ne might well feel as if he had performed a work
of long-suffering to sit through it. The singing was strictly
congregational. Congregational singing is good (for those who like it)
when the congregation can sing. This congregation could not sing, but it
could grind the Psalms of David powerfully. They sing nothing else but
the old Scotch version of the Psalms, in a patient and faithful long
meter. And this is regarded, and with considerable plausibility, as an
act of worship. It certainly has small element of pleasure in it.
Here is a stanza from Psalm xlv., which the congregation, without any
instrumental nonsense, went through in a dragging, drawling manner, and
with perfect individual independence as to time:

"Thine arrows sharply pierce the heart of th' enemies of the king, And
under thy sub-jec-shi-on the people down do bring."

The sermon was extempore, and in English with Scotch pronunciation; and
it filled a solid hour of time. I am not a good judge of sermons, and
this one was mere chips to me; but my companion, who knows a sermon
when he hears it, said that this was strictly theological, and Scotch
theology at that, and not at all expository. It was doubtless my fault
that I got no idea whatever from it. But the adults of the congregation
appeared to be perfectly satisfied with it; at least they sat bolt
upright and nodded assent continually. The children all went to sleep
under it, without any hypocritical show of attention. To be sure, the
day was warm and the house was unventilated. If the windows had been
opened so as to admit the fresh air from the Bras d'Or, I presume
the hard-working farmers and their wives would have resented such an
interference with their ordained Sunday naps, and the preacher's sermon
would have seemed more musty than it appeared to be in that congenial
and drowsy air. Considering that only half of the congregation could
understand the preacher, its behavior was exemplary.

After the sermon, a collection was taken up for the minister; and I
noticed that nothing but pennies rattled into the boxes,--a melancholy
sound for the pastor. This might appear niggardly on the part of these
Scotch Presbyterians, but it is on principle that they put only a penny
into the box; they say that they want a free gospel, and so far as they
are concerned they have it. Although the farmers about the Bras d'Or are
well-to-do they do not give their minister enough to keep his soul in
his Gaelic body,