The earliest is invariably an old woman in black whosebent frame and rounded shoulders are evidently ladenwith some heavy affliction which she is eager to rest uponthe altar. Would that the Sabbath came twice as often，for the sake of that sorrowful old soul！ There is an elderlyman， also， who arrives in good season and leans againstthe corner of the tower， just within the line of its shadow，looking downward with a darksome brow. I sometimesfancy that the old woman is the happier of the two. Afterthese， others drop in singly and by twos and threes， eitherdisappearing through the doorway or taking their standin its vicinity. At last， and always with an unexpectedsensation， the bell turns in the steeple overhead andthrows out an irregular clangor， jarring the tower to itsfoundation. As if there were magic in the sound， thesidewalks of the street， both up and down along， areimmediately thronged with two long lines of people， allconverging hitherward and streaming into the church.
Perhaps the far-off roar of a coach draws nearer—adeeper thunder by its contrast with the surroundingstillness—until it sets down the wealthy worshippers atthe portal among their humblest brethren. Beyond thatentrance—in theory， at least—there are no distinctions ofearthly rank； nor， indeed， by the goodly apparel which isflaunting in the sun would there seem to be such on thehither side. Those pretty girls！ Why will they disturb mypious meditations？ Of all days in the week， they shouldstrive to look least fascinating on the Sabbath， insteadof heightening their mortal loveliness， as if to rival theblessed angels and keep our thoughts from heaven. Were Ithe minister himself， I must needs look. One girl is whitemuslin from the waist upward and black silk downward toher slippers； a second blushes from top-knot to shoe-tie，one universal scarlet； another shines of a pervading yellow，as if she had made a garment of the sunshine. The greaterpart， however， have adopted a milder cheerfulness of hue.
Their veils， especially when the wind raises them， give alightness to the general effect and make them appear likeairy phantoms as they flit up the steps and vanish into thesombre doorway. Nearly all—though it is very strange thatI should know it—wear white stockings， white as snow，and neat slippers laced crosswise with black ribbon prettyhigh above the ankles. A white stocking is infinitely moreeffective than a black one.
Here comes the clergyman， slow and solemn， in severesimplicity， needing no black silk gown to denote his office.
His aspect claims my reverence， but cannot win my love.
Were I to picture Saint Peter keeping fast the gate ofHeaven and frowning， more stern than pitiful， on thewretched applicants， that face should be my study. Bymiddle age， or sooner， the creed has generally wroughtupon the heart or been attempered by it. As the ministerpasses into the church the bell holds its iron tongue andall the low murmur of the congregation dies away. Thegray sexton looks up and down the street and then at mywindow-curtain， where through the small peephole I halffancy that he has caught my eye. Now every loiterer hasgone in and the street lies asleep in the quiet sun， whilea feeling of loneliness comes over me， and brings alsoan 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 topray. Could I bring my heart into unison with those whoare praying in yonder church and lift it heavenward witha fervor of supplication， but no distinct request， wouldnot that be the safest kind of prayer？ — “Lord， look downupon me in mercy！” With that sentiment gushing from mysoul， might I not leave all the rest to him？
Hark！ the hymn！ This， at least， is a portion of the servicewhich I can enjoy better than if I sat within the walls，where the full choir and the massive melody of the organwould fall with a weight upon me. At this distance it thrillsthrough my frame and plays upon my heart-strings with apleasure both of the sense and spirit. Heaven be praised！
