business in a first-class church, when I first saw her in the chorus at
the Stadt Theatre, seven years ago. MARGARET, warned by experience, does
not venture to interfere with the singing, to the evident disappointment
of the usher, who is watching her with the intention, plainly expressed
on his face, of peremptorily putting her out, if she sings a single
note. Then comes a recitation of the commandments by the leading male
perfor--, that is to say, by the rector, supported by the double chorus,
and the orches--, the organ, I should say; and then we have the sermon.

I like the sermon. It is delivered with admirable effect, and is, on the
whole, more soothing than the average syrup of the apocryphal Mrs.
WINSLOW. The rector compliments us all on our many virtues, and
contrasts us with the supposititious sinners who are presumed to abound
somewhere in the vicinity of rival houses. The middle-aged men evidently
feel that he will make no mistake worth noticing, and so go to sleep as
calmly as though they were at BOOTH'S THEATRE. The middle-aged ladies
contemplate the dresses of their neighbors, and the young people flirt
with cautious glances. When the curtain--when it is over, I mean--we go
cheerfully away, like an audience that has slept through a Shakesperean
play, and feels that it has done its duty. And when we are once more in
the street, I say to MARGARET: "This has been a delightful performance.
There has been nothing said to make one feel disagreeably discontented
with one's self, nor has there been any impolite suggestions as to the
undesirable future of anybody, except the low wretches who, of course,
don't go to any church. How much better this is than the solemn service,
and, the unpleasantly personal sermons that we used to hear at your
little rural church."

MARGARET.--"I do not like it. Why should boys be hired to pray, and
women to sing for me? Why should I be told by the preacher that I am