and Gibbon; the deaths of these are contrasted with the obsequies of the righteous, and the old-fashioned, material place of punishment is reasserted and minutely described.  The text is then said to naturally resolve itself into three parts—­the injunction, the direction, and some practical illustrations.  The injunction, it is further allowed, re-subdivides itself, and these parts are each proclaimed in the form of speech of “Once more.”  We are quite too old a hand at listening to imagine that “once more” means only once more, and start to enumerate the beams in the roof, the panes in the windows, and the gray hairs in the old gentleman’s head before us.  About the time that we feel sleepy an anecdote arouses us:  then the iteration of expletives from the membership succeeds; we see that the owner of the tuning-fork has fallen to sleep in so ingenious an attitude that he would never have been detected but for his snore, and are amused by the fashion one good lady has of slowly wagging her head as she drinks in the discourse.  A slight commotion in the gallery arises, which gives a steward excuse to steal down the aisle and hasten to the scene of disturbance; the final appeal, brimming with the poetry of mercy, grace, patience, and salvation is said; we all kneel down upon the hard cold floor while the last prayer is being made, and receive the benediction, as if some invisible shadow of bright wings had fallen upon the dust and fever of our lives.

To say that the first person is weary but vindicates the sagacity of our father, who steals down to our side and whispers, “You may go out, Fred, if you are tired.”  But curiosity compels us to remain after the congregation is dismissed, that we may hear the class-meeting experiences.

Those solemn corollaries to the service thrill me with their recollection even now.  The almost empty church echoing the sobs of the weary, and heart-bruised, and spirit-broken; the pinched, hard faces of the older people telling their bitter trials in bereavement, misappreciation, and poverty.  But bursting through all, that unconquerable enthusiasm which lends to the face more than the glow of intelligence, and to the heart more than the recompense of riches; the timid utterance of the younger converts, outlining the rebellious instincts of their tempted bodies, and their need of more faith, grace, and help divine.  While these speak in order, the bald-headed chorister interpolates appropriate snatches of psalms, and the preacher cries, “Patience, my brother!  All will be well!  Hope on, hope ever!”

At last the impatient negroes in the gallery have their opportunity, and roll down thunders of exuberant piety, which, by their natural, almost inspired eloquence, pathos, and vehemence, stir even their masters to ejaculations of praise.

How must such spiritually social reunions cheer the long, hard lives of these poor, remote believers!  He was a profound statesman who, projecting a gospel for the lowly, devised the class-meeting as an outlet for their suppressed emotions, sympathies, and sorrows.