There are in the Squire's pew long, faded, crimson cushions, which, it
seems to you, must date back nearly to the commencement of the Christian
era in this country. There are also sundry old thumb-worn copies of Dr.
Dwight's Version of the Psalms of David,--"appointed to be sung in
churches by authority of the General Association of the State of
Connecticut." The sides of Dr. Dwight's Version are, you observe, sadly
warped and weather-stained; and from some stray figures which appear
upon a fly-leaf you are constrained to think, that the Squire has
sometimes employed a quiet interval of the service with reckoning up the
contents of the old stocking-leg at home.
The parson is a stout man, remarkable in your opinion chiefly for a
yellowish-brown wig, a strong nasal tone, and occasional violent thumps
upon the little, dingy, red velvet cushion, studded with brass tacks, at
the top of the desk. You do not altogether admire his style; and by the
time he has entered upon his "Fourthly," you give your attention in
despair to a new reading (it must be the twentieth) of the preface to
Dr. Dwight's Version of the Psalms.
The singing has a charm for you.
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