glasses, and to dazzle and glitter in the eyes of the few shabby
people in the free seats. The organ peals forth, the hired singers
commence a short hymn, and the congregation condescendingly rise,
stare about them, and converse in whispers. The clergyman enters
the reading-desk,--a young man of noble family and elegant
demeanour, notorious at Cambridge for his knowledge of horse-flesh
and dancers, and celebrated at Eton for his hopeless stupidity.
The service commences. Mark the soft voice in which he reads, and
the impressive manner in which he applies his white hand, studded
with brilliants, to his perfumed hair. Observe the graceful
emphasis with which he offers up the prayers for the King, the
Royal Family, and all the Nobility; and the nonchalance with which
he hurries over the more uncomfortable portions of the service, the
seventh commandment for instance, with a studied regard for the
taste and feeling of his auditors, only to be equalled by that
displayed by the sleek divine who succeeds him, who murmurs, in a
voice kept down by rich feeding, most comfortable doctrines for
exactly twelve minutes, and then arrives at the anxiously expected
'Now to God,' which is the signal for the dismissal of the
congregation. The organ is again heard; those who have been asleep
wake up, and those who have kept awake, smile and seem greatly
relieved; bows and congratulations are exchanged, the livery
servants are all bustle and commotion, bang go the steps, up jump
the footmen, and off rattle the carriages: the inmates discoursing
on the dresses of the congregation, and congratulating themselves
on having set so excellent an example to the community in general,
and Sunday-pleasurers in particular.

Enter a less orthodox place of religious worship, and observe the
contrast. A small close chapel with a white-washed wall, and plain