SUNDAY AT HOME.
Every Sabbath morning in the summer-time I thrust back the curtain towatch the sunrise stealing down a steeple which stands opposite mychamber window. First the weathercock begins to flash; then a fainterlustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next it encroaches on the towerand causes the index of the dial to glisten like gold as it points tothe gilded figure of the hour. Now the loftiest window gleams, and nowthe lower. The carved framework of the portal is marked strongly out.At length the morning glory in its descent from heaven comes down thestone steps one by one, and there stands the steeple glowing withfresh radiance, while the shades of twilight still hide themselvesamong the nooks of the adjacent buildings. Methinks though the samesun brightens it every fair morning, yet the steeple has a peculiarrobe of brightness for the Sabbath.
By dwelling near a church a person soon contracts an attachment forthe edifice. We naturally personify it, and conceive its massy wallsand its dim emptiness to be instinct with a calm and meditative andsomewhat melancholy spirit. But the steeple stands foremost in ourthoughts, as well as locally. It impresses us as a giant with a mindcomprehensive and discriminating enough to care for the great andsmall concerns of all the town. Hourly, while it speaks a moral to thefew that think, it reminds thousands of busy individuals of theirseparate and most secret affairs. It is the steeple, too, that flingsabroad the hurried and irregular accents of general alarm; neitherhave gladness and festivity found a better utterance than by itstongue; and when the dead are slowly passing to their home, thesteeple has a melancholy voice to bid them welcome. Yet, in spite ofthis connection with human interests, what a moral loneliness onweek-days broods round about its stately height! It has no kindredwith the houses above which it towers; it looks down into the narrowthoroughfare--the lonelier because the crowd are elbowing theirpassage at its base. A glance at the body of the church deepens thisimpression. Within, by the light of distant windows, amid refractedshadows we discern the vacant pews and empty galleries, the silentorgan, the voiceless pulpit and the clock which tells to solitude howtime is passing. Time--where man lives not--what is it but eternity?And in the church, we might suppose, are garnered up throughout theweek all thoughts and feelings that have reference to eternity, untilthe holy day comes round again to let them forth. Might not, then, itsmore appropriate site be in the outskirts of the town, with space forold trees to wave around it and throw their solemn shadows over aquiet green? We will say more of this hereafter.
But on the Sabbath I watch the earliest sunshine and fancy that aholier brightness marks the day when there shall be no buzz of voiceson the Exchange nor traffic in the shops, nor crowd nor businessanywhere but at church. Many have fancied so. For my own part, whetherI see it scattered down among tangled woods, or beaming broad acrossthe fields, or hemmed in between brick buildings, or tracing out thefigure of the casement on my chamber floor, still I recognize theSabbath sunshine. And ever let me recognize it! Some illusions--andthis among them--are the shadows of great truths. Doubts may flitaround me or seem to close their evil wings and settle down, but solong as I imagine that the earth is hallowed and the light of heavenretains its sanctity on the Sabbath--while that blessed sunshine liveswithin me--never can my soul have lost the instinct of its faith. Ifit have gone astray, it will return again.
I love to spend such pleasant Sabbaths from morning till night behindthe curtain of my open window. Are they spent amiss? Every spot sonear the church as to be visited by the circling shadow of the steepleshould be deemed consecrated ground to-day. With stronger truth be itsaid that a devout heart may consecrate a den of thieves, as an evilone may convert a temple to the same. My heart, perhaps, has no suchholy, nor, I would fain trust, such impious, potency. It must sufficethat, though my form be absent, my inner man goes constantly tochurch, while many whose bodily presence fills the accustomed seatshave left their souls at home. But I am there even before my friendthe sexton. At length he comes--a man of kindly but sombre aspect, indark gray clothes, and hair of the same mixture. He comes and applieshis key to the wide portal. Now my thoughts may go in among the dustypews or ascend the pulpit without sacrilege, but soon come forth againto enjoy the music of the bell. How glad, yet solemn too! All thesteeples in town are talking together aloft in the sunny air andrejoicing among themselves while their spires point heavenward.Meantime, here are the children assembling to the Sabbath-school,which is kept somewhere within the church. Often, while looking at thearched portal, I have been gladdened by the sight of a score of theselittle girls and boys in pink, blue, yellow and crimson frocksbursting suddenly forth into the sunshine like a swarm of gaybutterflies that had been shut up in the solemn gloom. Or I mightcompare them to cherubs haunting that holy place.
About a quarter of an hour before the second ringing of the bellindividuals of the congregation begin to appear. The earliest isinvariably an old woman in black whose bent frame and roundedshoulders are evidently laden with some heavy affliction which she iseager to rest upon the altar. Would that the Sabbath came twice asoften, for the sake of that sorrowful old soul! There is an elderlyman, also, who arrives in good season and leans against the corner ofthe tower, just within the line of its shadow, looking downward with adarksome brow. I sometimes fancy that the old woman is the happier ofthe two. After these, others drop in singly and by twos and threes,either disappearing through the doorway or taking their stand in itsvicinity. At last, and always with an unexpected sensation, the bellturns in the steeple overhead and throws out an irregular clangor,jarring the tower to its foundation. As if there were magic in thesound, the sidewalks of the street, both up and down along, areimmediately thronged with two long lines of people, all converginghitherward and streaming into the church. Perhaps the far-off roar ofa coach draws nearer--a deeper thunder by its contrast with thesurrounding stillness--until it sets down the wealthy worshippers atthe portal among their humblest brethren. Beyond that entrance--intheory, at least--there are no distinctions of earthly rank; nor,indeed, by the goodly apparel which is flaunting in the sun wouldthere seem to be such on the hither side. Those pretty girls! Why willthey disturb my pious meditations? Of all days in the week, theyshould strive to look least fascinating on the Sabbath, instead ofheightening their mortal loveliness, as if to rival the blessed angelsand keep our thoughts from heaven. Were I the minister himself, I mustneeds look. One girl is white muslin from the waist upward and blacksilk downward to her slippers; a second blushes from top-knot toshoe-tie, one universal scarlet; another shines of a pervading yellow,as if she had made a garment of the sunshine. The greater part,however, have adopted a milder cheerfulness of hue. Their veils,especially when the wind raises them, give a lightness to the generaleffect and make them appear like airy phantoms as they flit up thesteps and vanish into the sombre doorway. Nearly all--though it isvery strange that I should know it--wear white stockings, white assnow, and neat slippers laced crosswise with black ribbon pretty highabove the ankles. A white stocking is infinitely more effective than ablack one.
Here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in severe simplicity,needing no black silk gown to denote his office. His aspect claims myreverence, but cannot win my love. Were I to picture Saint Peterkeeping fast the gate of Heaven and frowning, more stern than pitiful,on the wretched applicants, that face should be my study. By middleage, or sooner, the creed has generally wrought upon the heart or beenattempered by it. As the minister passes into the church the bellholds its iron tongue and all the low murmur of the congregation diesaway. The gray sexton looks up and down the street and then at mywindow-curtain, where through the small peephole I half fancy that hehas caught my eye. Now every loiterer has gone in and the street liesasleep in the quiet sun, while a feeling of loneliness comes over me,and brings also an uneasy sense of neglected privileges and duties.Oh, I ought to have gone to church! The bustle of the risingcongregation reaches my ears. They are standing up to pray. Could Ibring my heart into unison with those who are praying in yonder churchand lift it heavenwar
d with a fervor of supplication, but no distinctrequest, would not that be the safest kind of prayer?--"Lord, lookdown upon me in mercy!" With that sentiment gushing from my soul,might I not leave all the rest to him?
Hark! the hymn! This, at least, is a portion of the service which Ican enjoy better than if I sat within the walls, where the full choirand the massive melody of the organ would fall with a weight upon me.At this distance it thrills through my frame and plays upon myheart-strings with a pleasure both of the sense and spirit. Heaven bepraised! I know nothing of music as a science, and the most elaborateharmonies, if they please me, please as simply as a nurse's lullaby.The strain has ceased, but prolongs itself in my mind with fancifulechoes till I start from my reverie and find that the sermon hascommenced. It is my misfortune seldom to fructify in a regular way byany but printed sermons. The first strong idea which the preacherutters gives birth to a train of thought and leads me onward step bystep quite out of hearing of the good man's voice unless he be indeeda son of thunder. At my open window, catching now and then a sentenceof the "parson's saw," I am as well situated as at the foot of thepulpit stairs. The broken and scattered fragments of this onediscourse will be the texts of many sermons preached by thosecolleague pastors--colleagues, but often disputants--my Mind andHeart. The former pretends to be a scholar and perplexes me withdoctrinal points; the latter takes me on the score of feeling; andboth, like several other preachers, spend their strength to verylittle purpose. I, their sole auditor, cannot always understand them.
Suppose that a few hours have passed, and behold me still behind mycurtain just before the close of the afternoon service. The hour-handon the dial has passed beyond four o'clock. The declining sun ishidden behind the steeple and throws its shadow straight across thestreet; so that my chamber is darkened as with a cloud. Around thechurch door all is solitude, and an impenetrable obscurity beyond thethreshold. A commotion is heard. The seats are slammed down and thepew doors thrown back; a multitude of feet are trampling along theunseen aisles, and the congregation bursts suddenly through theportal. Foremost scampers a rabble of boys, behind whom moves a denseand dark phalanx of grown men, and lastly a crowd of females withyoung children and a few scattered husbands. This instantaneousoutbreak of life into loneliness is one of the pleasantest scenes ofthe day. Some of the good people are rubbing their eyes, therebyintimating that they have been wrapped, as it were, in a sort of holytrance by the fervor of their devotion. There is a young man, athird-rate coxcomb, whose first care is always to flourish a whitehandkerchief and brush the seat of a tight pair of black silkpantaloons which shine as if varnished. They must have been made ofthe stuff called "everlasting," or perhaps of the same piece asChristian's garments in the _Pilgrim's Progress_, for he put themon two summers ago and has not yet worn the gloss off. I have taken agreat liking to those black silk pantaloons. But now, with nods andgreetings among friends, each matron takes her husband's arm and pacesgravely homeward, while the girls also flutter away after arrangingsunset walks with their favored bachelors. The Sabbath eve is the eveof love. At length the whole congregation is dispersed. No; here, withfaces as glossy as black satin, come two sable ladies and a sablegentleman, and close in their rear the minister, who softens hissevere visage and bestows a kind word on each. Poor souls! To them themost captivating picture of bliss in heaven is "There we shall bewhite!"
All is solitude again. But hark! A broken warbling of voices, and now,attuning its grandeur to their sweetness, a stately peal of the organ.Who are the choristers? Let me dream that the angels who came downfrom heaven this blessed morn to blend themselves with the worship ofthe truly good are playing and singing their farewell to the earth. Onthe wings of that rich melody they were borne upward.
This, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetry. A few of thesinging-men and singing-women had lingered behind their fellows andraised their voices fitfully and blew a careless note upon the organ.Yet it lifted my soul higher than all their former strains. They aregone--the sons and daughters of Music--and the gray sexton is justclosing the portal. For six days more there will be no face of man inthe pews and aisles and galleries, nor a voice in the pulpit, normusic in the choir. Was it worth while to rear this massive edifice tobe a desert in the heart of the town and populous only for a few hoursof each seventh day? Oh, but the church is a symbol of religion. Mayits site, which was consecrated on the day when the first tree wasfelled, be kept holy for ever, a spot of solitude and peace amid thetrouble and vanity of our week-day world! There is a moral, and areligion too, even in the silent walls. And may the steeple stillpoint heavenward and be decked with the hallowed sunshine of theSabbath morn!