Suppose that a few hours have passed , and behold me still behind my curtain , just before the close of the afternoon service . The hour-hand on the dial has passed beyond four o'clock . The declining sun is hidden behind the steeple , and throws its shadow straight across the street , so that my chamber is darkened , as with a cloud . Around the church-door all is solitude , and an impenetrable obscurity beyond the threshold . A commotion is heard . The seats are slammed down , and the pew-doors thrown back , -- a multitude of feet are trampling along the unseen aisles , -- and the congregation bursts suddenly through the portal . Foremost , scampers 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 are 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 XXXXX voices , and now , attuning its grandeur to their sweetness , a stately peal of the organ .
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