and although the unreflective
would have labelled me "new school," the importance of faithful visiting
was ever before my mind.

The curate's place (unhappiest of men) had more than once been offered
me at the hands of portly ministers, prepared to deny themselves all the
visiting, they to take all the preaching and nearly all the salary,
while their untitled slave was to deny himself the high joy of the
pulpit, to starve on the salary's dregs, and to indulge himself royally
in a very carnival of unceasing visitation. These overtures I had had
little hesitation in declining, for observation had taught me that the
slave's place soon makes the slave's spirit, unless that slavery be an
indenture unto God, which is but the sterner name for liberty.

Moreover, curates (especially Presbyterian, which implieth the greater
perversion) seemed to lack the breath of the uplands which the pulpit
breathes, and too often degenerate into society favourites, whose
flapping tails of black may be seen as these curates ring at fashionable
doors, where "five-o'clocks" within await the kid-gloved ministers of
men who are supposed to be the stewards of eternal life. I had once
overheard an enamelled queen of fashion declare, with much emotion, that
their curate was indispensable to a high-class "at home," and even
panegyrize his graceful transportation of cups of tea, however full.

Whereupon I forever swore that I would frizzle upon no such heathen
altar; I vowed to be either a minist