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