you mustn't sing, except psalm and hymn
tunes; you mustn't whistle, even to call a dog;
and you are taught that it is Sabbath-breaking
to go out for a walk in the fields. There is
nothing left for you (unless you have an
insatiable appetite for "good books"— and it is
sometimes quite as hard to read good books
as it is to read bad ones) but to mope and lounge
and idle, and imagine vain things. I am sadly
afraid that there are more vain things imagined
in the rural districts of Scotland on a Sunday
afternoon, than on all the other days of the week
put together. I was required to repeat a dozen
verses of a hymn or psalm every Monday
morning at school. I could not understand why
Monday was selected for this exercise of my
memory. I think I understand it now. Our
schoolmaster, knowing what a vacuous time
Sunday afternoon was, gave us this task—no
doubt with the best intentions—to occupy our
thoughts, and perhaps kill the miserable hours.

But I don't think I loved the Sunday afternoon
better for having that hymn to learn.
Indeed, I am sure I loved it less. I can well
remember what the farm servants, and the
labourers, and poor cottagers, did on Sunday
afternoon. They lounged, and lolled, and
smoked their pipes, and slept, and yawned, and
stretched themselves, and wished to their hearts
it were Monday. The thud of the flails in the
barn was always to be heard earlier on Monday
morning than on any other morning. Monday
was a day of deliverance, when the bondsmen rose
early to enjoy their freedom, and relieve
themselves with a little whistling. I remember a
wicked boy, called Peter, who, possessed by
the devil, lay awake one Sunday night until it
struck twelve, when he sat up in his bed and
whistled Tullochgorum; having finished the
tune his heart was relieved, and he immediately
lay down and went to sleep. We all
groaned under the gloomy restraints of Sunday
—but inwardly. We did not complain nor revolt
in words; for it seemed to all of us that we had
imbibed the Scotch Sabbatarianism with our
mother's milk, and that it was part of our
nature. I well remember how conscience-stricken
I was one Sunday, when I caught myself beginning
to whistle the Laird of Cockpen, which I had
been learning the day before to play on the fiddle.
On another occasion I did a very dreadful thing—
something more dreadful than whistling the
Laird of Cockpen—though it was merely an
inadvertence. It was sacrament Sunday, and there
was a great preaching going on in the kirk.
Three or four ministers preached, one after the
other. After the second sermon I was
mercifully let off. I went for a walk and strolled
down to the little burn where I was accustomed
on lawful week-days to fish for trout. What
possessed me to do it, I don't know; but finding
in my pocket a piece of string, and in the
collar of my jacket a pin, I bent the latter,
attached it to the string, and, covering the
extemporised hook with a worm, began to fish for
minnows. It is more than twenty years since
this occurred, yet I can distinctly and vividly
remember every little particular. I can see the
shoal of little silvery fishes swarming round the.
worm; I can feel the tug at the hook. I see the
beguiled minnow wriggling for a moment in the
air, and now lying flapping and gasping on the
bank. The first tug at the hook was an electric
shock that went straight to my conscience.
When I saw the minnow on the bank, I was
stricken with horror. I had been fishing on.
Sunday, and the desecration was complete, for I
had caught a fish! I took up the evidences of
my guilt, hid them hastily among some tall
grass, and fled as if I had committed a murder.
The remembrance of that crime was present
with me for many a day, and afterwards when
I went out to fish at lawful times, I always
avoided the awful spot where I had caught the
minnow on a Sunday.

The superlatively severe aspect of the Scotch
Sunday is to be witnessed chiefly in the villages
and small towns. There, the flock all live
together in one narrow fold, within call of the
shepherd. The bells ring to kirk three times a
day, with prayer-meetings and Sunday-schools
between whiles. From morning to night, it is
incessant preaching, and praying, and psalm-
singing. It is a long day of unremitting religious
exercise. The sound of a piano in one of these
little towns would mark out the abode of a
heathen; a hot dinner would be a breach of the
commandment; laughter would be a profanity.
There are many who conscientiously believe that
it is their duty to keep the Sabbath in this
manner; but there are many others to whom
the day, its observances and discomforts, are an
intolerable burden. They revolt against it in
their hearts, but they dare not break the chain
that binds them to the custom. In many families
and in many communities in Scotland, man is
made for the Sabbath.

When you come south of the parallel 55
degrees north, you find an attempt to
observe the Sabbath as if it were made for man.
But it is only an attempt. It is a mere
compromise, and I doubt if it be as honest and
logical as the inexorable rigidity of Scotland.
The bands in the Parks on Sunday afternoon
may be taken as an assertion of the right of the
people to amuse themselves on the Sabbath.
But here it begins and here it ends. The
government gives permission for bands to play
in the Parks, but it declines to open the British
Museum and the National Gallery on Sunday.
Now, it seems to me that if the one be lawful
so is the other. And I presume that there
can be no question that museums and picture-
galleries are as entertaining and as elevating
as brass bands. Again: the English approve of
bands on the Sunday, but not of operas. Where
is the difference?

Move longitudinally, yet laterally, a little to
the east, and we find Sunday in Paris almost the
busiest day of the week. The work of pleasure
is in full swing, and pleasure is as exacting and
as inexorable a business as any business. Without
attempting to define or settle the scope of the
law of the Sabbath, I feel certain that prejudice