Even In Beautiful England I Never Saw A Prettier Sight Than The
Assembling Of The Congregation.
The church is built upon a very steep
little knoll, the base of which is nearly encircled by a river.
Close to
it is a long shed, in which the horses are tethered during service, and
little belligerent sounds, such as screaming and kicking, occasionally
find their way into church. The building is light and pretty inside, very
simple, but in excellent taste; and though there is no organ, the singing
and chanting, conducted by the younger portion of the congregation, is on
a par with some of the best in our town churches at home. There were no
persons poorly clad, and all looked happy, sturdy, and independent. The
bright scarlet leaves of the oak and maple pressed against the windows,
giving them in the sunlight something of the appearance of stained glass;
the rippling of the river was heard below, and round us, far, far away,
stretched the forest. Here, where the great Manitou was once worshipped, a
purer faith now reigns, and the allegiance of the people is more firmly
established by "the sound of the church-going bells" than by the bayonets
of our troops. These heaven-pointing spires are links between Canada and
England; they remind the emigrant of the ivy-mantled church in which he
was first taught to bend his knees to his Creator, and of the hallowed
dust around its walls, where the sacred ashes of his fathers sleep.
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