not to sleep, however; an older generation may have done that under
the strain of a two-hour `wearifu' dreich' sermon, but these church-

goers are not to be caught napping. They wear, on the contrary, a
keen, expectant, critical look, which must be inexpressibly

encouraging to the minister, if he has anything to say. If he has
not (and this is a possibility in Edinburgh, as it is everywhere

else), then I am sure it is wisdom for the beadle to lock him in,
lest he flee when he meets those searching eyes.

The Edinburgh sermon, though doubtless softened in outline in these
later years, is still a more carefully built discourse than one

ordinarily hears out of Scotland, being constructed on conventional
lines of doctrine, exposition, logicalinference, and practical

application. Though modern preachers do not announce the division
of their subject into heads and sub-heads, firstlies and secondlies

and finallies, my brethren, there seems to be the old framework
underneath the sermon, and every one recognises it as moving

silently below the surface; at least, I always fancy that as the
minister finishes one point and attacks another the younger folk fix

their eagle eyes on him afresh, and the whole congregation sits up
straighter and listens more intently, as if making mental notes.

They do not listen so much as if they were enthralled, though they
often are, and have good reason to be, but as if they were to pass

an examination on the subject afterwards; and I have no doubt that
this is the fact.

The prayers are many, and are divided, apparently, like those of the
liturgies, into petitions, confessions, and aspirations; not

forgetting the all-embracing one with which we are perfectly
familiar in our native land, in which the preacher commends to the

Fatherly care every animate and inanimate thing not mentioned
specifically in the foregoing supplications. It was in the middle

of this compendious petition, `the lang prayer,' that rheumatic old
Scottish dames used to make a practice of `cheengin' the fit,' as

they stood devoutly through it. "When the meenister comes to the
`ingetherin' o' the Gentiles,' I ken weel it's time to cheenge legs,

for then the prayer is jist half dune," said a good sermon-taster of
Fife.

The organ is finding its way rapidly into the Scottish kirks (how
can the shade of John Knox endure a `kist o' whistles' in good St.

Giles'?), but it is not used yet in some of those we attend most
frequently. There is a certain quaintsolemnity, a beautiful

austerity, in the unaccompanied singing of hymns that touches me
profoundly. I am often carried very high on the waves of splendid

church music, when the organ's thunder rolls `through vaulted
aisles' and the angelic voices of a trained choir chant the

aspirations of my soul for me; and when an Edinburgh congregation
stands, and the precentor leads in that noble paraphrase,

`God of our fathers, be the God
Of their succeeding race,'

there is a certain ascetic fervour in it that seems to me the
perfection of worship. It may be that my Puritan ancestors are

mainly responsible for this feeling, or perhaps my recently adopted
Jenny Geddes is a factor in it; of course, if she were in the habit

of flinging fauldstules at Deans, she was probably the friend of
truth and the foe of beauty, so far as it was in her power to

separate them.
There is no music during the offertory in these churches, and this,

too, pleases my sense of the fitness of things. It cannot soften
the woe of the people who are disinclined to the giving away of

money, and the cheerful givers need no encouragement. For my part,
I like to sit, quite undistracted by soprano solos, and listen to

the refinedtinkle of the sixpences and shillings, and the vulgar
chink of the pennies and ha'pennies, in the contribution-boxes.

Country ministers, I am told, develop such an acute sense of hearing
that they can estimate the amount of the collection before it is

counted. There is often a huge pewter plate just within the church
door, in which the offerings are placed as the worshippers enter or

leave; and one always notes the preponderance of silver at the
morning, and of copper at the evening services. It is perhaps

needless to say that before Francesca had been in Edinburgh a
fortnight she asked Mr. Macdonald if it were true that the Scots

continued coining the farthing for years and years, merely to have a
piece of money serviceable for church offerings!

As to social differences in the congregations we are somewhat at
sea. We tried to arrive at a conclusion by the hats and bonnets,

than which there is usually no more infallible test. On our first
Sunday we attended the Free Kirk in the morning, and the Established

in the evening. The bonnets of the Free Kirk were so much the more
elegant that we said to one another, "This is evidently the church

of society, though the adjective 'Free' should by rights attract the
masses." On the second Sunday we reversed the order of things, and

found the Established bonnets much finer than the Free bonnets,
which was a source of mystification to us, until we discovered that

it was a question of morning or evening service, not of the form of
Presbyterianism. We think, on the whole, that, taking town and

country congregations together, millinery has not flourished under
Presbyterianism,--it seems to thrive better in the Romish atmosphere

of France; but the Disruption at least, has had nothing to answer
for in the matter, as it appears simply to have parted the bonnets

of Scotland in twain, as Moses divided the Red Sea, and left good
and evil on both sides.

I can never forget our first military service at St. Giles'. We
left Breadalbane Terrace before nine in the morning and walked along

the beautiful curve of street that sweeps around the base of the
Castle Rock,--walked on through the poverty and squalor of the High

Street, keeping in view the beautiful lantern tower as a guiding-
star, till we heard

`The murmur of the city crowd;
And, from his steeple, jingling loud,

St. Giles's mingling din.'
We joined the throng outside the venerable church, and awaited the

approach of the soldiers from the Castle parade-ground; for it is
from there they march in detachments to the church of their choice.

A religion they must have, and if, when called up and questioned
about it, they have forgotten to provide themselves, or have no

preference as to form of worship, they are assigned to one by the
person in authority. When the regiments are assembled on the

parade-ground of a Sunday morning, the first command is, `Church of
Scotland, right about face, quick march!'--the bodies of men

belonging to other denominations standing fast until their turn
comes to move. It is said that a new officer once gave the command,

`Church of Scotland, right about face, quick march! Fancy
releegions, stay where ye are!'

Just as we were being told this story by an attendantsquire, there
was a burst of scarlet and a blare of music, and down Castlehill and

the Lawnmarket into Parliament Square marched hundreds of redcoats,
the Highland pipers (otherwise the Olympian gods) swinging in front,

leaving the American female heart prostrate beneath their victorious
tread. The strains of music that in the distance sounded so martial

and triumphant we recognised in a moment as `Abide with me,' and
never did the fine old tune seem more majestic than when it marked a

measure for the steady tramp, tramp, tramp, of those soldierly feet.
As `The March of the Cameron Men,' piped from the green steeps of

Castlehill, had aroused in us thoughts of splendid victories on the
battlefield, so did this simple hymn awake the spirit of the church

militant; a no less stern but more spiritual soldiership, in which
`the fruit of righteousness is sown in peace of them that make

peace.'
As I fell asleep on that first Sunday night in Edinburgh, after the

somewhat unusual experience of three church services in a single
day, three separate notes of memory floated in and out of the fabric

of my dreams; the sound of the soldiers' feet marching into old St.
Giles' to the strains of `Abide with me'; the voice of the Reverend

Ronald ringing out with manly insistence: `It is aspiration that
counts, not realisation; pursuit, not achievement; quest, not

conquest!'--and the closing phrases of the Friar's prayer; `When
Christ has forgiven" target="_blank" title="forgive的过去分词">forgiven us, help us to forgive ourselves! Help us to

forgive ourselves so fully that we can even forget ourselves,
remembering only Him! And so let His kingdom come; we ask it for