Every Sabbath morning in the summer-time I thrustback the curtain to watch the sunrise stealing down asteeple which stands opposite my chamber window. Firstthe weathercock begins to flash； then a fainter lustregives the spire an airy aspect； next it encroaches on thetower and causes the index of the dial to glisten like goldas it points to the gilded figure of the hour. Now theloftiest window gleams， and now the lower. The carvedframework of the portal is marked strongly out. At lengththe morning glory in its descent from heaven comes downthe stone steps one by one， and there stands the steepleglowing with fresh radiance， while the shades of twilightstill hide themselves among the nooks of the adjacentbuildings. Methinks though the same sun brightens itevery fair morning， yet the steeple has a peculiar robe ofbrightness for the Sabbath.
By dwelling near a church a person soon contracts anattachment for the edifice. We naturally personify it，and conceive its massy walls and its dim emptiness tobe instinct with a calm and meditative and somewhatmelancholy spirit. But the steeple stands foremost in ourthoughts， as well as locally. It impresses us as a giant witha mind comprehensive and discriminating enough to carefor the great and small concerns of all the town. Hourly，while it speaks a moral to the few that think， it remindsthousands of busy individuals of their separate and mostsecret affairs. It is the steeple， too， that flings abroad thehurried and irregular accents of general alarm； neitherhave gladness and festivity found a better utterance thanby its tongue； and when the dead are slowly passing totheir home， the steeple has a melancholy voice to bidthem welcome. Yet， in spite of this connection withhuman interests， what a moral loneliness on week-daysbroods round about its stately height！ It has no kindredwith the houses above which it towers； it looks downinto the narrow thoroughfare—the lonelier because thecrowd are elbowing their passage at its base. A glance atthe body of the church deepens this impression. Within，by the light of distant windows， amid refracted shadowswe discern the vacant pews and empty galleries， the silentorgan， the voiceless pulpit and the clock which tells tosolitude how time is passing. Time—where man livesnot—what is it but eternity？ And in the church， we mightsuppose， are garnered up throughout the week all thoughtsand feelings that have reference to eternity， until the holyday 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 theirsolemn shadows over a quiet green？ We will say more ofthis hereafter.
But on the Sabbath I watch the earliest sunshine andfancy that a holier brightness marks the day when thereshall be no buzz of voices on the Exchange nor traffic inthe shops， nor crowd nor business anywhere but at church.
Many have fancied so. For my own part， whether I see itscattered down among tangled woods， or beaming broadacross the fields， or hemmed in between brick buildings，or tracing out the figure of the casement on my chamberfloor， still I recognize the Sabbath sunshine. And ever letme recognize it！ Some illusions—and this among them—are the shadows of great truths. Doubts may flit aroundme or seem to close their evil wings and settle down， butso long as I imagine that the earth is hallowed and thelight of heaven retains its sanctity on the Sabbath—whilethat blessed sunshine lives within me—never can my soulhave lost the instinct of its faith. If it have gone astray， itwill return again.
I love to spend such pleasant Sabbaths from morningtill night behind the curtain of my open window. Are theyspent amiss？ Every spot so near the church as to be visitedby the circling shadow of the steeple should be deemedconsecrated ground to-day. With stronger truth be it saidthat a devout heart may consecrate a den of thieves， asan evil one may convert a temple to the same. My heart，perhaps， has no such holy， nor， I would fain trust， suchimpious， potency. It must suffice that， though my formbe absent， my inner man goes constantly to church， whilemany whose bodily presence fills the accustomed seatshave left their souls at home. But I am there even beforemy friend the sexton. At length he comes—a man of kindlybut sombre aspect， in dark gray clothes， and hair of thesame mixture. He comes and applies his key to the wideportal. Now my thoughts may go in among the dusty pewsor ascend the pulpit without sacrilege， but soon comeforth again to enjoy the music of the bell. How glad， yetsolemn too！ All the steeples in town are talking togetheraloft in the sunny air and rejoicing among themselveswhile their spires point heavenward. Meantime， here arethe children assembling to the Sabbath-school， which iskept somewhere within the church. Often， while lookingat the arched portal， I have been gladdened by the sightof a score of these little girls and boys in pink， blue，yellow and crimson frocks bursting suddenly forth intothe sunshine like a swarm of gay butterflies that had beenshut up in the solemn gloom. Or I might compare them tocherubs haunting that holy place.
About a quarter of an hour before the second ringing ofthe bell individuals of the congregation begin to appear.
