  THE young ladies have commenced doing a very naughty thing, which is nothing more nor less than inserting a looking-glass on the inner side of the book of "Common Prayer." It is so handy you know, when you are saying the responses, to pay your little devotions to the mirror, for how can one say the responses aright if her strings are fluttered or her chignon awry? And then you know you can get reflections from Celeste over in the next slip and examine her toilet and all the time be looking at your Prayer Book, like a good child. For combining the altar and the toilet, there is nothing like it. When the Rector intimates that Aurelia is a worm of the dust, she will look at her chignon and think of the gregarines. When he cautions her against pride, the sweet little Pharisee will glance at Celeste's shadow and be thankful that she is not as proud as C. But when she lisps the confession to her looking-glass, will she discover that she has left undone the things she ought to have done, and be miserable all through the service? And when the Rector says: "Keep thy foot when thou goest into the house of God *** and offer not the sacrifice of fools," will she see a fool in the looking-glass? Which reminds me to say that I shall go to the Old Folks' Concert on Monday night; and I shall revive the recollection of those days when Hepzibah, in a blue calico, sang treble and turned up her nose at Prudence, in bombazine, who sang second and always went off the key in the fugue; of those days when Zephaniah played bass viol with an unctuous, solemn sound, and sister Brown thought it was about time that Huldy Perkins published her banns if she was ever "a-goin 'ter"; when old Deacon Jones couldn't sleep well through the sermon, the "tarnal" flies "pestered him so;" when my aunt, in a black silk that would stand alone, and a white cap over those gray locks that are now strangely twisted among the roots of the daisies, always made the chorister mad when they sang Coronation because she couldn't get through the quirl in the final "Lord," without running off the track and wrecking half the congregation. There was a great deal of talk about this failing of my aunt's at the sewing bees, and it occasioned hard feelings between her and the chorister, but I have no doubt they have settled it now, and sing a great deal better than they did when they were in the flesh. At least, I hope they do.
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