Just then we passed a knot of men, perhaps ten or a dozen, standing at the corner of one of the side streets. All had their hands in their pockets, all were in their shirt-sleeves, and all wore long white aprons. They were doing nothing whatever—not talking, nor laughing, nor quarrelling, but simply looking down the street. At present our humble equipage was evidently an object of supreme interest to them.
‘What are these men doing there?’ I asked.
‘They’re weavers,’ answered Alec, as if the fact contained a reason in itself for their conduct. ‘They always stand there when they are not working, in all weathers, wet and dry; it’s their chief diversion.’
‘Diversion!’ I repeated; but at that moment the sweet tinkle of a church-bell fell upon my ears. I almost expected to see the people cross themselves, it sounded so much like the Angelus. It is the custom, I find, to ring the bell of the parish church at six in the morning and eight in the evening, though there is no service, and no apparent need for the ceremony. I wonder if it can be really a survival of the Vesper-bell?
The bell was still ringing as we passed the church that possessed it. This was ‘the Established Church,’ my companion informed me—a building larger than either of its competitors, and boasting a belfry.
‘What does a small town like this want with so many chapels?’ I asked my cousin.
I could see that I had displeased him, whether by speaking of Muirburn as a small town, or by inadvertently calling the ‘churches’ chapels, I was not sure. As he hesitated for an answer I hastened to add:
‘You are all of the same religion—substantially, I mean?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Then why don’t you club together and have one handsome place of worship instead of three very—well, plain buildings?’