How I remember those patriarchal Sunday afternoons when all the available members of the families would assemble on the verandah—called “piazza,”—and, distributed in groups between the Greek columns, the old people in easy-chairs, mostly, I fear, of the rocking species, the younger ones on the steps, keep up tradition by singing hymns and psalms as in the days of Josiah and Joel, who had already joined the Choir Invisible. Josiah—other biblical names in the family were Joseph, James, Samuel, David, Sarah, Ruth, Esther—had been a Methodist minister, said to have had a beautiful voice, and the hymns we sang were chiefly of that church, like “Jerusalem the Golden,” “Every hour I need Thee,” “Why not come to Me now. ...” Commonplace as some of them unquestionably are from the musical standpoint, it is remarkable how their naïve sincerity invests them with a quality almost amounting to beauty. The devotional, artless singing of them, too, in the open air, for every passer-by to hear, and in the simplest possible harmonies, was most impressive. Add to that the strange force of mental association, and there is perhaps no wonder these hymns seem lovely to me to this day.