I know nothing of music as a science， and the mostelaborate harmonies， if they please me， please as simplyas a nurse’s lullaby. The strain has ceased， but prolongsitself in my mind with fanciful echoes till I start frommy reverie and find that the sermon has commenced. Itis my misfortune seldom to fructify in a regular way byany but printed sermons. The first strong idea which thepreacher utters gives birth to a train of thought and leadsme onward step by step quite out of hearing of the goodman’s voice unless he be indeed a son of thunder. At myopen window， catching now and then a sentence of the“parson’s saw，” I am as well situated as at the foot of thepulpit stairs. The broken and scattered fragments of thisone discourse will be the texts of many sermons preachedby those colleague pastors—colleagues， but oftendisputants—my Mind and Heart. The former pretendsto be a scholar and perplexes me with doctrinal points；the latter takes me on the score of feeling； and both， likeseveral other preachers， spend their strength to very littlepurpose. I， their sole auditor， cannot always understandthem.
Suppose that a few hours have passed， and beholdme still behind my curtain just before the close ofthe afternoon service. The hour-hand on the dial haspassed beyond four o’clock. The declining sun is hiddenbehind the steeple and throws its shadow straightacross the street； so that my chamber is darkened aswith a cloud. Around the church door all is solitude，and an impenetrable obscurity beyond the threshold.
A commotion is heard. The seats are slammed downand the pew doors thrown back； a multitude of feet aretrampling along the unseen aisles， and the congregationbursts suddenly through the portal. Foremost scampersa rabble of boys， behind whom moves a dense and darkphalanx of grown men， and lastly a crowd of femaleswith young children and a few scattered husbands. Thisinstantaneous outbreak of life into loneliness is one of thepleasantest scenes of the day. Some of the good peopleare rubbing their eyes， thereby intimating that they havebeen wrapped， as it were， in a sort of holy trance by thefervor of their devotion. There is a young man， a thirdratecoxcomb， whose first care is always to flourish awhite handkerchief and brush the seat of a tight pair ofblack silk pantaloons which shine as if varnished. Theymust have been made of the stuff called “everlasting，”
or perhaps of the same piece as Christian’s garments inthe Pilgrim’s Progress， for he put them on two summersago and has not yet worn the gloss off. I have taken agreat liking to those black silk pantaloons. But now， withnods and greetings among friends， each matron takes herhusband’s arm and paces gravely homeward， while the girlsalso flutter away after arranging sunset walks with theirfavored bachelors. The Sabbath eve is the eve of love. Atlength the whole congregation is dispersed. No； here， withfaces as glossy as black satin， come two sable ladies and asable gentleman， and close in their rear the minister， whosoftens his severe visage and bestows a kind word on each.
Poor souls！ To them the most captivating picture of blissin heaven is “There we shall be white！”
All is solitude again. But hark！ A broken warbling ofvoices， and now， attuning its grandeur to their sweetness，a stately peal of the organ. Who are the choristers？ Letme dream that the angels who came down from heaventhis blessed morn to blend themselves with the worship ofthe truly good are playing and singing their farewell to theearth. On the wings of that rich melody they were borneupward.
This， gentle reader， is merely a flight of poetry. A few ofthe singing-men and singing-women had lingered behindtheir fellows and raised their voices fitfully and blew acareless note upon the organ. Yet it lifted my soul higherthan all their former strains. They are gone—the sons anddaughters of Music—and the gray sexton is just closingthe portal. For six days more there will be no face of manin the pews and aisles and galleries， nor a voice in thepulpit， nor music in the choir. Was it worth while to rearthis massive edifice to be a desert in the heart of the townand 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 wasfelled， be kept holy for ever， a spot of solitude and peaceamid the trouble and vanity of our week-day world！ Thereis a moral， and a religion too， even in the silent walls. Andmay the steeple still point heavenward and be decked withthe hallowed sunshine of the Sabbath morn！