hangs in the tower of Plymouth Church.  It is the most superfluous article in the known world.  The New-Yorker who steps on board the Fulton ferry-boat about ten o’clock on Sunday morning finds himself accompanied by a large crowd of people who bear the visible stamp of strangers, who are going to Henry Ward Beecher’s church.  You can pick them out with perfect certainty.  You see the fact in their countenances, in their dress, in their demeanor, as well as hear it in words of eager expectation.  They are the kind of people who regard wearing-apparel somewhat in the light of its utility, and are not crushed by their clothes.  They are the sort of people who take the “Tribune,” and get up courses of lectures in the country towns.  From every quarter of Brooklyn, in street cars and on foot, streams of people are converging toward the same place.  Every Sunday morning and evening, rain or shine, there is the same concourse, the same crowd at the gates before they are open, and the same long, laborious effort to get thirty-five hundred people into a building that will seat but twenty-seven hundred.  Besides the ten or twelve members of the church who volunteer to assist in this labor, there is employed a force of six policemen at the doors, to prevent the multitude from choking all ingress.  Seats are retained for their proprietors until ten minutes before the time of beginning; after that the strangers are admitted.  Mr. Buckle, if he were with us still, would be pleased to know that his doctrine of averages holds good in this instance; since every Sunday about a churchful of persons come to this church, so that not many who come fail to get in.

There is nothing of the ecclesiastical drawing-room in the arrangements of this edifice.  It is a very plain brick building, in a narrow street of small, pleasant houses, and the interior is only striking from its extent and convenience.  The simple, old-fashioned design of the builder was to provide seats for as many people as the space would hold; and in executing this design, he constructed one of the finest interiors in the country, since the most pleasing and inspiriting spectacle that human eyes ever behold in this world is such an assembly as fills this church.  The audience is grandly displayed in those wide, rounded galleries, surging up high against the white walls, and scooped out deep in the slanting floor, leaving the carpeted platform the vortex of an arrested whirlpool.  Often it happens that two or three little children get lodged upon the edge of the platform, and sit there on the carpet among the flowers during the service, giving to the picture a singularly pleasing relief, as though they and the bouquets had been arranged by the same skilful hand, and for the same purpose.  And it seems quite natural and proper that children should form part of so bright and joyous an occasion.  Behind the platform rises to the ceiling the huge organ, of dark wood and silvered pipes, with fans