Religious.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 606, 15 September 1883, Page 4

Religious.

THE PEW AS SEEN FROM THE PULPIT. As you preach the word, my dear young brother, cast your eyes around upon the congregation and you will observe these people, as follows, to wit, namely, viz. : I. The Sleeper. —He will be there. Peradventure he leaneth his chin upon a cane, so that when the moment of deep and pn-ofound slumber cometh upon him, his chin slippeth off and with the bang of his head upon the pew in front of him he is awaked. Howbeit the bang upon his wife’s head no man can hear. Or, the slumberer may sit bolt upright and nod in time to his deep and regular breathing. Only when you cast your eyes upon him, the watchful wife at his bosom stibs him with her elbow and he glareth upon the congregation as who should say : “He that sayeth I slept, the same is a liar and a villain and a horsethief.” Or, if he be so that he leaneth his head back until the lid thereof faileth down between his shoulders, and he playeth fantastic tunes with his nose, insomuch that the boys in the gallery make merry over the same, then is it hazardous to awaken this slumberer right suddenly, because he dreameth of divers things and sayetb to the tithing man who shaketh him up, “ Hey ? hi ! ha ! yes, yes, all right? I’m up.” And thus is the congregation much scandalised. But if he foldeth his handkerchief over the back of tlie pew in front, and boweth his head devoutly upon the same, even in that moment when the text is pronounced, then will that sleeper trouble no one, but will slumber sweetly on until the time of the benediction ; and he will awaken refreshed and smiling, and he will extol the sermon and magnify the preacher. He is the oldtimer from Sleepy Hollow. 11. The Lounger. —He falls into the pew and slides easily into the most comfortable corner. He shakes himself down into a comfortable attitude. His legs extend under the pew in front and meet his hips at the crookedest of obtuse angles. He crooks his pliant elbow into the arm of the pew, and drops the side of his face into the fearful hollow of his hand, by means of which he pushes his cheek up into his eye. His shoulders are nearly on a level with his head. Every time you look at him you expect to see him slide of sight. .And although you are a good man, sometimes you wish he would, and never come up again. 111. The Fidget.— Whether you look for him or not you know where he is. He pushes the hassock away with a long, resonant groan of its own. Then he sits bolt upright, hooks his shoulder-blades over the back of the pew, and hangs on. He is going to sit still this Sunday, if it kills him. But the pew is too high, so he settles down a little. Then he puts a hymn-book between his back and the pew. Then he leans forward and lets it fall with a crash. Then he folds his arms ; he half turns and lays one arm along the back of the pew. suddenly he slides down and braces both knees against the back of the pew in front. Ah, that’s comfort. It lasts ninety seconds, when he abruptly straightens up, elevates both arms, and hooks his elbows over the back of his pew. That isn’t what he wants; his legs are tired; he reaches for the hassock with both feet, upsets it, and in a frantic effort to stay it, kicks it against the pew. Covered with burning embarrassment he pulls out his watch twice or thrice without once looking at it. He folds his arms across his b reast, then he crosses them behind his back ; he thrusts his hands into his pockets, he drops a Bible on the floor and puts his feet into his hat, and at times you look to see him go all to pieces, but he doesn’t. He stays together and comes back next Sunday, every limb and joint of him. IV. The Watcher. —His neck is fitted on a glole socket and turns clear around. He sees everything that goes on. The man who comes in late does not escape him, and it is vain for the tenor to think he got a little note to the alto conveyed between the leaves of the hymn-book unobserved. The watcher saw it. He sees the hole in the quarter that Elder Skinner dropped in the plate. He sees that Deacon Slowboy has on but one cuff. If the door swings he looks around ; if the window moves noiselessly he looks up. He sees the stranger in his neighbor’s pew, and he sees brother Badman sitting away back under the gallery, furtively take a chew of the inhibited fine-cut. All things that nobody wants him to see the watcher sees. He sees so much that he has no time to listen.—Burdett in the Cincinnati Enquirer.