ifice, and
the smart young preacher is too smart for them altogether. His rhetoric
is like the cold carving and frescos,--very fine, very admirable, no
doubt; but it has no warmth in it for them; it is foreign to their
common daily lives; it comes not near the hopes and fears and sufferings
of their humble hearts. Here religion, which too long suffered
abasement, is exalted. It is highly respectable. It shows culture; it
has the tone of society. It is worth while coming hither of a Sunday
morning, if only to hear the organ and see the fashions. Yet it can
hardly be expected that such creatures as the Williamses should
appreciate the privilege of hearing and beholding from the inclosure
which has been properly set off for their class,--the colored people's
pew.

But Fessendon's might have done better, one would say, than to stay at
home with them. Why didn't he go to church, and be somebody? _He_ would
not have been put into the niggers' pew. As for his clothes, which might
have been objected to by worldly people, who would have thought of them,
or of anything else but his immortal soul, in the house of God? Of
course, there were no respecters of persons there,--none to say to a
rich Frisbie, or an eloquent Gingerford, "Sit thou, here, in a good
place," and to a ragged Fessenden's, "Stand thou there."

But perhaps the less said on the subject the better. Pass over that
golden Sunday in the lad's life. Alas, when will he ever have such
another? For here it is Monday morning, and the house is to be torn
down.

There seems to be no mistake about it. Mr. Frisbie has come over early,
driven in his light open carriage by his man Stephen, to see that the
niggers are out. And yonder come the workmen, to commence the work of
demolition.

But the niggers are not out; not an article of furniture has been
removed.

"You see, Sir,"--Mr. Williams calmly represents the case to his
landlord, as he sits in his carriage,--"it has been impossible. We shall
certainly go, just as soon as we can get another house anywhere in
town"--

"I don't want you to get another house in town," interrupts the
full-blooded, red-faced Frisbie. "We have had enough of you. You have
had fair warning. Now out with your traps, and off with you!"

"I trust, at least, Sir, you will give us another week"--

"Not an hour!"

"One day," remonstrates the mild negro; "I don't think you will refuse
us that."

"Not a minute!" exclaims the firm Frisbie. "I'v