er or a butler--one thing or the
other--but never a Right Reverend Butler, which is a monster and a
tongue-cheeked comedy to both God and man.

As the minister of a vast congregation like St. Cuthbert's, I might on
the other hand have requested an assistant who should relieve me of the
visiting, leaving me only the duties of the pulpit, oceanic enough for
any man. Indeed, one of the stalwarts had suggested this to me, averring
that I needed more time for my sermons, whereat I looked at him sharply;
but his face was placid as a sea of milk, which is the way of Scotsmen
when they mean to score. But this dual ministry was ever the object of
my disfavour, for he preaches best who visits best, and the weekly
garner makes the richest grist for the Sunday mill. True and tender
visiting is the sermon's fuse, and what God hath put together no man
can safely put asunder.

One of my first visits was to the farmhouse of Donald M'Phatter, a
belated member of the fold, for he and his wife Elsie had not beshadowed
St. Cuthbert's door for many a year. This parochial policy had been
suggested to me by the beadle:

"Ye maun luik to the driftwood first--pit oot the laggin' log frae the
shore, ye ken," he said to me, following this up with an exhaustive
narrative of the raftsman's life which had once been his.

I found Donald dour but deferential, full-armed against every appeal for
his reform.

"I willna gang," he exclaimed, "till ony kirk that pits oot the token[1]
at the sacrament, and taks up wi' they bit cairds they're usin' the noo.
Cairds at the sacrament! it's fair insultin' to the Almichty."

[Footnote 1: A small piece of metal with the words "This do in
remembrance of Me," given in Scottish churches, before the Sacrament of
The Supper, to those entitled to participate.]

I parried the blow as best I could, and was on the verge of winning in
the argument when he suddenly took another tack.

"Forbye, I hae dune ma duty. Didna I gang steady when the Doctor was oor
meenister? Ilka Sabbath day I gaed an' hearkened till the graun' sermons
twa oors at a time, an' God grippit me thae days, an' He hasna loosened
His haud o' me yet. Ance saved, aye saved. That's ma doctrine. Wha can
slip awa frae grace, forbye it be thae Methody buddies an' ither
Armenian fowk, an' there was na ane o' them in the parish in the
doctor's day. The fields was fine an' fu' o' wheat thae days, but
there's muckle mustard noo, I tell ye that."

"But you