SOME of the most pleasing and poetic ideas of our literature have arisen from associations connected with unpretending rural churches. Every person capable of sympathizing with these sentiments will at once perceive the importance of allowing them to exercise a large influence over the construction of every such building. It is from a continual and systematic disregard of these poetic associations that have arisen that vacancy and coldness of sentiment which distinguish most of our parish chapels and "meeting houses."

On a Sabbath morning, after the toil and cares of the week, spent, perhaps, in the town, and quite worn out by fatigue and heat, we involuntarily find consolation and pleasant greeting in the sweet sounds of "the church-going bells." Gently the melo dious strains fall from the modest spire and echo among the hills. Our steps are irresistibly drawn churchward. The village meeting house is nearer, and attended by a more fashionable audience, but we

have seen enough of such worship, and long for a participation in that of a simpler and purer tone. So our first glance at the plain and almost severe architecture of this little church gives us a sensation of relief, and we feel that this indeed is "the house of God." We draw nearer by the winding roads, and at length reach the litch gate, that gives entrance into the churchyard. Here, shaded by noble trees, and among moss-covered gravestones, "the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."

Hard by stands the church. The ivy has crept quite up its rugged walls, and, undisturbed and undirected, invested them with tokens of the tender sympathy of nature. As we enter, we instinctively and reverently bow. As without, so within, all is plain and, it may be, rude, yet so strictly appropriate that the very air seems holy.

Let us turn from this quiet picture, and compare with it that much more frequent one of the pretentious and formal place of worship, which doubtless is a characteristic of our country. It stands in a cramped and unattractive spot, given, probably, by some worldly-minded parishioner, who, as he gave, estimated the sure rise in his surrounding land. A lumber merchant, a carpenter, and a "solid man" constitute the building committee. The material selected is wood, of course, that it may be furnished by the lumber merchant, and the carpenter make a good profit on the contract, while the plan adopted is that most pleasing to our "solid man," from whom a liberal donation is expected. This is not an overdrawn picture, but only too truly indicates the manner in

which many of our churches are built. Frequently, stone designs are built in wood, sanded, and blocked off most cunningly. The interior walls of plaster must also represent stone, and the really respectable furniture of wood must be painted in imitation of some more expensive material.

There can be no greater inconsistency than these continual expressions of falsehood, in a place which should, of all others, be devoted to truth. If compelled, from a scarcity of stone, or other cause, to employ wood, let your churches show a wood construction; if your interior walls are of plaster, so let them appear, appropriately ornamented, if you will, but never deceptive.

The interior of the design we present is bold but simple. The north entrance porch is balanced by a similar structure on the south, which is used for the organ and choir, thus carrying out the cruciform plan. The principal feature is the deep and spacious chancel, which not only always adds great effect to the design, but gives solemnity to the services of the church.

In regard to the bell, it may be necessary to state that the rope should pass through a pipe built in the wall and terminating in the vestry room, otherwise it would hang awkwardly before the chancel.

Estimate. The above design would cost about $6,000. The author has recently furnished similar designs for a church at Wilton, Conn., to cost $4,500, with 350 sittings.