Yet, the real old Scotch Sabbath is almost passing away.
Some lament it, others rejoice at it; but all the Scotch admit that their forefathers would be horrified at the things that pass in these days.
And indeed things must have greatly changed.
Now there are those who take walks on the Sabbath. What do I say, walks? There are those who ride velocipedes—Heaven forgive them! There are to be seen—no offence to my worthy host—there are to be seen poor harmless folk degenerate enough to go and sniff the fresh air on the top of an omnibus. They are not the unco' guid, but still they are Scotch.
Where is the time when Scotch cooks refused to use a roasting-jack on Sunday because it worked and made a noise?
Where is the time when a Scotchman almost found fault with his hens for laying eggs on the Sabbath?
Where are the days when Donald considered it shocking to introduce music into divine service?
The following little scene, of which I was a witness, proved to me that in the Scotchman the practical spirit is bound to assert itself. No matter whether it is Sunday: if he does evil on the Sabbath, he must do it well.
It was one Sunday afternoon in Edinburgh.