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 arc
rubbing their eyes, thereby intimating that they have been wrapped, 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 souls! To them the most captivating
picture of bliss 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