into the cellar, and the soprano went
up into the garret, but the latter kept on squalling as though the bass, in
leaving her, had wickedly torn out all her back hair. I felt anxious about
the soprano, and looked back to see if she had fainted; but found her
reclining in the arms of a young man who looked strong enough to take care
of her.

Now, I admit that we cannot all have such things in our churches. It costs
like sixty. In the Church of the Holy Bankak it coats one hundred dollars
to have sung that communion, piece:

"Ye wretched, hungry, starving poor!"

But let us come as near to it as we can. The tune "Pisgah" has been
standing long enough on "Jordan's stormy banks." Let it pass over and get
out of the wet weather. Good-bye, "Antioch," "Harwell" and "Boylston."
Good-bye till we meet in glory.

But if the prescription of new tunes does not end congregational singing, I
have another suggestion. Get an irreligious choir, and put them in a high
balcony back of the congregation. I know choirs who are made up chiefly of
religious people, or those, at least, respectful for sacred things. That
will never do, if you want to kill the music. The theatrical troupe are not
busy elsewhere on Sabbath, and you can get them at half price to sing the
praises of the Lord. Meet them in the green room at the close of the "Black
Crook" and secure them. They will come to church with opera-glasses, which
will bring the minister so near to them they can, from their high perch,
look clear down his throat and see his sermon before it is delivered. They
will make excellent poetry on Deacon Goodsoul as he carries around the
missionary box. They will write dear little notes to Gonzaldo, asking him
how his cold is and how he likes gum-drops. Without interfering with the
worship below, they can discuss the comparative fashionableness of the
"basque" and the "polonaise," the one lady vowing she thinks the first
style is "horrid," and the other saying she would rather die than be seen
in the latter; all this while the chorister is gone out during sermon to
refresh himself with a mint-julep, hastening back in time to sing the last
hymn. How much like heaven it will be when, at the close of a solemn
service, we are favored with snatches from Verdi's "Trovatore,"
Meyerbeer's "Huguenots" and Bellini's "Sonnambula," from such artists as

Mademoiselle Squintelle,
Prima Donna Soprano, from Grand Opera House, Paris.
Signor Bombastani,