 | Twice-told tales |  |
SUNDAY AT HOME.
SUNDAY AT HOME.
Every Sabbath morning, in the summer time, I
thrust back the curtain, to watch the sunrise stealing
down a steeple, which stands opposite my chamber
window. First, the weathercock begins to flash; then,
a fainter lustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next it
encroaches on the tower, and causes the index of the
dial to glisten like gold, as it points to the gilded figure
of the hour. Now, the loftiest window gleams,
and now the lower. The carved frame-work of the
portal is marked strongly out. At length, the morning
glory, in its descent from Heaven, comes down the
stone steps, one by one; and there stands the steeple,
glowing with fresh radiance, while the shades of twilight
still hide themselves among the nooks of the
adjacent buildings. Methinks, though the same sun
brightens it, every fair morning, yet the steeple has a
peculiar robe of brightness for the Sabbath.
By dwelling near a church, a person soon contracts
it, and conceive its massive walls, and its dim emptiness,
to be instinct with a calm, and meditative, and
somewhat melancholy spirit. But the steeple stands
foremost, in our thoughts, as well as locally. It impresses
us as a giant, with a mind comprehensive and
discriminating enough to care for the great and small
concerns of all the town. Hourly, while it speaks a
moral to the few that think, it reminds thousands of
busy individuals of their separate and most secret
affairs. It is the steeple, too, that flings abroad the
hurried and irregular accents of general alarm; neither
have gladness and festivity found a better utterance,
than by its tongue; and when the dead are slowly
passing to their home, the steeple has a melancholy
voice to bid them welcome. Yet, in spite of this connexion
with human interests, what a moral loneliness,
on week days, broods round about its stately height!
It has no kindred with the houses above which it
towers; it looks down into the narrow thoroughfare,
the lonelier, because the crowd are elbowing their
passage at its base. A glance at the body of the
church deepens this impression. Within, by the light
of distant windows, amid refracted shadows, we discern
the vacant pews and empty galleries, the silent
organ, the voiceless pulpit, and the clock, which tells
to solitude how time is passing. Time—where man
lives not—what is it but eternity? And in the church,
we might suppose, are garnered up, throughout the
eternity, until the holy day comes round again, to let
them forth. Might not, then, its more appropriate site
be in the outskirts of the town, with space for old
trees to wave around it, and throw their solemn shadows
over a quiet green? We will say more of this,
hereafter.
But, on the Sabbath, I watch the earliest sunshine,
and fancy that a holier brightness marks the day,
when there shall be no buzz of voices on the Exchange,
nor traffic in the shops, nor crowd, nor business,
anywhere but at church. Many have fancied
so. For my own part, whether I see it scattered down
among tangled woods, or beaming broad across the
fields, or hemmed in between brick buildings, or tracing
out the figure of the casement on my chamber
floor, still I recognise the Sabbath sunshine. And
ever let me recognise it! Some illusions, and this
among them, are the shadows of great truths. Doubts
may flit around me, or seem to close their evil wings,
and settle down; but, so long as I imagine that the
earth is hallowed, and the light of heaven retains its
sanctity, on the Sabbath—while that blessed sunshine
lives within me—never can my soul have lost the instinct
of its faith. If it have gone astray, it will return
again.
I love to spend such pleasant Sabbaths, from morning
till night, behind the curtain of my open window.
Are they spent amiss? Every spot, so near the church
should be deemed consecrated ground, to-day. With
stronger truth be it said, that a devout heart may consecrate
a den of thieves, as an evil one may convert a
temple to the same. My heart, perhaps, has not such
holy, nor, I would fain trust, such impious potency.
It must suffice, that, though my form be absent, my
inner man goes constantly to church, while many,
whose bodily presence fills the accustomed seats, have
left their souls at home. But I am there, even before
my friend, the sexton. At length, he comes—a man
of kindly, but sombre aspect, in dark gray clothes,
and hair of the same mixture—he comes, and applies
his key to the wide portal. Now, my thoughts may
go in among 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 door-way, 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 worshipers 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
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 upwards, and black silk downwards 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 door-way. 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
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 peep-hole,
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 soul, might I not leave all the rest to
Him?
Hark! the hymn. This, at least, is a portion of
the service which I can enjoy better than if I sat within
the walls, where the full choir, and the massive
melody of the organ, would fall with a weight upon
me. At this distance, it thrills through my frame,
and plays upon my heart-strings, with a pleasure both
of the sense and spirit. Heaven be praised, I know
nothing of music, as a science; and the most elaborate
harmonies, if they please me, please as simply as
a nurse's lullaby. The strain has ceased, but prolongs
from my reverie, and find that the sermon has commenced.
It is my misfortune seldom to fructify, in a
regular way, by any but printed sermons. The first
strong idea, which the preacher utters, gives birth to
a train of thought, and leads me onward, step by step,
quite out of hearing of the good man's voice, unless
he be indeed a son of thunder. At my open window,
catching now and then a sentence of the `parson's
saw,' I am as well situated as at the foot of the pulpit
stairs. The broken and scattered fragments of this
one discourse will be the texts of many sermons,
preached by those colleague pastors—colleagues, but
often disputants—my Mind and Heart. The former
pretends to be a scholar, and perplexes me with doctrinal
points; the latter takes me on the score of feeling;
and both, like several other preachers, spend
their strength to very little purpose. I, their sole
auditor, cannot always understand them.
Suppose that a few hours have passed, and behold
me still behind my curtain, just before the close of
the afternoon service. The hour-hand on the dial has
passed beyond four o'clock. The declining sun is
hidden behind the steeple, and throws its shadow
straight across the street, so that my chamber is darkened,
as with a cloud. Around the church door, all
is solitude, and an impenetrable obscurity, beyond the
threshold. A commotion is heard. The seats are
slammed down, and the pew doors thrown back—a
aisles—and the congregation bursts suddenly through
the portal. Foremost, scampers a rabble of boys, behind
whom moves a dense and dark phalanx of grown
men, and lastly, a crowd of females, with young children,
and a few scattered husbands. This instantaneous
outbreak of life into loneliness is one of the pleasantest
scenes of the day. Some of the good people are rubbing
their eyes, thereby intimating that they have
been wrapt, as it were, in a sort of holy trance, by
the fervor of their devotion. There is a young man,
a third-rate coxcomb, whose first care is always to
flourish a white handkerchief, and brush the seat of a
tight pair of black silk pantaloons, which shine as if
varnished. They must have been made of the stuff
called `everlasting,' or perhaps of the same piece as
Christian's garments, in the Pilgrim's Progress, for he
put them on two summers ago, and has not yet worn
the gloss off. I have taken a great liking to those
black silk pantaloons. But, now, with nods and
greetings among friends, each matron takes her husband's
arm, and paces gravely homeward, while the
girls also flutter away, after arranging sunset walks
with their favored bachelors. The Sabbath eve is the
eve of love. At length, the whole congregation is
dispersed. No; here, with faces as glossy as black
satin, come two sable ladies and a sable gentleman,
and close in their rear, the minister, who softens his
severe visage, and bestows a kind word on each. Poor
in Heaven, is—`There we shall be white!'
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 down from Heaven, this blessed morn, to blend
themselves with the worship of the truly good, are
playing and singing their farewell to the earth. On
the wings of that rich melody, they were borne upward.
This, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetry. A
few of the singing men and singing women had lingered
behind their fellows, and raised their voices fitfully,
and blew a careless note upon the organ. Yet, it
lifted my soul higher than all their former strains.
They are gone—the sons and daughters of music—
and the gray sexton is just closing the portal. For
six days more, there will be no face of man in the
pews, and aisles, and galleries, nor a voice in the
pulpit, nor music in the choir. Was it worth while
to rear this massive edifice, to be a desert in the heart
of the town, and populous only for a few hours of each
seventh day? Oh! but the church is a symbol of
religion. May its site, which was consecrated on the
day when the first tree was felled, be kept holy for ever,
a spot of solitude and peace, amid the trouble and
vanity of our week-day world! There is a moral, and
a religion too, even in the silent walls. And, may the
steeple still point heavenward, and be decked with the
hallowed sunshine of the Sabbath morn!
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