The seven steps allude to many sevens--the seven sabbatical years, seven years of plenty, seven years of famine, seven years during which K. S.'s T. was in course of erection, seven golden candlesticks, but more particularly the seven liberal arts and sciences, which are Grammar, Rhetoric, Logic, Arithmetic, Geometry, Astronomy and Music. (Note:--A fine effect can be had, if an organ is played, by using the following. The organist should begin to play softly when the speaker begins on "Music:") Music is that elevated science which affects the passions by sound. There are few who have not felt its charms, and acknowledged its expressions to be intelligible to the heart. It is a language of delightful sensations, far more eloquent than words; it breathes to the ear the clearest intimations; it touches and gently agitates the agreeable and sublime passions; it wraps us in melancholy, elevates us in joy and melts us in tenderness. Again the pathetic dies away and martial strains are heard, reminding us of the battlefield and its attendant glory. (As the word "glory" is pronounced the organist at once strikes the chords of some war-music like "Dixie," "Marseilles Hymn," etc. After a few bars are played with full organ, the organist lets the music die away to a soft and gentle tremolo, and the Deacon resumes): The glorious notes of the battle-hymn float over the red field of carnage. Brave men hear the inspiring music; the ranks close up; the bayonets are fixed; and, with a cheer which strikes terror to the heart of the foe, they rush forward in one glorious charge, across the plain slippery with the blood of patriots, up the opposing hillside, even to the mouth of cannon belching forth fire and death.--But stop! Look yonder! The dying soldier raises his head. His breast is already crimson with his heart's-blood. His eye even now is dimming and glazing. The old home comes back to him in memory. He puts his hand to his ear as if listening. What does he hear? (Here the organist plays softly the strains of "Home, Sweet Home," or some well-known lullaby; during which the Deacon continues): Ah, it is the old, old melody of youth and home! Again we are around the old hearthstone. Again do we kneel at mother's knee to lisp the evening prayer. Again she takes us in her arms, and sings to her tired child the soft, low lullaby of childhood's happy days.--Oh, Music, Music! Art Divine! Thou dost move and stir the heart as nothing else can do! Yet never canst thy sweet potency be better used than when it inspires praise and gratitude to the great Lord and Master of us all! (At the word "all," the organist promptly strikes the chords of "Old Hundred," and, to its accompaniment, the Master calling up the Lodge, all unite in singing the long-metre doxology.) This brings us to the outer door of the M. C., which we find partly open, but strictly tiled by the J. W. We will see if we can gain admission. J. W.: "Who comes here?"