y the name of Bathsheba. Why, under all the
circumambient heaven, any parent should want to give a child the name of
that loose creature of Scripture times, I cannot imagine. I have often
felt at the baptismal altar when names were announced somewhat like
saying, as did the Rev. Dr. Richards, of Morristown, New Jersey, when a
child was handed to him for baptism, and the names given, "Hadn't you
better call it something else?"

On this occasion I had adopted the theory, which I long since abandoned,
that an officiating clergyman at baptism should take the child in his
arms. Now, there are many ministers who do not know how to hold a baby,
and they frighten the child and increase the anxiety of the mother, and
may create a riot all along the line if there be other infants waiting
for the ceremony.

After reading the somewhat prolonged liturgy of the dear old Reformed
Church, I came down from the pulpit and took the child in my arms. She
was, however, far more composed than myself, and made no resistance; but
the overpowering sensation attached to the first application of the holy
chrism is a vivid and everlasting memory.

Then, the first pastoral visitation! With me it was at the house of a
man suffering from dropsy in the leg. He unbandaged the limb and
insisted upon my looking at the fearful malady. I never could with any
composure look at pain, and the last profession in all the world suited
to me would have been surgery. After praying with the man and offering
him Scriptural condolence, I started for home.

My wife met me with anxious countenance, and said, "How did you get
hurt, and what is the matter?" The sight of the lame leg had made my leg
lame, and unconsciously I was limping on the way home.

But I had quite another experience with a parishioner. He was a queer
man, and in bad odour in the community. Some time previously his wife
had died, and although a man of plenty of means, in order to economise
on funeral expenses, he had wheeled his wife to the grave on a
wheelbarrow. This economy of his had not led the village to any higher
appreciation of the man's character. Having been told of his inexpensive
eccentricities, I was ready for him when one morning he called at the
parsonage. As he entered he began by saying: "I came in to say that I
don't like you." "Well," I said, "that is a strange coincidence, for I
cannot bear the sight of you. I hear that you are the meanest man in
town, and that your neighbou