MATINS.

'TWAS Sunday morn at a stylish church

Not a hundred miles away,

Where the fashion and wealth of a seaside town

Assembled to praise and pray.

The church was fair to a sinner's eye,

The chancel was deep and dark,

The organ new, and a handsome priest

To kindle the holy spark.

The seats were finished with chiselled oak,

Well cushioned, inviting, and soft.

Ten thousand, 't is said, was paid for the choir

That sang in the organ-loft.

The bells in the tower no longer swing,

The sexton looks grave and neat;

The carriages empty the sinners out,

And fairly block the street.

In rustling of silks and suppressed remarks

The sinners enter the church;

The hired pews are slowly filled,

Leaving me out in the lurch.

The pride of Pingard and Parisian silks

Are gathered to praise the Lord,

While the Dunlap hats and lavender kids

At the very beginning look bored.

The minister murmurs the well-known words,

Responses are soft and low,

The dresses resplendent, the men demure,

On the whole a respectable show.

The angels, no doubt, looked with joy and pride

At the wealth and display they saw,

And wondered that sinners had never thought

Of this way of praising before.

A clatter is heard at the outer gate

When the prayer is half-way through;

'T is Mrs. Smythers, who mounts the aisle

And noisily enters her pew.

The prayer is over; a holy hush

Pervades the assembled throng.

"I wonder," I hear a young lady say,

"Why S - wears her train so long."

"Te Deum Laudamus" the choir sings

To the Maker of heaven and earth,

While I hear the answer whispered back,

"She got it last year from Worth."

Again the people resettle themselves,

While the lesson resounds in my ear.

At my side Mrs. F - leans forward to say,

"She had it made over this year!"

The blessing is said, and the sinners disband,

Forgiven, but glad of release,

No wonder the angels in heaven rejoice

Over penitent sinners like these.

Z.