There might have been three hundred to four hundred present.  At least there were three hundred horses tethered for the most part in the ring; though some of the hearers on the outskirts of the crowd stood with their bridles in their hand, ready to mount at the first signal.  The circle of faces was strangely characteristic; long, serious, strongly marked, the tackle standing out in the lean brown cheeks, the mouth set and the eyes shining with a fierce enthusiasm; the shepherd, the labouring man, and the rarer laird, stood there in their broad blue bonnets or laced hats, and presenting an essential identity of type.  From time to time a long-drawn groan of adhesion rose in this audience, and was propagated like a wave to the outskirts, and died away among the keepers of the horses.  It had a name; it was called ’a holy groan.’

A squall came up; a great volley of flying mist went out before it and whelmed the scene; the wind stormed with a sudden fierceness that carried away the minister’s voice and twitched his tails and made him stagger, and turned the congregation for a moment into a mere pother of blowing plaid-ends and prancing horses; and the rain followed and was dashed straight into their faces.  Men and women panted aloud in the shock of that violent shower-bath; the teeth were bared along all the line in an involuntary grimace; plaids, mantles, and riding-coats were proved vain, and the worshippers felt the water stream on their naked flesh.  The minister, reinforcing his great and shrill voice, continued to contend against and triumph over the rising of the squall and the dashing of the rain.

‘In that day ye may go thirty mile and not hear a crawing cock,’ he said; ’and fifty mile and not get a light to your pipe; and an hundred mile and not see a smoking house.  For there’ll be naething in all Scotland but deid men’s banes and blackness, and the living anger of the Lord.  O, where to find a bield—­O sirs, where to find a bield from the wind of the Lord’s anger?  Do ye call this a wind?  Bethankit!  Sirs, this is but a temporary dispensation; this is but a puff of wind, this is but a spit of rain and by with it.  Already there’s a blue bow in the west, and the sun will take the crown of the causeway again, and your things’ll be dried upon ye, and your flesh will be warm upon your bones.  But O, sirs, sirs! for the day of the Lord’s anger!’

His rhetoric was set forth with an ear-piercing elocution, and a voice that sometimes crashed like cannon.  Such as it was, it was the gift of all hill-preachers, to a singular degree of likeness or identity.  Their images scarce ranged beyond the red horizon of the moor and the rainy hill-top, the shepherd and his sheep, a fowling-piece, a spade, a pipe, a dunghill, a crowing cock, the shining and the withdrawal of the sun.  An occasional pathos of simple humanity, and frequent patches of big Biblical words, relieved the homely tissue.  It was a poetry apart; bleak, austere, but genuine, and redolent of the soil.