The repressed magnetic
excitement in gatherings of familiar faces, fellow-beings
bound by the same convention to the same kind of behaviour,
is precious in communities where the human interest is
still thin and sparse. It is valuable in itself, and it
produces an occasional detached sensation. There was the
case, in Dr Drummond's church, of placid-faced, saintly
old Sandy MacQuhot, the epileptic. It used to be a common
regret with Lorne Murchison that as sure as he was allowed
to stay away from church Sandy would have a fit. That
was his little boy's honesty; the elders enjoyed the fit
and deprecated the disturbance.
There was a simple and definite family feeling within
communions. "They come to our church" was the argument
of first force whether for calling or for charity. It
was impossible to feel toward a Congregationalist or an
Episcopalian as you felt toward one who sang the same
hymns and sat under the same admonition week by week,
year in and year out, as yourself. "Wesleyans, are they?"
a lady of Knox Church would remark of the newly arrived,
in whom her interest was suggested. "Then let the Wesleyans
look after them." A pew-holder had a distinct status; an
"adherent" enjoyed friendly consideration, especially if
he adhered faithfully; and stray attendants from other
congregations were treated with punctilious hospitality,
places being found for them in the Old Testament, as if
they could hardly be expected to discover such things
for themselves.
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