There
was always at least one good sermon,--this floral homily. There was at
least one good prayer,--that brief space when all were silent, after the
manner of the Friends at their devotions.
Here, too, Iris found an atmosphere of peace and love. The same gentle,
thoughtful faces, the same cheerful but reverential spirit, the same
quiet, the same life of active benevolence. But in all else how
different from the Church of Saint Polycarp! No clerical costume, no
ceremonial forms, no carefully trained choirs. A liturgy they have, to
be sure, which does not scruple to borrow from the time-honored manuals
of devotion, but also does not hesitate to change its expressions to its
own liking.
Perhaps the good people seem a little easy with each other;--they are apt
to nod familiarly, and have even been known to whisper before the
minister came in. But it is a relief to get rid of that old
Sunday--no,--Sabbath face, which suggests the idea that the first day of
the week is commemorative of some most mournful event.
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