Dear boy! through this cold world _thy_ earth-bound feet have trod;
and now,
Is the loving heart still thine? Hast kept that true and open brow?




THE OLD CHURCH.


There are certain old-fashioned people who find fault with the
luxuriousness of our churches, and ascribe to the warmth and comfort,
which contrast so strongly with the hardships of early times, the
acknowledged sleepiness of modern congregations. For my part, I see no
necessary connection between discomfort and devotion. _My_ soul, at
least, sympathizes so much with its physical adjunct, that, when the
latter is uncomfortable, the former is never quite free and active.

Let me call to remembrance the church my childhood knew, with its
capacious square pews, in which half the audience turned their backs
upon the minister; the seats made to rise and fall, for the
convenience of standing, and which closed every prayer with a clap of
thunder; its many aisles, like streets and lanes; the old men's seats,
and the queer but venerable figures that were seen in them,--some with
black-silk caps to protect their bald heads from the freezing draughts
of air from the porchless doors; the old women's seats, on the
opposite side; the elevated row of pews round the sides of the church,
and the envied position of certain little children who had an
extensive prospect through the open pew-top within doors, and a view
of the hay-scales and the town-pump through the window besides. Those