The pretty servant did not nod—­an act—­which she considered as too flippant for the solemnity of devotion—­but she gently bowed her head, and closed her eyes in assent—­upon which was heard a somewhat cheerful groan, replete with true unction, inside the parlor, followed by a voice that said, “ah, Susannah!” pronounced in a tone of grave but placid remonstrance; Susannah immediately entered, and the voice, which was that of our attorney, proceeded—­“Susannah take your place—­long measure, eight lines, four eights, and two sixes.”  The psalm was then raised or pitched by Solomon himself, who was followed by six or eight others, each in a different key, but all with such reluctance to approach their leader, that from a principle of unworthiness, they allowed him, as the more pious, to get far in advance of them.  In this manner they sang two verses, and it was remarkable, that although on coming to the conclusion, Solomon was far ahead, and the rest nowhere, yet, from the same principle of unworthiness, they left the finish, as they did the start, altogether to himself.  The psalm was accordingly wound up by a kind of understanding or accompaniment between his mouth and nose, which seemed each moved by a zealous but godly struggle to excel the other, if not in melody at least in loudness.  They then all knelt down, and Solomon launched, with a sonorous voice, into an extempore prayer, which was accompanied by a solemn commentary of groanings, sighings, moanings, and muffled ejaculations, that cannot otherwise be described except by saying that they resembled something between a screech and a scream.  Their devotions being over, Darby, having delivered M’Clutchy’s letter, was desired to take a seat in the office, until Mr. M’Slime should be at leisure to send a reply.

“Sit down, my good friend, Darby, sit down, and be at ease, at least in your body; I do not suffer any one who has an immortal soul to be saved to stand in my office—­and as you have one to be saved, Darby, you must sit.  The pride of this vain life is our besetting sin, and happy are they who are enabled to overcome it—­may he be praised!—­sit down.”

“I’m thankful to you, sir,” said Darby, “oh, thin, Mr. M’Slime, it would be well for the world if every attorney in it was like you, sir—­there would be little honesty goin’ asthray, sir, if there was.”

“Sam Sharpe, my dear boy, if you have not that bill of costs finished—­”

“No sir.”

“A good boy, Sam—­well, do not omit thirteen and four pence for two letters, which I ought to have sent—­as a part of my moral, independently of my professional duty—­to Widow Lenehan, having explained to her by word of mouth, that which I ought in conscience, to have written—­but indeed my conscience often leads me to the—­what should I say?—­the merciful side in these matters.  No, Darby, my friend, you cannot see into my heart, or you would not say so—­I am frail, Darby, and sinful—­I am not up to the standard, my friend, neither have I acted up to my privileges—­the freedom of the gospel! is a blessed thing, provided we abuse it not’—­well, Sam, my good young friend—­”