The Tarborough Southerner

Going to Preaching in the Country!

FALLS-OF TAR RIVER " MEETING HOUSE!

City reader, you don't know anything about it. Your conventional bosom has never palpitated with half the subdued ecstasies, with a tithe of the joys and hopes, the tender tremblings of the country church-goer.

He rises with the Sabbath sun. Devotes a half hour to rubbing and polishing the coat of his plow-horse. It is a weekly dressing.

Then he undergoes, under his own hand. the hebdomadal shave. The last mite of dust and defilement is studiously brushed from the Sunday-go-to-meeting suit.

His inward communings all the while being how he would appear to a certain country coquet. Has he not pondered the same matter since last preaching? There is no tardiness here.

Unlike his city cousin, he waits for no second bell. There is none.

By ten o'clock he has reached the spot, extricated and tied his animal to a swinging limb. Numerous squads of him can be seen standing about, sweeping with a swift eye the incoming vehicles and scanning the faces of the occupants. Or little coteries of the same typical individual sitting on the spreading roots of the magnificent oaks.

All are on the qui vive, but not for the preacher, nor the services.

His sharp eye shrewdly suspects the identity of a pair of horses, and a family carriage in the distance. You know this. You might safely swear it. See how he twists and points his Napoleonic moustache and imperial. Hear his nervous inconsequential replies to his friends, perhaps twitting him with his fancy.

The same old story is told again..

Off he rushes to the charmed spot where the conveyance has stopped. In his haste and tremulousness he almost offers to assist the colored driver down. but don't do it

Pulls his hat to the fair freight inside :—

"Good morning Miss Jeannie and Miss Mary, let me help you." Ah, blissful moment ! he absolutely touches the divine hand in aiding her to alight and seeing her up the steps of the Church.

And the little fairy, herself, does she come to worship?

Let's look at her:

"A dainty little bonnet.

The sweetest marabout,

A sea of tawny wavelets,

O'er forehead white as snow,

A brace of sparkling sapphires,

Two cheeks of rosy dye,

A pair of lips of ruby,

And a fascinating sigh."

Think'st thou she goes to worship?

Ah! it's difficult to tell.

But it's plain both saints and sinners,

Worship that Sabbath belle.

A tightly fitting bodice,

A costume all brocaded.

Short petticoats with flounces,

In endless colors braided

Enameled shoes with buckles.

Such as the Frenchmen vend,

With lofty, taper heel-taps,

To give a classic bend.

Think'st thou it's for God's glory,

She dresses out so well?

Or does she want some saint or sinner

To love the Sabbath belle?"

But now we regret to state a fact. As the little belle can't multiply herself into comforters for all the expectant beaux, the unfortunate ones usually linger on the outside of the Church during the entire service.

The truth of this picture can be verified on any Sabbath when services are held at the Falls church near Rocky Mount.

On Sunday last, accompanied by our friend, Capt. S. T. W., we attended this church, and listened to some pertinent remarks from Elder W. E. Green, and an able sermon from the popular and learned pastor, Rev. P. D. Gold.

After church the same nervousness is felt and the same scene re-enacted.

We departed wondering, if we did so, when we were young