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board, and the waving foliage for the draping of the altar of this rural cathedral. No bell was rung to call the worshipers together. They came from the four points of the compass, and walked, perhaps, four or five miles. Some came in two wheeled carriages named gigs; others on horse-back, while some had carts. They would take their whole families with them; but the majority walked, and would be in church before eleven o’clock, staying throughout the long service till three o’clock. Both English and Gaelic were preached every Sabbath. Then they would go back home but never com- plain of feeling tired.

At the service the congregation would sing a hymn set to a simple, af- fecting air, in which everyone seemed to join as with one heart and one scul. There might be discords grating to the musician’s ear,—for the quavering voice of age was heard, strained to its highest pitch: and the sweet, but un- tutored strains of childhood mingled in the chorus. But there was such a sound of heart-worship in it—they seemed so happy, so adoring, as they sang the good old psalms of David.

The minister was an aged man, his wintry locks scattered in smooth, white flakes over his sunken temples—it was evident he was near the end of his pilgrimage. Yet, an expression of ecstatic delight gleamed from his eye and played round his placid lips. He would read the Scriptures in a deep, sweet and solemn voice; truths, often repeated, assumed new power and majesty, and seemed clothed with a more divine authority. He opened their meaning with the silver key of eloquence, and golden treasures, hid before, glowed on the spiritual vision. He prayed, and our spirits bowed with his before the mercy-seat. It was the man addressing the Creator, the sinner pleading for pardon, the penitent supplicating for grace and acceptance; gradually his voice rose to the full and swelling strains of adoration and praise. I was the believer rejoicing in the confidence of faith,—the Christian exulting in the hope of glory. The congregation stood with bowed heads, and clasped hands, while their tears fell fast as rain. All the wants of their being were expressed in that fervent prayer. Every now and then you would hear an emphatic “Amen,” and sometimes they cried Out “Hallelujah!” in an irrepressible burst of devotion. After the close of the sermon, when the spirit of God seemed brooding over the throng, he invited those who were borne down with the burden of their sins, to seek Him whose yoke is easy and whose burden is light. The congregation would burst forth into a hymn of praise, and you could distinguish the voice of the aged minister, like the swell of an organ, above the ruder strains. How happy and peaceful were the Sabbath days of long ago.

It is of the late Rev. D. McDonald I have been writing, and his elders, the pioneers of the church in DeSable, and Argyle Shore. The strong, brave, good men, who bore the heat and burden of the day of the past generation,