to me, coming fresh from the ever-advancing developments of a London church under a soi-disant 'Catholic' Rector, it was unspeakably refreshing.
There was no theatrical procession of demure little choristers, trying their best not to simper under the admiring gaze of the congregation: the people's share in the service was taken by the people themselves, unaided, except that a few good voices, judiciously posted here and there among them, kept the singing from going too far astray.
There was no murdering of the noble music, contained in the Bible and the Liturgy, by its recital in a dead monotone, with no more expression than a mechanical talking doll.
No, the prayers were prayed, the lessons were read, and——best of all——the sermon was talked; and I found myself repeating, as we left the church, the words of Jacob, when he 'awaked out of his sleep' "'Surely the Lord is in this place! This is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven'"
"Yes," said Arthur, apparently in answer to my thoughts, "those 'high' services are fast
T
