THERE is no objection to building costly church-houses, in the best architectural style, provided the object be to secure comfort and convenience for the attendance of worshipers; gorgeous appointments are out of place, and minister to vanity, to say nothing of repelling the poor, however reprehensible their prejudices. I was once very much impressed when attending a great church in a strange city, with a wealthy membership, with the plainness of everything, even the dress of the ladies. The house was old-fashioned; the choir was in the back part of the gallery; hymn-books were all over the house,—the old hymns written from the heart-experience of the authors, and therefore surviving through a century, sung to old, imperishable tunes. At least five hundred voices joined in carrying three parts. I took my seat on a short, curved seat in a back corner, supposing the better pews rented, but the vigilance of one of the janitors soon noticed and conducted me to a choice pew in the immediate front of the pulpit. I learned that these best pews were reserved for strangers. What with a glorious sermon from the text, “If any man sin, we have an Advocate with the Father,” the soulful singing, and the contrast of what I had seen on the streets, for once I lost control of myself.