for the
championship--by two rival choruses of shrill-voiced boys, who hurl
alternate verses of the Psalms at one another with the fiercest
intensity. MARGARET is betrayed into an inadvertent competition with
them, by reading a verse aloud, as had been her custom elsewhere, but
the charity children smile aloud at her, and the usher frowns, so she
sits down again with reddened cheeks.

I say to her, "that this choir contest is an excellent feature, one that
is sure to draw." But she answers nothing, and busily reads the
libret--, the psalm, to herself.

Then comes the litany. And here again MARGARET betrays her rural habits,
by repeating audibly the first response, thus encroaching on the
province of the choir-boys, who have now united, and form a fine and
powerful chorus, less picturesque perhaps than the Druidical chorus in
the first act of _Norma_, but quite as religious in its effect. After
which comes a hymn, executed by a soprano, who is really a deserving
little girl, and whom I little expected to find doing the leading
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 performa