The long cramming of Hebrew, Greek, Latin and all things dead had driven out all the vim and enthusiasm of his youth; the dry-as-dust drill of the theological institution had filled his mind with arguments for the destruction of all other denominations to the entire exclusion of all common sense.  He forcibly reminded me of the Scotch dominie who stopped at the stove to shake off the water one rainy morning, and to rebuke the sexton for not having a fire.  “Niver mind, yer Riverince,” replied the indignant serving man, “ye’ll be dry enough soon as ye begin praiching.”

One hot Sunday when our clergyman was droning away as usual, a well-to-do fat brother, who once said he had such entire confidence in our clergyman’s orthodoxy that he didn’t feel obliged to keep awake to watch him, commenced to snore like a fog horn, nearly drowning the speaker’s voice.  The reverend stopped, and thinking innocently, that some animal was making the disturbance, said:  “Will the sexton please put that dog out.”  This aroused fatty, who left the church in a rage, and his subscription was lost forever.

Our pious pastor was a fair sample of the “wooden men” turned out by the educational mills of the day; to an assembly of whom Edwin Booth is reported to have said:  “The difference between the theatre and the church is this, you preach the gospel as if it were fiction, while we speak fiction as if it were the gospel truth.  When you give less attention to dry theological disquisitions and much more to the graces of elocution, you may expect to do some good in the world.”

His pastoral calls were appalling; arm extended like a pump handle to shake hands, one up and down motion, a “how do you do?”—­“fine day,” then a solemn pause, generally followed by his one story; “The day my wife and I were married it rained, but it cleared off pleasant soon after, and it has been pleasant ever since,” then suspended animation, finally, “let us pray,” and when the same old prayer with few variations was ended, once more the pump-handle operation and he departed, wearing the same hopeless face.  He was not a two-faced man, for had he another face, he would surely have worn it.

This sad-eyed man was much tormented by a brother minister in the pews, who seemed to have a strong desire to secure our pastor’s poor little salary for his own private use and behoof.  His plan evidently was to throw the stigma of heresy upon the incumbent, and to this end, when our preacher was one day laboring hard to show us exactly where foreordination ends and free moral agency begins, the ex-minister arose, excitedly declaring such talk to be rank Arminianism, and denounced it as misleading sinners to the belief that they could be saved even if they were not so predestinated in the eternal mind of an all-wise, all-loving Jehovah, who had foredoomed some to heaven and others to hell.  The regular speaker was dumbfounded.  An argumentative duett followed, much to the scandal of the saints and the hilariousness of the sinners, until the pitying organist struck up with great force:  “From whence doth this union arise?” when the disgruntled disturber left the church vowing he would never pay another cent for such heretical sermons.