"Why, grandfaither," says one of the younger lads, "don't you think the auld Covenanters were rather sour kind o' bodies?"
"Sour!" replies the old man, "they had eneuch to mak' them sour. Hunted from mountain to mountain, like wild beasts, it's nae wonder if they felt waefu' at times, or that they let human passion gain a moment's ascendancy. But they were guid men for a' that. They were the chosen o' God, and wrastled hard against principalities and powers, against the rulers o' the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Reading their lives, I've aften thocht they must ha'e been kind o' inspired. Like the auld prophets and martyrs, they were very zealous for the Lord God, and endured, cheerfully, mair distress and tribulation than we can well imagine."
"Weel, weel!" says one of the girls, "I wish they had been a wee bit gentler in their ways, and mair charitable to their enemies."
"Ah, Nancy," is the quick reply of the old man, "ye ken but little about it. A fine thing it is for us, sitting here in this peacefu' kirk-yard, wi' nane to molest us or mak' us afraid, to talk about gentleness and charity. But the auld Covenanters had to encounter fire and steel. They wandered over muir and fell, in poverty and sorrow, being destitute, afflicted, tormented. But oh, my bairns! they loved and served the Lord! They endured as seeing him who is invisible; and when they cam' to dee, they rejoiced that they were counted worthy to suffer for his name. Nae doot, some of them were carnal men, and ithers o' them had great imperfections. But the maist o' them were unco holy men, men o' prayer, men o' faith, aye, and men of charity of whom the world was not worthy."
This answer silences all objections.
But the bell, from the old church tower, begins to toll.
"Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground,
The aged man, the bowed down, the blind
Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes
With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleased,
These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach
The house of God—these, spite of all their ills,
A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise
They enter in; a placid stillness reigns,
Until the man of God, worthy the name,
Opens the book, and reverentially
The stated portion reads."
The services of the afternoon are much the same as those of the morning, except that the preacher comments briefly on the portion of Scripture read at the opening of the service, and delivers a regular discourse, from a single text. The congregation follow the preacher with evident attention, and look up in their Bibles, which all have in their hands, the passages of Scripture cited as proofs and illustrations. This, with an occasional cough, and a little rustling from the children, are the only sounds which break the solemn stillness of the scene.
Dismissed, with a solemn benediction, all take their several ways homeward. The sun is going down; but its mellow light yet lingers upon the uplands, and tinges the foliage of the trees with supernal tints. A sabbath stillness reigns over hill and dale. The very trees appear to slumber; the birds are silent, except a single thrush, which, in the deep recesses of that shadowy copsewood, appears to be singing "her hymn to the evening." A little later, you might hear the voice of psalms from the low thatched cottage, on the hillside or in the glen. For, in Scotland, family worship is generally maintained, and singing, in which the whole family join, always forms a part of the exercises.
"They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays."