Twice Told Tales | Page 6

the dusty pews or
ascend the pulpit without sacrilege, but soon come forth again to enjoy
the music of the bell. How glad, yet solemn too! All the steeples in
town are talking together aloft in the sunny air and rejoicing 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 the arched portal, I have
been gladdened by the sight of a score of these little girls and boys in
pink, blue, yellow and crimson frocks bursting suddenly forth into the
sunshine like a swarm of gay butterflies that had been shut up in the
solemn gloom. Or I might compare them to cherubs haunting that holy
place.
About a quarter of an hour before the second ringing of the bell
individuals of the congregation begin to appear. The earliest is
invariably an old woman in black whose bent frame and rounded
shoulders are evidently laden with some heavy affliction which she is
eager to rest upon the altar. Would that the Sabbath came twice as often,
for the sake of that sorrowful old soul! There is an elderly man, also,
who arrives in good season and leans against the corner of the tower,
just within the line of its shadow, looking downward with a darksome
brow. I sometimes fancy that the old woman is the happier of the two.
After these, others drop in singly and by twos and threes, either
disappearing through the doorway or taking their stand in its vicinity.
At last, and always with an unexpected sensation, the bell turns in the
steeple overhead and throws out an irregular clangor, jarring the tower
to its foundation. As if there were magic in the sound, the sidewalks of
the street, both up and down along, are immediately thronged with two
long lines of people, all converging hitherward and streaming into the
church. Perhaps the far-off roar of a coach draws nearer--a deeper
thunder by its contrast with the surrounding stillness--until it sets down
the wealthy worshippers at the portal among their humblest brethren.
Beyond that entrance--in theory, at least--there are no distinctions of
earthly rank; nor, indeed, by the goodly apparel which is flaunting in
the sun would there seem to be such on the hither side. Those pretty
girls! Why will they disturb my pious meditations? Of all days in the

week, they should strive to look least fascinating on the Sabbath,
instead of heightening their mortal loveliness, as if to rival the blessed
angels and keep our thoughts from heaven. Were I the minister himself,
I must needs look. One girl is white muslin from the waist upward and
black silk downward to her 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 greater part, however,
have adopted a milder cheerfulness of hue. Their veils, especially when
the wind raises them, give a lightness to the general effect and make
them appear like airy phantoms as they flit up the steps and vanish into
the sombre doorway. Nearly all--though it is very strange that I should
know it--wear white stockings, white as snow, and neat slippers laced
crosswise with black ribbon pretty high above the ankles. A white
stocking is infinitely more effective than a black one.
Here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in severe simplicity,
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 of Heaven and frowning, more stern than pitiful,
on the wretched applicants, that face should be my study. By middle
age, or sooner, the creed has generally wrought upon the heart or been
attempered by it. As the minister passes into the church the bell holds
its iron tongue and all the low murmur of the congregation dies away.
The gray sexton looks up and down the street and then at my
window-curtain, where through the small peephole I half fancy that he
has caught my eye. Now every loiterer has gone in and the street lies
asleep 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 rising congregation
reaches my ears. They are standing up to pray. Could I bring my heart
into unison with those who are praying in yonder church and lift it
heavenward with a fervor of supplication, but no distinct request,
would not that be the safest kind of prayer?--"Lord, look down upon
me in mercy!" With that sentiment gushing from my