The parson is a stout man, remarkable in your opinion chiefly for a
yellowish-brown wig, a strong nasal tone, and occasional violent thumps
upon the little, dingy, red velvet cushion, studded with brass tacks, at
the top of the desk. You do not altogether admire his style; and by the
time he has entered upon his "Fourthly," you give your attention in
despair to a new reading (it must be the twentieth) of the preface to
Dr. Dwight's Version of the Psalms.

The singing has a charm for you. There is a long, thin-faced,
flax-haired man, who carries a tuning-fork in his waistcoat-pocket, and
who leads the choir. His position is in the very front rank of gallery
benches facing the desk; and by the time the old clergyman has read two
verses of the psalm, the country chorister turns around to his little
group of aids--consisting of the blacksmith, a carroty-headed
schoolmaster, two women in snuff-colored silks, and a girl in pink
bonnet--to announce the tune.

This being done in an authoritative manner, he lifts his long
music-book--glances again at his little company,--clears his throat by a
powerful ahem, followed by a powerful use of a bandanna
pocket-handkerchief,--draws out his tuning-fork, and waits for the
parson to close his reading. He now reviews once more his
company,--throws a reproving glance at the young woman in the pink hat,
who at the moment is biting off a stout bunch of fennel,--lifts his
music-book,--thumps upon the rail with his fork,--listens
keenly,--gives a slight _ahem_,--falls into the cadence,--swells into a
strong _crescendo_,--catches at the first word of the line as if he were
afraid it might get away,--turns to his company,--lifts his music-book
with spirit, gives it a powerful slap with the disengaged hand, and with