The performance, however, is so exquisite that we do not think of these things, but listen in rapture to the voice alone.  When the lady has finished her stanza, a noble barytone, also recognized as professional, takes up the strain, and performs a stanza, solo; at the conclusion of which, four voices, in enchanting accord breathe out a third.  It is evident that the “first talent that money can command” has been “engaged” for the entertainment of the congregation; and we are not surprised when the information is proudly communicated that the music costs a hundred and twenty dollars per Sunday.

What is very surprising and well worthy of consideration is, that this beautiful music does not “draw.”  In our rovings about among the noted churches of New York,—­of the kind which “engage the first talent that money can command,”—­we could never see that the audience was much increased by expensive professional music.  On the contrary, we can lay it down as a general rule, that the costlier the music, the smaller is the average attendance.  The afternoon service at Trinity Church, for example, is little more than a delightful gratuitous concert of boys, men, and organ; and the spectacle of the altar brilliantly lighted by candles is novel and highly picturesque.  The sermon also is of the fashionable length,—­twenty minutes; and yet the usual afternoon congregation is about two hundred persons.  Those celestial strains of music,—­well, they enchant the ear, if the ear happens to be within hearing of them; but somehow they do not furnish a continuous attraction.

When this fine prelude is ended, the minister’s part begins; and, unless he is a man of extraordinary bearing and talents, every one present is conscious of a kind of lapse in the tone of the occasion.  Genius composed the music; the “first talent” executed it; the performance has thrilled the soul, and exalted expectation; but the voice now heard may be ordinary, and the words uttered may be homely, or even common.  No one unaccustomed to the place can help feeling a certain incongruity between the language heard and the scene witnessed.  Everything we see is modern; the words we hear are ancient.  The preacher speaks of “humble believers,” and we look around and ask, Where are they?  Are these costly and elegant persons humble believers?  Far be it from us to intimate that they are not; we are speaking only of their appearance, and its effect upon a casual beholder.  The clergyman reads,

     “Come let us join in sweet accord,”

and straightway four hired performers execute a piece of difficult music to an audience sitting passive.  He discourses upon the “pleasures of the world,” as being at war with the interests of the soul; and while a severe sentence to this effect is coming from his lips, down the aisle marches the sexton, showing some stranger to a seat, who is a professional master of the revels.  He expresses, perchance, a fervent