Last Sunday he made a faux pas, for, being at the back of the gallery, and spying the unmannerly conduct of an obstreperous purple-cheeked lass in the first row, he leant forward to take summary vengeance on the same, but alas! she was "so near, and yet so far," and in striving to reach her he overbalanced himself, and fell upon a cluster of maidens of tender years, who howled dismally, while the cane succeeded in doing no more than poking the crown of the offender's bonnet in! We did not smile, and papa could detect no unseemly mirth on our faces when he glanced sharply up and down our pew, for we have by long practice acquired the art of laughing inwardly, and can be in ecstasies of amusement without moving a muscle of our countenances.
At last Mr. Skipworth is in his place and the service begins. The governor makes his amens as fervently and loudly as the clerk, and we all follow, down to the very smallest child; in fact, such a wave of hearty sound runs along our ranks as might almost suffice to blow a thin man off his legs if placed directly before us. And now we have all settled our backs against the hard pew, we have planted our feet firmly on our respective stools, and we have opened our hearts and ears widely for such spiritual comfort as Mr. Skipworth may think fit to administer. Papa turns himself about and, resting his elbow on the edge of the pew, has us all safely under his eye. The sermon begins, and though we fix our attention upon our pastor unwinkingly, we cannot follow his meaning, or indeed discover that he has any; his words beat upon our ears with a sense of wearying, empty babble. Is not a man supposed to select a text for the purpose of expounding it? But Mr. Skipworth does nothing of the sort. He walks up to it, it is true, and looks at us over the other side, he ambles round it, makes dashes at it, repeats it over and over again, but never really grasps its meaning and brings it home to us. In his ramblings he mentions Methuselah, and the name catching my wandering
