A manifestation of even still greater strictness on the subject of Sabbath desecration, I have received from a relative of the family in which it occurred.  About fifty years ago the Hon. Mrs. Stewart lived in Heriot Row, who had a cook, Jeannie by name, a paragon of excellence.  One Sunday morning when her daughter (afterwards Lady Elton) went into the kitchen, she was surprised to find a new jack (recently ordered, and which was constructed on the principle of going constantly without winding up) wholly paralysed and useless.  Miss Stewart naturally inquired what accident had happened to the new jack, as it had stopped.  The mystery was soon solved by Jeannie indignantly exclaiming that “she was nae gaeing to hae the fule thing clocking and rinning about in her kitchen a’ the blessed Sabbath day.”

There sometimes appears to have been in our countrymen an undue preponderance of zeal for Sabbath observance as compared with the importance attached to other religious duties, and especially as compared with the virtue of sobriety.  The following dialogue between Mr. Macnee of Glasgow, the celebrated artist, and an old Highland acquaintance whom he had met with unexpectedly, will illustrate the contrast between the severity of judgment passed upon treating the Sabbath with levity and the lighter censure attached to indulgence in whisky.  Mr. Macnee begins, “Donald, what brought you here?” “Ou, weel, sir, it was a baad place yon; they were baad folk—­but they’re a God-fearin’ set o’ folk here!” “Well, Donald,” said Mr. M., “I’m glad to hear it.”  “Ou ay, sir, ‘deed are they; an’ I’ll gie ye an instance o’t.  Last Sabbath, just as the kirk was skailin,’ there was a drover chield frae Dumfries comin’ along the road whustlin,’ an’ lookin’ as happy as if it was ta middle o’ ta week; weel, sir, oor laads is a God-fearin’ set o’ laads, an’ they were just comin’ oot o’ the kirk—­’od they yokit upon him, an’ a’most killed him!” Mr. M., to whom their zeal seemed scarcely sufficiently well directed to merit his approbation, then asked Donald whether it had been drunkenness that induced the depravity of his former neighbours?  “Weel, weel, sir,” said Donald, with some hesitation, “may-be; I’ll no say but it micht.”  “Depend upon it,” said Mr. M., “it’s a bad thing whisky.”  “Weel, weel, sir,” replied Donald, “I’ll no say but it may;” adding in a very decided tone—­“speeciallie baad whusky!”

I do not know any anecdote which illustrates in a more striking and natural manner the strong feeling which exists in the Scottish mind on this subject.  At a certain time, the hares in the neighbourhood of a Scottish burgh had, from the inclemency of the season or from some other cause, become emboldened more than usual to approach the dwelling-places of men; so much so that on one Sunday morning a hare was seen skipping along the street as the people were going to church.  An old man, spying puss in this unusual position, significantly remarked, “Ay, yon beast kens weel it is the Sabbath-day;” taking it for granted that no one in the place would be found audacious enough to hurt the animal on a Sunday.