sided piece of anatomy, with an elongated phiz, nose like a fish hook, and lips blown to a point by his constant musical exertions. In order to add dignity to the delegation, Mr. Wonderful Gruff--whose magic powers wooed harmony from an antiquated base viol--accompanied Mr. Heth. Mr. Gruff was the wisest man in Droneville. To be sure, he never spoke a word to reveal his wisdom, but then he _looked_ tremendous wise, and a nod or a grunt from Mr. Gruff, had more influence in the village councils, than a speech of an hour’s length from most men. Mr. Gruff was a perfect personification of conceited obstinacy. His short stubborn neck and mulish character, evinced a perfect harmony of parts, and unity of design. Such were the animals which presented themselves in the parson’s study. Mr. Heth, of course, was the orator--and such a one! He was none of your concise speakers, who tell all they have to say in the fewest words possible, but an eloquent, long-winded orator, able to talk a vast while without saying any thing. Mr. Heth was very fond of onions--the parson, however, had rather an aversion to these delicacies. Mr. Heth was, moreover, afflicted with deafness, and for the double purpose of increasing the effect of his own masterly powers, and hearing his auditor’s replies, he drew a chair near his victim, and for about half an hour, blew an irresistible torrent of eloquence into the parson’s nose. Unable to resist such honied words, accompanied by a voice which rivaled the most cracked notes of Mr. Heth’s own clarionet, and seconded by the momentous nods and grunts of Mr. Gruff, the parson declared himself a convert to the principles of the anti-bonnets. This was the signal of triumph to their party--their opponents were crushed, and the bonnets were banished from the choir. After several weeks spent in preparation, the eventful Sabbath finally arrived, when the _élite_ of Droneville maidens, were to appear in ‘unbonneted’ beauty. Never had there been such an excitement in Droneville. The choir, and their appearance, were discussed in all places. It was regularly “served up,” at every tea table in the village. “What are Droneville people coming to,” exclaimed the old ladies; “things are changed since we were lads,” responded the veterans. “If I hadn’t any more hair than Polly Snipe, you wouldn’t catch me singing with my bonnet off,” said Miss Catnip. The day arrived; it was a cool bracing morning in January; but never, “within the memory of the oldest inhabitants,” had Droneville church been so crowded. While the parson was imploring God’s blessing, the bucks were ogling and whispering, the singers were turning over the leaves of their books, an occasional note escaped from the nose of Mr. Long Metre, Mr. Gruff was tuning his base viol, Mr. Heth was caulking his clarionet. The hymn is at length “given out,”--all eyes are turned to the gallery,--every mouth is opened in wondering expectation,--the blind wipe their spectacles,