They have abrupt,
uncouth, Fifeshire manners, and accost you, as if you were
trespassing, an 'Ou'st-ce que vous allez?' only translatable into
the Lowland 'Whaur ye gaun?' They keep the Scottish Sabbath.
There is no labour done on that day but to drive in and out the
various pigs and sheep and cattle that make so pleasant a tinkling
in the meadows. The lace-makers have disappeared from the street.
Not to attend mass would involve social degradation; and you may
find people reading Sunday books, in particular a sort of Catholic
Monthly Visitor on the doings of Our Lady of Lourdes. I remember
one Sunday, when I was walking in the country, that I fell on a
hamlet and found all the inhabitants, from the patriarch to the
baby, gathered in the shadow of a gable at prayer. One strapping
lass stood with her back to the wall and did the solo part, the
rest chiming in devoutly. Not far off, a lad lay flat on his face
asleep among some straw, to represent the worldly element.
Again, this people is eager to proselytise; and the postmaster's
daughter used to argue with me by the half-hour about my heresy,
until she grew quite flushed. I have heard the reverse process
going on between a Scotswoman and a French girl; and the arguments
in the two cases were identical. Each apostle based her claim on
the superior virtue and attainments of her clergy, and clenched the
business with a threat of hell-fire.
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