The congregation of our Parish Church is tolerably numerous, and embraces many fine human specimens.  Money and fashion are well represented at it; and as Zadkiel and the author of Pogmoor Almanac say those powers have to rule for a long time, we may take it for granted that the Parish Church will yet outlive many of the minor raving academies in which they are absent.  There is touch more generalisation than there used to be as to the sittings in our Parish Church; but “birds of a feather flock together” still.  The rich know their quarters; exquisite gentlemen and smart young ladies with morrocco-bound gilt-edged Prayer Books still cluster in special sections; and although it is said that the poor have the best part of the church allotted to them, the conspicuousness of its position gives a brand to it neither healthy nor pleasant.  They are seated down the centre aisle; but the place is too demonstrative of their poverty.  If half the seats were empty, situated excellently though they may be, you wouldn’t catch any respectable weasle asleep on them.  If some doctor, or magistrate, or private bib-and-tucker lady had to anchor here, supposing there were any spare place in any other part of the house, there would be a good deal of quizzing and wonderment afloat.  If you don’t believe it put on a highly refined dress and try the experiment; and if you are not very specially spotted we wild give a fifty dollar greenback on behalf of the society for converting missionary eaters in Chillingowullabadorie.  We shall say nothing with regard to the ordinary service of the Parish Church, except this, that it would look better of three fourths of the congregation if they would not leave the responses to a paid choir.  “Lor, bless yer,” as Betsy Jane Ward would say, a choir will sing, anything put before them if it is set to music; and they think no more of getting through all that sad business about personal sinfulness, agonising repentance, and a general craving for forgiveness, than the odd woman did when she used to kiss her cow and say it was delicious.  There was once a period when all Parish Church goers made open confession joined audibly in the prayers, and said “Amen” as if they meant it; although we are doubtful about even that.  Now, the choir does all the work, and the congregation are left behind the distance post to think about the matter.  But if it suits the people it’s quite right.

There are three parsons at our Parish Church—­Canon Parr, who is the seventeenth vicar in a regular line of succession since the Reformation and two curates.  As to the curates we shall say nothing beyond this, that one has got a better situation and is going to it, and that the other would like one if he could get it—­not that the present is at all bad, only that there are others better.  We don’t know how many curates there have been at the Parish Church since the Reformation; but it, may be safely said that in their turn they have, as a rule, accepted