minister's better half takes a pride in presiding over cheerful tea-gatherings, where the condescension she should know so well how to disguise, wins her the hearts of the wives of the farmers.

But the joviality specially characteristic of the manses is, or used to be, on occasion of the "preachings." The communion in the Scotch churches, especially in the towns, is administered now-a-days more frequently than formerly. Formerly it was considered that familiarity bred carelessness, and it was seldom celebrated more than twice in the year. These were great occasions both for pastors and people. The "sacrament Sunday" was preceded by a solemn fast day in the middle of the week, when labour was suspended and pleasure was forbidden. There were a couple of services in the kirk, and then there was a sermon besides on the Saturday, and another on the Monday. As for the Sabbath day itself, it was one prolonged spiritual festival, when the feeble flesh and blood must have succumbed had it not been borne up by spiritual exaltation. The day began with the ordinary service; then five or six "tables" were served in succession, when those boards we alluded to before were laid in long parallel lines, the length of the body of the church. There was a preliminary address styled "fencing the tables," which warned away the ungodly and profane. For each of the half-dozen successive batches of communicants, there were a couple of distinct exhortations, with the appropriate psalms and paraphrases. The whole was wound up with a final discourse; the worshippers were dismissed, and then, after a brief interval, all reassembled for service in the evening. It was a sore strain on the flock, and still more severe on their pastor. Of course he had to engage efficient assistance, and two or three of his brother clergymen undertook to assist him in his duties. Naturally the overstrained bows were in great need of unbending; and it became de rigueur to have a dinner by way of gaudeamus on the Monday after the sacred festival. The leading laymen and elders, a devout laird or two, and some well-to-do farmers were invited to meet the stranger ministers. The fatted calves were killed, and the poultry-yard and pigeon-house suffered. It was a point of pride to have plenty on the board, while the cookery must do credit to the mistress of the house. There was sure to be some bottles of sound old wine, such as makes glad the hearts of men. The party for the most part had met before on many a similar occasion, and although kept within the limits of becoming mirth, the dinner almost invariably went off most successfully. But when the cloth was drawn and the kettle was brought in, it was rumoured that the fun grew fast though not furious; for although the guests might keep the secrets of the banquet, the maids must have set scandals afloat had there been serious infringements of decorum.

It was a different thing, no doubt, with convivial clergymen of the old school. A generation or so before the disruption, in certain districts given over to moderatism, the standard of clerical morality was deci dedly low. Parishioners who were anything but strait-laced, showed

themselves tolerant of the indiscretions of the pastors.

Conviviality

carried to excess was the vice of the time and the country. Time was when even prominent leaders of the Church thought no shame to patronise the drama like Carlyle, or even to turn playwright like Home; when ministers met lawyers and literary men at merry suppers in the taverns of the capital; when they would readily take a hand at whist, or give their countenance to balls or such carnal merry-makings. If one section of the Church cherished the austere traditions of the times of the Covenant, there was another that went to the opposite extreme, influenced in great measure by the spirit of opposition. There were many men who contented themselves with preaching a couple of the driest discourses of a Sabbath, and leaving their religion behind them with their gown in the vestry. Indeed, with the liberties they permitted themselves, they could not well tighten the curb on their parishioners. Then came a reaction, revivals, and a shaking of the dry bones. Zealous evangelists felt moved with compassion for the sheep who were in the custody of those careless shepherds. They made missionary raids and held open-air services, and their trespasses on the folds were bitterly resented. Some of the quiet-going old clergy were constrained to bestir themselves; hearers who had been contented hitherto to nod at their feet, began to grumble at their "cauldrife doctrine" and carnal selfseeking. They were not only jealously resentful of the interlopers, but piqued at having to preach to emptying pews. Probably in some instances their consciences might be awakened in any case a new spirit of pastoral and polemical earnestness was infused into many who still styled themselves "moderates;" and the germs of the disruption that followed are to be sought not so much in patronage itself, or even in isolated cases of high-handed intrusion, as in the abuses which had gradually grown up under the system.

The Free Church of Scotland was a protest chiefly against that ultimate jurisdiction of the civil tribunals which clashed with the supreme spiritual authority of the clergy. But before the secession, and even now in the Establishment, there was one department of the Edinburgh Law Courts in which the clergy were profoundly interested. That was the Court of Teinds, which decided the appeals for augmentation of stipend. Admirers of the Waverley Novels will remember how worthy Mr. Blattergowl was always retaliating on the long-winded Antiquary by boring him anent teinds and augmentation. The subject is dull enough for anybody, but nothing could possibly sound more unwelcome to the ears of such a heritor as the laird of Monk barns. The minister's income, independent of what he draws from the glebe, is measured by so many "chalders of victual," or quantities of grain contributed by the landowners. The assessment is seldom extravagant, considering the inevitable outgoings of the clergyman's position, and it has been the practice of the Teind Court, the members of which have generally a fellow-feeling with brother proprietors, to be suspiciously critical on propositions for increasing it. The onus of

proving his case is thrown on the petitioner. At intervals, however, which vary according to his county and its climate, he is sure to find it worth while to appeal. He may be over-impatient, and might have done better for himself or for his successor had he waited; but he is shy of incurring useless expense, and seldom pleads except on the certainty of obtaining something. The weekly assembling of the Teind Court in the Parliament House is a solemn season indeed for the minister and for some laymen as well. The minister, after many searchings of heart, has made the grand coup: he is unlikely to have another opportunity in his lifetime, and the difference to him between pressure and comparative ease may depend on the fate of his application. Young débutants at the bar are largely employed-for the heritors, not for the clergy--in these parochial cases, as the pleading in defence is usually simple and straightforward. Yet nowhere, not even in the most momentous civil or criminal cases, is there so much of pomp and judicial paraphernalia. Ten or twelve judges, in their draperies of scarlet, are seated in terrible show, in a formidable semicircle. Their unsympathetic looks are unpleasantly suggestive of the banker you are persuading to permit you to overdraw, or of the usurer you are wrestling with for some temporary accommodation. Then the minister, whispering anxiously into the ear of his law-agent, sees his advocate get up. Generally the advocate is an old hand, well known among active lay members of the Assembly for the last twenty or thirty years. He pleads the rise in the cost of living, the increase in the outcome of social luxury, which the church has vainly been striving to stem; possibly the growth of population in an industrial parish. The counsel for the defence, on the other hand, does his best to rebut these statistics. He points out that the rise in mutton and beef since the last augmentation is materially exaggerated in the figures that otherwise do credit to the research of his learned friend, while broadcloths and woollen stuffs are infinitely more reasonable. He seldom concludes for an absolute rejection of the claim; he will be content to have it gravely modified. Then the judges lay their venerable heads together in knots of two or three; half-audible whispers circulate round the semicircle, and finally the president pronounces. Probably the minister is made reasonably happy: and at all events he is likely to get as much as his agent had led him to expect.

Let us hope that he does, for probably he needs it. He is pretty sure to have a houseful of bairns, and is driven to pinch here and there. But if the married minister can seldom be as hospitable as he would wish, the marriages he celebrates among his people give occasion for many merry-makings. The wedding takes place in the domicile of the bride, and the minister, coming there on duty, is bidden to bless the feast. Then the best parlour in the substantial farmhouse-the parlour so rarely used at other times-is swept and garnished and thrown open. There is not the same profuse and Camancho-like feasting that we hear of at Irish weddings. The invitations are not promiscuous; the guests

do not overflow into the yard and under the outbuildings, amid a pleasant fire of stories and jokes and the broaching of great kegs of potheen. But a wonderful amount of cooking is done at the wide fireplace in the kitchen, where usually a single mighty porridge-pot is swinging from its hook over the peat fire on the hearth. And while the families and their friends make merry in the parlour, the servants have their feast in the kitchen, where for once they exchange their oatmeal for "butcher-meat." Then the evening winds up with the dance in the barn, where country dances alternate with reels, where there is a vast deal of kissing and embracing, and the trays and the toddy-glasses are in constant circulation. Honi soit qui mal y voit. Probably the minister in any case has done little more than look in, and indeed the dancing and its snares are dispensed with altogether, if the heads of the houses be extra-serious. As for the christenings, they come off on the Sabbath, and are only celebrated with cake and dram-drinking. The father himself holds up his offspring in the middle of the service, in full face of the congregation, and vows and promises himself without the interposition of god-parents. The minister comes halfway down the pulpit stairs, gives the parent due exhortation as to the upbringing of the infant, dashes a handful of water into the baby's face, " calls it names," as Hood sang in "Miss Kilmansegge," and the ceremony is over. As the Presbyterians attach no saving importance to the rite, it is never hurried. Sometimes with a sickly child they tarry long for suitable weather, just as a funeral may be delayed for months in a Norwegian or Icelandic sæter, till the melting of the snows opens the paths to the cortége.

Talking of funerals, in the good old times, and in the mansions of the lairds, these used to be the most enjoyable of parochial festivities. The kith and kin came from great distances to be entertained in a style befitting the occasion. There were grave faces at the gathering when the guests assembled round the coffin to listen to a suitable prayer. Then glasses of wine were handed round once, twice, or oftener-the poorest people would procure wine for the occasion--and "the memory of the deceased" was toasted in silence. Then the long procession moved off to the kirkyard, and the body was laid silently in the grave. That duty being solemnly discharged, a load was visibly lifted from the assistants. Acquaintances came together in the carriages and mourning coaches, and there was plenty of animated conversation. When the guests took their seats at the tables in the dining-room, all were in excellent spirits and appetite. The near relations might be sad at heart, but they felt hospitably bound to stifle their sorrow, and there were ample appliances for drowning it. When the old fashion of drinking healths and "taking wine" prevailed, mourners were apt to get merry in spite of themselves; while, as may be supposed, the mere acquaintances of the deceased gave themselves over easily to boisterous joviality. It was a churlish thing to be the first to break up good company, and even the minister might well sit it out, till convivial example upset his decorum.

In the Scotch Church the probationers may dispense with high connections, inasmuch as they could never be greatly helped by them so far as snug preferment is concerned. There are few great prizes in anybody's gift. But then, on the other hand, though the Scotch livings are poor, a man need never be forgotten or neglected for want of opportunities of distinguishing himself. If he has good gifts and ambition, he may always come to the front in the free interchange of pulpits on the periodical sacramental occasions. Toujours perdrix is felt to be insipid in the remotest country parishes as elsewhere, and the people on whom the discourses of their own pastor have staled, are predisposed to admire the men who relieve him. The country parson who preaches in the town, and whose praises are bruited abroad in the surrounding churches, may count upon a "call" sooner or later. Then there are the church courts, where, by shrewd sense and a knowledge of business, he has a chance of making his mark among his brethren. He speaks well and to the point, he shows that he has a clear head, he is a close reasoner, and is ready in reply. He is regarded as a tower of strength by his friends, he is held in respect by the men he has got the better of, he is sent up to the General Assembly, and some interest of the Presbytery or Synod is specially confided to his care. There he makes his speeches before all the world, and sees them reported at length. The name of Mr. So-and-so of So-and-so becomes as familiar in Edinburgh or Glasgow as in his parish. In former days a divine seldom did more than print some stray volume of sermons, which probably fell stillborn. Now, as we have said, there are Presbyterian clergymen who are eminently distinguished in elegant literature, accomplished scholars as well as theologians; who fill professorial chairs with great distinction, and can hold their own besides with the most accomplished man of the world. Even without rising to such eminence, a man may easily do enough to make a certain name, when he is stamped with the degree of doctor of divinity. He has a reputation for earnestness, eloquence, or piety; he is respected as one of the leaders of his party, he grows insensibly in honour as in years, and in due time he receives the blue ribbon of the Kirk, and is dignified as Moderator of the General Assembly.

It is to be hoped that by that time he has laid his own teaching to heart, and learned to value mere earthly honours at their true price. But we can imagine how dizzy a pinnacle of earthly grandeur the Moderatorship must appear to the boy who is being brought up by his parents with a view to the work of the ministry. The Moderator is exalted among his peers and fellows to a seat only lower in degree than the throne of the Lord High Commissioner. He presides over a venerable assemblage of all that is most venerated in the land. He figures as the second King of Brentford in magnificent processions of horses and chariots, with military escorts and purse-bearers, and equerries and pages, passing through densely-crowded streets picqueted with horse and foot. He has the place of honour at the State dinner of Her Majesty's re