And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers summons
their several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his mansion
the family of the decent tradesman, the small children in the
advance; then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed by the
grown-up daughters, with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in
the folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks
after them from the window, admiring the finery of the family,
and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from her young
mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted.
Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city,
peradventure an alderman or a sheriff, and now the patter of many
feet announces it procession of charity scholars in uniforms of
antique cut, and each with a prayer-book under his arm.
The ringing of bells is at an end; the rumbling of the carriage
has ceased; the pattering of feet is heard no more; the flocks
are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and
corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle keeps
watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the
sanctuary. For a time everything is hushed, but soon is heard the
deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and vibrating through
the empty lanes and courts, and the sweet chanting of the choir
making them resound with melody and praise.
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