But this was the report of a bitter malcontent, and we of the orthodox persuasion at first flattered ourselves that the story was not true, but when its credibility was at length fairly well vouched for, we trembled for a time, till our antagonist was fairly floored by this poser from the mellow wisdom of Sandy of the Claypots: "True or nae true," said he, "seemilarity o' wards disna prove colloguein an' barterin' o' the Ward o' God." That deliverance settled argument, but it did not stifle rumour. The text now given out is, however, manifestly providential. The preacher raises his voice to its loudest pitch, smites the pulpit desk with might and main, while the precentor, proud man, looks for the life of him the very picture of one who longs to bellow Up and waur them a', Willie, In for has he not triumphed, as one may say, in the very face of gods and men? It is a stirring Sunday this, and a stirring sermon. dim, benignant days, the locution of our grey-haired pastor is sufficiently soporific. Quite a score of heads may be seen "nid-nidnoddin'" ere the reader ("he aye stak ower far close to the paper," said honest Belnabreich) has reached his "And now, ma breethren, we wull conseeder this soobject under three heids," etc. etc. It was a wonderful sight that in Carglen Kirk, when the minister was fairly in the thick of his exhortation. The face of Francie Kemp the molecatcher was a ghastly spectacle; I would not, as a youth, have seen it in the mirk night in that solemn building for half-a-crown, and that was a big sum in Carglen. It was elongated to an extent that could only be described as fearsome; the nose protruded like the beak of an eagle; the hair on his head, crisp as the quills on the back of a porcupine, stood upright; his eyes glared a ghastly stare, rolling as if they saw, whereas it was patent to all that no sight was there. And yet one of the great events in Smith Amos Gibbs' smiddy was to hear Francie the mole-catcher criticise Maister Macdonald the parson. And he did with a vengeance; as if he had been as wideawake as the precentor himself. One night, from my place of privilege on the cinder-heap upon the top of the forge bench, I ventured, with much palpitation of heart, to say-" But, Francie, how can you say all this, when you were sound as a trooper, with a face like a hoodiecraw?" "Whist, whist," cried Francie. "Ye may be a' vera weel, ma callant, at the Laytin an' that-like, but wait till ye are bigger afore ye contra dick them wha ken-WAIT TILL YE ARE BIGGER." Of course that settled it, and I sank deep among the black cinders, fairly abashed. The laird's face, too, this day, as every day, is worth looking at. There he sits, far back in his pew, with his heels in the air, and the eternal cynical gleam, or twinkle, or scowl-I scarcely know which to call it-shining through his bright spectacles. The laird is the wonder of the parish, and the terror of the minister. A great scholar, an ex-M.P., an amateur lawyer, a misanthropist with Cui bono? ever on his tongue; a man who was said to have slapped his wife's face, shot in a passion the horse of a tenant, and had seen the inside of a cold prison-the laird was a character. The laird never slept; oh, not he; his countenance, always alert, was like that of grim death at the feast. Meanwhile, around lie the vanquished and the dying; or, in other words, the dead asleep and the half-asleep. Young men gape, old men nod, lasses simper, and women blear, as dear old Saunders gets to the "And now, breethren, in the second place." Ere long, too, the resounding snore of Sandy from Claypots is heard, varied at intervals by the martial grunt of auld Robbie Grant, the Cameron Highlander. Time fails to tell of the inglorious scene in all its picturesque details; but would that I were a painter to present it in ample outline as I have seen it. To-day, however, as I have explained, women are livelier, and some of the men are interested. The drawling words of the preacher sound through the cobwebbed building with something like the sound of a living voice. A human chord has been struck for at least this once. What was the general character of the good man's sermons? you may ask. Well, perhaps I can express it in this way. Imagine a discourse as orthodox and Evangelical as the writings of Baxter, Owen, Bridges, or any of the more noted Puritans, but divested of that glow, fervour, and emotion which breathe in every one of their lines-stripped, too, of anything like overheated or stern appeals to the saint or the sinner-and you will have a fairly approximate idea of these homilies. "Saunders niver disturbs ye, ye ken," quoth our friend George McQueben, who went to the Free Kirk because it was nearer, when he happened to rise late on Sunday morning, and to the Parish Kirk when legs would carry him in time for the outside palaver, in which he figured as a noted personage. "He niver disturbs ye"-that was very true of our minister; it took Donal Beg, the revival preacher, to do that, and he did it by terrible strength of language and volume of sound, in a message full of Woe! woe! We were a decent but scarcely a religious folk in Carglen. Above all we were conservative in matters of faith-and practice too-avoiding extremes as we tried to avoid the devil and his snares. As to Saunders We owned wi' gratitude an' wonder, His doctrine was a comfortable one, giving a lively sense of satisfaction with things in general, unless at times it might be the "misteerious ways o' Divine Prohvidence in sendin' sic weather as this whaun a' the bonnie craps are still on the grund." The happiest moment in the whole week is probably that which brings the close of the minister's sermon. He fairly scrambles through the prayer which follows, never forgetting the customary word about our gracious Sovereign; but if her Majesty, incognito, had been good enough to visit our auld kirk, I am afraid she would not have written in her diary about our minister that which she says in the "Leaves" about the late Dr. Norman Macleod. The "paraphrase" is now sung to a rather lively tune-people want to get away home, you know, and time is precious-the elders go round with the boxes (one day, I shame to say it, there was only tenpence-halfpenny taken !), the blessing is pronounced, and ere the Amen has been said, great thundering feet sound once more on the stairways. Everyone hurries. Old women seem young again; decrepit men try to step out with vigour; we youngsters race it with might and main, for the smell of the glorious Sunday dinner is in the air-at any rate, in our imaginations. It may be sacrilege, but I cannot help saying it :--how many of us prefer the fat things of earth to the food of heaven, the fleshpots of Egypt to the manna in the wilderness and the glorious hopes of Canaan ! ALEXANDER GORDON. 75 V ELVERS IN THE SEVERN. ARYING in the exact date of arrival according to the temperature of the water and the prevalence of the winds, countless millions of elvers, or immature eels, swarm up the Severn annually, early in the spring of the year. Until quite recently a great deal of obscurity has existed relative to the propagation of the common eel; and, even now, the riverside fishermen often refuse to admit that the tiny, transparent bodies, with shining black eyes, ranging from two to four inches in length, known to them as elvers, can be the same species as a full-grown silver-bellied or yellow eel: for there are certainly two species of that fully developed and succulent fish. Travelling chiefly at night, and running up stream on the flow of the strongest tides, immense quantities of elvers-many tons in a few days in the Gloucester district-are ladled out of the river in nets constructed for the purpose and used by the men from the shelving banks of the stream. At times they appear in such dense masses that a single fisherman working his net for a few hours by night has secured 5 cwt. of wriggling elvers, to be promptly sold in the surrounding populous district at the average rate of 4d. per pound. Made into the so-called "elver cake," or fried simply in flour and butter, they form an agreeable article of food, greatly relished by the poorer classes, and in steady demand while the season lasts. As the tide recedes, actual clusters of the baby eels dart from mid-stream to the red banks of the river, there to pause in their forward movement until the next flow of water. Sometimes they may be caught en masse; at other times, especially if the wind is in the east, not an elver can be seen. The enormous quantities disappear as if by magic, not one remaining in the stream. The reason of this disappearance is not far to seek, for the creatures are highly susceptible to atmospheric change and variation in temperature. In a small brook I have frequently experimented with a handful of living elvers. They have the power of instantaneous penetration through the mud in the bed of the stream. If the fish chooses to burrow, it sinks to the bottom of the water; directly the head touches the mud-before you can count three-the wriggling body has gone from view. Dig with a trowel and ooze. the lithesome animal will be found below, slowly slipping through the So it is in the river. At the first approach of cold winds down goes the floating mass of elvers, to sink in a moment through the abundant mud. The persistence of the small eels is proverbial. Swarming on all sides, their march cannot be arrested: they crawl through the grass, up the straight sides of lochs and weirs, through drains, or beyond any obstructions. Go they must, and nothing will turn the course of the migrating host. As one instance of this strange perseverance I have the record of the movements of some small eels, marked with red worsted through the pectoral fin, in the limestone district of Ireland. At a place where a series of loughs are connected with the Shannon by a stream, the rivulet suddenly disappears into a cavity, to reappear as a spring two miles away. The young eels placed in the water rapidly found a subterranean passage, to be identified where the spring came forth at the opposite end, little the worse for the novel experiment of underground life. Nor is it so long since immature eels penetrated some of the London water-drains from the river supply of the company involved in the matter. The nets used in the lower Severn to catch the elvers are of the simplest description. At the end of a wooden handle, of what appears to be stout ash, there is a circular hoop or framework about eighteen inches in diameter; this supports a pocket some three feet in depth, made from a closely-woven texture resembling cheese-cloth, through which it is impossible for the smallest eel to escape. Thus the thick clusters of elvers can be, at suitable times, swept out of the river by pounds' weight at a single haul. The experienced fishermen know well enough when the fish will run, being chiefly guided by the state of the moon and tide, together with the direction of the wind. For a short space a brisk trade is done, the duration of the open season being governed by the Severn Fishery Board, whose licence is requisite for netting operations and fishing at any time. For the elvers1, the period when it is lawful to take them is regulated by the exigencies of the particular season. Microscopic students will find the pectoral fin an excellent medium for the study of the bloodcirculation; each corpuscle can be followed in its regular course, provided the fish be examined in its natural element. The heart-action can also be readily seen in young and colourless elvers, but it is difficult to procure the baby specimens for this purpose. Each year I have watched the upward migration in a small brook communicating directly with the Severn, catching many a young elver, but never seeing a mature eel in their company. Elver fishing is free during the short open season, |