I assured him that our own Bishop himself wore one; but that argument was worse than useless. “What kens he about the auld sufferin’ Scottish Church? He’s only an Englishman. We’re no oonder the English Church, although we’re in communion wi’ her. We have a history that gangs as far back as hers, an’ we’re no to get the fashion set by a wheen mim-moothed bits o’ curates that introduce a’ kinds o’ trumpery to please idle weemonfolk.” Here was a storm in a teacup. I saw it was no use discussing the question, so I quietly replied: “Well, well, Provost, I’ll be very glad to follow the example of godly Bishop Jolly, who wore a full-bottomed wig. How do you think that would suit you?” He was too serious about the matter to take a joke, so I put the cap in my pocket, and assured him that I would not permit such a trivial thing to give him any worry and here the matter ended. For a clergyman to wear a straw hat or anything except the orthodox clerical head-gear was to him almost sacrilege; indeed, any change from the conservative fashions of his youth met with his strongest censure. It took me a considerable time to sound his depths, and understand his idiosyncrasies; but when I at last succeeded in getting into touch with him, I learnt to esteem him highly. The first glimpse I got of his real inwardness was on the occasion of a visit which he and I paid to Glasgow to attend the annual meeting of the Church council. It was his first visit to the west, and I did my best to make it a pleasant one. I took him through the grand old Gothic cathedral and pointed out its beauties as best I could. It was a wonderful revelation to the old man. He said very little until we were just about to leave the building. One last look he must have; and, as he stood in the centre of the nave and gazed up at the finely moulded arches and the lovely tracery of the windows, he exclaimed in a voice quivering with emotion. “No man need ever tell me that this place was biggit for cauld Presbyterian worship. Na, na, the men that biggit this worshipped God in the beauty of holiness. Aye, Maister Gray, thae forebears o’ ours had a wonnerful grip o’ the Faith, an’ they’ve left their belief in the walls, an’ roof, and even in the foondation o’ this grand biggin’. It’s a pairfit pictur’ o the speeritual temple that the Maister wants us to raise. The foondation taks the form o’ the cross, to teach us that oor real life maun be based on sacrifice; there’s the sacred number three--teepical o’ the Trinity--in the three aisles leadin’ up to the altar; an’ syne, there’s the nave--that’s the Church Militant--an’ the choir--that’s the Church in Paradise--an’ the sanctuary--that’s the Church Triumphant. There’s a heap mair, if a bodie only took time to find it oot. Lang, lang syne, I mind on the dean tellin’ us aboot a’ this in a sermon; but I never had ony idea before hoo it could a’ be set furth. I wad na hae missed this graund sicht for onything.”