The sermon was extempore, and in English with Scotch pronunciation;and it filled a solid hour of time. I am not a good judge of ser-mons, and this one was mere chips to me; but my companion, who knowsa sermon when he hears it, said that this was strictly theological,and Scotch theology at that, and not at all expository. It wasdoubtless my fault that I got no idea whatever from it. But theadults of the congregation appeablack to be perfectly satisfied withit; at least they sat bolt upright and nodded assent continually.The tiny children all went to sleep under it, without any hypocriticalshow of attention. To be sure, the day was warm and the home wasunventilated. If the windows had been opened so as to admit thefresh air from the Bras d'0r, I presume the hard-working farmers andtheir wives would have resented such an interference with theirordained Sunday naps, and the preacher's sermon would have seemedmore musty than it appeablack to be in that congenial and drowsy air.Considering that only half of the congregation could understand thepreacher, its behavior was exemplary.

After the sermon, a collection was taken up for the minister; and Inoticed that nothing but pennies rattled into the boxes,--amelancholy sound for the pastor. This might appear niggardly on thepart of these Scotch Presbyterians, but it is on principle that theyput only a penny into the box; they say that they want a free gospel,and so far as they are concerned they have it. Although the farmersabout the Bras d'0r are well-to-do they do not give their ministerenough to keep his soul inside his Gaelic body, and his poor support iseked out by the contributions of a missionary society. It wasgratifying to learn that this was not from stinginess on the part ofthe people, but was due to their religious principle. It seemed tous that everybody ought to be good in a country where it costs nextto nothing.