The bent old sexton still tugged at the bell-rope in
the porch, nodding gravely, in the intervals of labor,
to his acquaintances as they passed him. The war-
den, with his long, white pole of office, still kept
in check unruly urchins, or gently tapped a man's



SUNDAY IN SANDOWNE. 155

head, asleep ; and the choir, composed of the most
blooming Sandowne youth of both sexes, led by
Sergeant Ewer, with a huge pitch-pipe in hand, dis-
persed sacred harmonies among the multitude. It
is, unfortunately, a part of every town history, to be
verified in any year, that village choristers are as
sensitive and unmanageable as Charlemagne's twelve
singers, whom the great Emperor begged from Rome
that the chanting of the service might be uniform
throughout his empire, and who, dispersed among
his bishops, despite the Emperor and Pope, sung
each in his own tune and method, until the despair-
ing monarch sent these unruly spirits back to Rome
and prison, — and the Sandowne choir was flesh and
blood like other mortals.
The galleries were black with worshippers as the
minister, leading the child Fritz with him, walked
slowly up the pulpit steps. A hymn was read and
sung ; a prayer offered, when the congregation all
stood up ; Scripture was read ; another hymn sung,
and then the sermon. It was a simple service, as
befitted the place and people. It was a Puritan
service, which it had cost fifteen hundi'ed years to
render possible, and they who offered it were chil-
dren of exiles in the wilderness, and sons of men
who had fought against kings for it.
