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A PUNNING PARSON.

Many years ago, there dwelt in the good town of Lynn, Mass., a worthy minister, who was, nevertheless, fond of a good joke, in which he would often indulge, to the great amusement, if not to the edification of his parishioners. We have heard numerous anecdotes of his eccentricities from the elder members of his fraternity, one or two of which we are strongly disposed to chronicle.

One of his neighbors was one morning passing his house with a new cart, which he had just purchased, when the minister thus accosted him: "Well, neighbor Chadbourne, you have a fine new cart there!"—but how is this!—it seems to me that one of the wheels is all o' one side!"

"Well, I declare," said the farmer, "I did not know that." He drove on, but all day he was perplexed with the idea of the bad bargain he had made. When he returned at night, he stopped at the minister's and said—“Well, Parson, I believe I shall carry my cart home to the maker, as one of the wheels is all o' one side!"

"Why, where would you have it," said the minister, "if not on one side!"

The parson was one day holding forth in grave style, for the edification of his people, and expounding the abstruse points of his creed, when, suddenly raising his eyes from the manuscript, he observed that a large portion of his people were gravely and comfortably reposing their heads upon folded arms on the resting boards of their pews. This was nothing new to the observation of the worthy minister; on the contrary, he had observed the same listless appearance of his congregations so often, that he resolved, if possible, to arouse them to a sense of the respect which they owed to the day, the occasion and the speaker. Accordingly, looking round upon his people with all the conscious dignity and importance of an extempore preacher, suddenly laboring with the birth of a new idea, he exclaimed—“If I should guess, I should guess that two-thirds of you were asleep!" An eccentric genius among the congregation, who had often amused the people by his jokes and facetious humor, at the expense of the sententious parson, raised his head deliberately from its quiet resting-place, and in the very same tone and manner in which the grave minister had uttered his conjecture, replied—“I should guess, I should guess there was not more than one half!"

The whole house was suddenly electrified—as if a thunder clap had shook the steeple—a loud laugh instantly re-echoed from every pew and gallery, which, in utter forgetfulness of the time and place, was repeated so loud and so often, that it was long before the parson could resume his discourse: and even when the benediction fell upon their ears—which the offended dignitary was half disposed not to pronounce—the reply of Martin was ringing in their ears; and as the good man was wending his way to his lonely abode, the loud laugh of the more humorous part of his parishioners came pealing at intervals upon his ears—and even in his slumbers a fiendish glee seemed dinning around him, and breaking his hallowed repose. All this was more than the irritated spirit could bear, and accordingly in the morning at an early hour, he was seen upon the door step of 'Squire Carnes, rousing the justice from his curtained sleep, to obtain redress for his wounded dignity. The justice arranged his famous wig, which was many years afterwards at the sale of his estate, sold to a neighboring farmer, who used it for a hen's nest—and came forth to greet his guest. The good 'squire had himself worn the ministerial gown having served as a chaplain in the army, and consequently had a feeling of commiseration for his brother pastor. A summons was immediately despatched, by Cally the constable and in the afternoon the culprit surrounded by a large concourse of spectators, whom the novelty of the case had drawn together, and confronted by the minister, was standing before a huge table in 'Squire Carnes' great room. The evidence of the case were fully heard: and amid a breathless silence of curiosity and fear on the part of the audience, the delinquent was, as a matter of course called upon for his defence, why he had presumed to disturb the divine service.

"Please your honor!"—for that was the style in those days—“please your honor," said the facetious Martin, in a very grave and sly manner. "I have as much respect for public worship as any one, and never allow myself, even by a solitary snore, to disturb it—but you will please to observe that it was not the time for divine service—it was during the intermission, for the parson had discontinued preaching, and it was then guessing time!"

A laugh, as loud as that which shook the meeting house, instantly convulsed the audience, and the 'squire adjusting his wig, dismissed the defendant without fine and relinquished his fee, in respect to his friend, the worthy but wounded parson.