I first got a look at the little work, which consists of a
series of biographies of outstanding lay preachers. I enjoyed the
perusal of it immensely, and I am afraid the pious author will regard me
as little better than one of the wicked when I say that I had many a
hearty laugh at its contents. I am very unwilling to seek gaiety in
pious books, very averse to laugh at honest, heart-felt beliefs, but the
author of _The Men of Skye_ was too many for me. His quaint metaphors,
droll tenses and unlicensed syntax, were a perpetual feast of nectared
sweets.

The language in which the book is written is not Gaelic, though it has
not quite reached the stage of English. The following extract is a
typical one: "John Mackenzie lived at Galtrigil, was a God-fearing man,
and professed religion, and his conduct was worthy of his profession,
consistent in all its parts. He was employed as fishcurer to Dr. Martin.
When he would be busy in the store, on the shore, his wife would go down
with his food. He had a large heap of salt beside him, but he was so
scrupulously conscientious that when she took down an egg, she would
need also to bring from his own house the grain of salt he would put in
it. He would not take so much as a grain of salt that was not his own.
He was careful about what belonged to the cause of Christ, and would
like to know that those who took up a profession of religion had
undergone what he termed a _clean conversion_."

Some of the stories told of Angus Macleod, are altogether unique: "He
was one day entrusted with the herding of the minister's cattle, but
while he prayed, the cattle made their way into the corn. The minister
came out and began to advise and rebuke him, but Angus said, 'Let the
righteous smite me, it shall be a kindness; and let him reprove me, it
shall be an excellent oil which shall not break my head.'" (Psalm cxli.
5.) I consider that story and the two which follow quite equal, in their
diverting pointlessness, to any of those told by Cicero in _De Oratore_,
Book ii. At one time it was thought advisable to teach Angus how to
read, but he never could be got to master the alphabet. He would utter
aloud the following reflections: "_A_ _b_, _ab_: Ah! that is but dry.
There is no food there for my soul. There is no word about Christ or God
there, no word about forgiveness of sin. I would rather be at the back
of a dyke where I would get a moment of the presence of the Lord." As
Angus usually replied