of trumpets pointing heavenward from the top.  This enormous toy occupies much space that could be better filled, and is only less superfluous than the bell; but we must pardon and indulge a foible.  We could never see that Mr. Forrest walked any better for having such thick legs; yet they have their admirers.  Blind old Handel played on an instrument very different from this, but the sexton had to eat a cold Sunday dinner; for not a Christian would stir as long as the old man touched the keys after service.  But not old Handel nor older Gabriel could make such music as swells and roars from three thousand human voices,—–­the regular choir of Plymouth Church.  It is a decisive proof of the excellence and heartiness of this choir, that the great organ has not lessened its effectiveness.

It is not clear to the distant spectator by what aperture Mr. Beecher enters the church.  He is suddenly discovered to be present, seated in his place on the platform,—­an under-sized gentleman in a black stock.  His hair combed behind his ears, and worn a little longer than usual, imparts to his appearance something of the Puritan, and calls to mind his father, the champion of orthodoxy in heretical Boston.  In conducting the opening exercises, and, indeed, on all occasions of ceremony, Mr. Beecher shows himself an artist,—­both his language and his demeanor being marked by the most refined decorum.  An elegant, finished simplicity characterizes all he does and says:  not a word too much, nor a word misused, nor a word waited for, nor an unharmonious movement, mars the satisfaction of the auditor.  The habit of living for thirty years in the view of a multitude, together with a natural sense of the becoming, and a quick sympathy with men and circumstances, has wrought up his public demeanor to a point near perfection.  A candidate for public honors could not study a better model.  This is the more remarkable, because it is a purely spiritual triumph.  Mr. Beecher’s person is not imposing, nor his natural manner graceful.  It is his complete extirpation of the desire of producing an illegitimate effect; it is his sincerity and genuineness as a human being; it is the dignity of his character, and his command of his powers,—­which give him this easy mastery over every situation in which he finds himself.

Extempore prayers are not, perhaps, a proper subject for comment.  The grand feature of the preliminary services of this church is the singing, which is not executed by the first talent that money can command.  When the prelude upon the organ is finished, the whole congregation, almost every individual in it, as if by a spontaneous and irresistible impulse, stands up and sings.  We are not aware that anything has ever been done or said to bring about this result; nor does the minister of the church set the example, for he usually remains sitting and silent It seems as if every one in the congregation was so full of something that he felt impelled to get up and sing