{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_9201/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_9201","id":"gutenberg_9201","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9201","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Children's Literature","Historical fiction, American","New England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction","Short stories"],"text":"Produced by David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                         TWICE TOLD TALES\n\n                          SUNDAY AT HOME\n\n                      By Nathaniel Hawthorne\n\n\n\nEvery Sabbath morning in the summer time I thrust back the curtain, to\nwatch the sunrise stealing down a steeple, which stands opposite my\nchamber-window.  First, the weathercock begins to flash; then, a fainter\nlustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next it encroaches on the tower,\nand causes the index of the dial to glisten like gold, as it points to\nthe gilded figure of the hour.  Now, the loftiest window gleams, and now\nthe lower.  The carved framework of the portal is marked strongly out.\nAt length, the morning glory, in its descent from heaven, comes down the\nstone steps, one by one; and there stands the steeple, glowing with fresh\nradiance, while the shades of twilight still hide themselves among the\nnooks of the adjacent buildings.  Methinks, though the same sun brightens\nit every fair morning, yet the steeple has a peculiar robe of brightness\nfor the Sabbath.\n\nBy dwelling near a church, a person soon contracts an attachment for the\nedifice.  We naturally personify it, and conceive its massive walls and\nits dim emptiness to be instinct with a calm, and meditative, and\nsomewhat melancholy spirit.  But the steeple stands foremost, in our\nthoughts, as well as locally.  It impresses us as a giant, with a mind\ncomprehensive and discriminating enough to care for the great and small\nconcerns of all the town.  Hourly, while it speaks a moral to the few\nthat think, it reminds thousands of busy individuals of their separate\nand most secret affairs.  It is the steeple, too, that flings abroad the\nhurried and irregular accents of general alarm; neither have gladness and\nfestivity found a better utterance, than by its tongue; and when the dead\nare slowly passing to their home, the steeple has a melancholy voice to\nbid them welcome.  Yet, in spite of this connection with human interests,\nwhat a moral loneliness, on week-days, broods round about its stately\nheight!  It has no kindred with the houses above which it towers; it\nlooks down into the narrow thoroughfare, the lonelier, because the crowd\nare elbowing their passage at its base.  A glance at the body of the\nchurch deepens this impression.  Within, by the light of distant windows,\namid refracted shadows, we discern the vacant pews and empty galleries,\nthe silent organ, the voiceless pulpit, and the clock, which tells to\nsolitude how time is passing.  Time,--where man lives not,--what is it\nbut eternity?  And in the church, we might suppose, are garnered up,\nthroughout the week, all thoughts and feelings that have reference to\neternity, until the holy day comes round again, to let them forth.  Might\nnot, then, its more appropriate site be in the outskirts of the town,\nwith space for old trees to wave around it, and throw their solemn\nshadows over a quiet green?  We will say more of this, hereafter.\n\nBut, on the Sabbath, I watch the earliest sunshine, and fancy that a\nholier brightness marks the day, when there shall be no buzz of voices on\nthe exchange, nor traffic in the shops, nor crowd, nor business, anywhere\nbut at church.  Many have fancied so.  For my own part, whether I see it\nscattered down among tangled woods, or beaming broad across the fields,\nor hemmed in between brick buildings, or tracing out the figure of the\ncasement on my chamber-floor, still I recognize the Sabbath sunshine.\nAnd ever let me recognize it!  Some illusions, and this among them, are\nthe shadows of great truths.  Doubts may flit around me, or seem to close\ntheir evil wings, and settle down; but so long as I imagine that the\nearth is hallowed, and the light of heaven retains its sanctity, on the\nSabbath,--while that blessed sunshine lives within me,--never can my\nsoul have lost the instinct of its faith.  If it have gone astray, it\nwill return again.\n\nI love to spend such pleasant Sabbaths, from morning till night, behind\nthe curtain of my open window.  Are they spent amiss?  Every spot, so\nnear the church as to be visited by the circling shadow of the steeple,\nshould be deemed consecrated ground, to-day.  With stronger truth be it\nsaid, that a devout heart may consecrate a den of thieves, as an evil one\nmay convert a temple to the same.  My heart, perhaps, has not such holy,\nnor, I would fain trust, such impious potency.  It must suffice, that,\nthough my form be absent, my inner man goes constantly to church, while\nmany, whose bodily presence fills the accustomed seats, have left their\nsouls at home.  But I am there, even before my friend, the sexton.  At\nlength, he comes,--a man of kindly, but sombre aspect, in dark gray\nclothes, and hair of the same mixture,--he comes and applies his key to\nthe wide portal.  Now my thoughts may go in among the dusty pews, or\nascend the pulpit without sacrilege, but soon come forth again to enjoy\nthe music of the bell.  How glad, yet solemn too!  All the steeples in\ntown are talking together, aloft in the sunny air, and rejoicing among\nthemselves, while their spires point heavenward.  Meantime, here are the\nchildren assembling to the Sabbath school, which is kept somewhere within\nthe church.  Often, while looking at the arched portal, I have been\ngladdened by the sight of a score of these little girls and boys, in\npink, blue, yellow, and crimson frocks, bursting suddenly forth into the\nsunshine, like a swarm of gay butterflies that had been shut up in the\nsolemn gloom.  Or I might compare them to cherubs, haunting that holy\nplace.\n\nAbout a quarter of an hour before the second ringing of the bell,\nindividuals of the congregation begin to appear.  The earliest is\ninvariably an old woman in black, whose bent frame and rounded shoulders\nare evidently laden with some heavy affliction, which she is eager to\nrest upon the altar.  Would that the Sabbath came twice as often, for the\nsake of that sorrowful old soul!  There is an elderly man, also, who\narrives in good season, and leans against the corner of the tower, just\nwithin the line of its shadow, looking downward with a darksome brow.  I\nsometimes fancy that the old woman is the happier of the two.  After\nthese, others drop in singly, and by twos and threes, either disappearing\nthrough the doorway or taking their stand in its vicinity.  At last, and\nalways with an unexpected sensation, the bell turns in the steeple\noverhead, and throws out an irregular clangor, jarring the tower to its\nfoundation.  As if there were magic in the sound, the sidewalks of the\nstreet, both up and down along, are immediately thronged with two long\nlines of people, all converging hitherward, and streaming into the\nchurch.  Perhaps the far-off roar of a coach draws nearer,--a deeper\nthunder by its contrast with the surrounding stillness,--until it sets\ndown the wealthy worshippers at the portal, among their humblest\nbrethren.  Beyond that entrance, in theory at least, there are no\ndistinctions of earthly rank; nor indeed, by the goodly apparel which\nis flaunting in the sun, would there seem to be such, on the hither side.\nThose pretty girls!  Why will they disturb my pious meditations!  Of all\ndays in the week, they should strive to look least fascinating on the\nSabbath, instead of heightening their mortal loveliness, as if to rival\nthe blessed angels, and keep our thoughts from heaven.  Were I the\nminister himself, I must needs look.  One girl is white muslin from the\nwaist upwards, and black silk downwards to her slippers; a second blushes\nfrom topknot to shoe-tie, one universal scarlet; another shines of a\npervading yellow, as if she had made a garment of the sunshine.  The\ngreater part, however, have adopted a milder cheerfulness of hue.  Their\nveils, especially when the wind raises them, give a lightness to the\ngeneral effect, and make them appear like airy phantoms, as they flit up\nthe steps, and vanish into the sombre doorway.  Nearly all--though it is\nvery strange that I should know it--wear white stockings, white as snow,\nand neat slippers, laced crosswise with black ribbon, pretty high above\nthe ankles.  A white stocking is infinitely more effective than a black\none.\n\nHere comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in severe simplicity,\nneeding no black silk gown to denote his office.  His aspect claims\nmy reverence, but cannot win my love.  Were I to picture Saint Peter,\nkeeping fast the gate of heaven, and frowning, more stern than pitiful,\non the wretched applicants, that face should be my study.  By middle age,\nor sooner, the creed has generally wrought upon the heart, or been\na-tempered by it.  As the minister passes into the church, the bell holds\nits iron tongue, and all the low murmur of the congregation dies away.\nThe gray sexton looks up and down the street, and then at my\nwindow-curtain, where, through the small peephole, I half fancy that he\nhas caught my  eye.  Now, every loiterer has gone in, and the street\nlies asleep in the quiet sun, while a feeling of loneliness comes over\nme, and brings also an uneasy sense of neglected privileges and duties.\nO, I ought to have gone  to church!  The hustle of the rising\ncongregation reaches  my ears.  They are standing up to pray.  Could I\nbring my heart into unison with those who are praying in yonder church,\nand lift it heavenward, with a fervor of supplication, but no distinct\nrequest, would not that be the safest kind of prayer?  \"Lord, look down\nupon me in mercy!\"  With that sentiment gushing from my soul, might I\nnot leave all the rest to Him?\n\nHark!  the hymn.  This, at least, is a portion of the service which I\ncan enjoy better than if I sat within the walls, where the full choir\nand the massive melody of the organ, would fall with a weight upon me.\nAt this distance, it thrills through my frame, and plays upon my\nheartstrings, with a pleasure both of the sense and spirit.  Heaven be\npraised, I know nothing of music, as a science; and the most elaborate\nharmonies, if they please me, please as simply as a nurse's lullaby.\nThe strain has ceased, but prolongs itself in my mind, with fanciful\nechoes, till I start from my revery, and find that the sermon has\ncommenced.  It is my misfortune seldom to fructify, in a regular way, by\nany but printed sermons.  The first strong idea, which the preacher\nutters, gives birth to a train of thought, and leads me onward, step by\nstep, quite out of hearing of the good man's voice, unless he be indeed\na son of thunder.  At my open window, catching now and then a sentence\nof the \"parson's saw,\" I am as well situated as at the foot of the\npulpit stairs.  The broken and scattered fragments of this one discourse\nwill be the texts of many sermons, preached by those  colleague\npastors,--colleagues, but often disputants,--my Mind and Heart.  The\nformer pretends to be a  scholar, and perplexes me with doctrinal\npoints; the latter takes me on the score of feeling; and both, like\nseveral other preachers, spend their strength to very little purpose.\nI, their sole auditor, cannot always understand them.\n\nSuppose that a few hours have passed, and behold me still behind my\ncurtain, just before the close of the afternoon service.  The hour-hand\non the dial has passed beyond four o'clock.  The declining sun is hidden\nbehind the steeple, and throws its shadow straight across the street, so\nthat my chamber is darkened, as with a cloud.  Around the church-door all\nis solitude, and an impenetrable obscurity beyond the threshold.  A\ncommotion is heard.  The seats are slammed down, and the pew-doors thrown\nback,--a multitude of feet are trampling along the unseen aisles,--and\nthe congregation bursts suddenly through the portal.  Foremost, scampers\na rabble of boys, behind whom moves a dense and dark phalanx of grown\nmen, and lastly, a crowd of females, with young children, and a few\nscattered husbands.  This instantaneous outbreak of life into loneliness\nis one of the pleasantest scenes of the day.  Some of the good people are\nrubbing their eyes, thereby intimating that they have been wrapped, as it\nwere, in a sort of holy trance, by the fervor of their devotion.  There\nis a young man, a third-rate coxcomb, whose first care is always to\nflourish a white handkerchief, and brush the seat of a tight pair of\nblack silk pantaloons, which shine as if varnished.  They must have been\nmade of the stuff called \"everlasting,\" or perhaps of the same piece as\nChristian's garments in the Pilgrim's Progress, for he put them on two\nsummers ago, and has not yet worn the gloss off.  I have taken a great\nliking to those black silk pantaloons.  But, now, with nods and greetings\namong friends, each matron takes her husband's arm, and paces gravely\nhomeward, while the girls also flutter away, after arranging sunset walks\nwith their favored bachelors.  The Sabbath eve is the eve of love.  At\nlength, the whole congregation is dispersed.  No; here, with faces as\nglossy as black satin, come two sable ladies and a sable gentleman, and\nclose in their rear the minister, who softens his severe visage, and\nbestows a kind word on each.  Poor souls!  To them the most captivating\npicture of bliss in heaven is--\"There we shall be white!\"\n\nAll is solitude again.  But, hark!--a broken warbling of voices, and now,\nattuning its grandeur to their sweetness, a stately peal of the organ.\nWho are the choristers?  Let me dream that the angels, who came down from\nheaven, this blessed morn, to blend themselves with the worship of the\ntruly good, are playing and singing their farewell to the earth.  On the\nwings of that rich melody they were borne upward.\n\nThis, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetry.  A few of the singing\nmen and singing women had lingered behind their fellows, and raised their\nvoices fitfully, and blew a careless note upon the organ.  Yet, it lifted\nmy soul higher than all their former strains.  They are gone, the sons and\ndaughters of music,--and the gray sexton is just closing the portal.  For\nsix days more, there will be no face of man in the pews, and aisles, and\ngalleries, nor a voice in the pulpit, nor music in the choir.  Was it\nworth while to rear this massive edifice, to be a desert in the heart of\nthe town, and populous only for a few hours of each seventh day?  O, but\nthe church is a symbol of religion!  May its site, which was consecrated\non the day when the first tree was felled, be kept holy forever, a spot\nof solitude and peace, amid the trouble and vanity of our week-day world!\nThere is a moral, and a religion too, even in the silent walls.  And may\nthe steeple still point heavenward, and be decked with the hallowed\nsunshine of the Sabbath morn!","title":"Sunday at Home (From \"Twice Told Tales\")","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":2539}