Of the wise and shrewd judgment of the Scottish character, as bearing upon religious pretensions, I have an apt example from my friend Dr. Norman Macleod.  During one of the late revivals in Scotland, a small farmer went about preaching with much fluency and zeal the doctrine of a “full assurance” of faith, and expressed his belief of it for himself in such extravagant terms as few men would venture upon who were humble and cautious against presumption.  The “preacher,” being personally rather remarkable as a man of greedy and selfish views in life, excited some suspicion in the breast of an old sagacious countryman, a neighbour of Dr. Macleod, who asked him what he thought of John as a preacher, and of his doctrine.  Scratching his head, as if in some doubt, he replied, “I’m no verra sure o’ Jock.  I never ken’t a man sae sure o’ Heaven, and sae sweert to be gaing tae’t.”  He showed his sagacity, for John was soon after in prison for theft.

Another story gives a good idea of the Scottish matter-of-fact view of things being brought to bear upon a religious question without meaning to be profane or irreverent.  Dr. Macleod was on a Highland loch when a storm came on which threatened serious consequences.  The doctor, a large powerful man, was accompanied by a clerical friend of diminutive size and small appearance, who began to speak seriously to the boatmen of their danger, and proposed that all present should join in prayer.  “Na, na,” said the chief boatman; “let the little ane gang to pray, but first the big ane maun tak an oar.”  Illustrative of the same spirit was the reply of a Scotsman of the genuine old school, “Boatie” of Deeside, of whom I have more to say, to a relative of mine.  He had been nearly lost in a squall, and saved after great exertion, and was told by my aunt that he should be grateful to providence for his safety.  The man, not meaning to be at all ungrateful, but viewing his preservation in the purely hard matter-of-fact light, quietly answered, “Weel, weel, Mrs. Russell; Providence here or Providence there, an I hadna worked sair mysell I had been drouned.”

Old Mr. Downie, the parish minister of Banchory, was noted, in my earliest days, for his quiet pithy remarks on men and things, as they came before him.  His reply to his son, of whose social position he had no very exalted opinion, was of this class.  Young Downie had come to visit his father from the West Indies, and told him that on his return he was to be married to a lady whose high qualities and position he spoke of in extravagant terms.  He assured his father that she was “quite young, was very rich, and very beautiful.”  “Aweel, Jemmy,” said the old man, very quietly and very slily, “I’m thinking there maun be some faut.”  Of the dry sarcasm we have a good example in the quiet utterance of a good Scottish phrase by an elder of a Free Kirk lately formed.  The minister was an eloquent man, and had attracted