THE FOLK-SONG FESTIVAL.
AMONG the most delightful of all the entertainments given under the
auspices of the World’s Congress Auxiliary in the Art Palace, Chicago,
was the festival of the home songs of all nations. It was held in the
halls of Washington and Columbus, the same singers passing from the
one hall to the other, so that two audiences might enjoy the review of
the world’s popular songs on the same evening.
[Illustration: MR. FIELD.]
The singers, many of whom came from the nations represented on the
Midway Plaisance, were dressed in the costumes of their own country,
and were accompanied by their national instruments. The most beautiful
of all folk-songs were those of Wales; among the most unique, those
of India.
The representation of old New England tunes was interesting. The
concert closed late at night, the last number being “The Battle Cry of
Freedom,” sung by Dr. Root, the composer of the song.
Our trio listened to this wonderful festival with delight.
“Every town ought to have a choral society to sing these songs,” said
Mr. Marlowe; “they are, for the most part, songs of the heart. Even
the songs of the nations that we call heathen have human sympathy in
them. The human heart is one.”
[Illustration: HUNGARIAN DANCERS.]
Mr. Marlowe saved his programme for use in making up some limited
entertainment of the kind for home use.
“I will tell the story of ‘Hannah, Who Sang Countre,’” he said, “when
the Club meets again, and I will sing some of the old New England
tunes while telling the story.”
Mr. Marlowe carried into effect the thought. The story was as follows:—
HANNAH, WHO SANG COUNTRE.
A THANKSGIVING STORY.
I can see her now in my mind’s eye, as she used to sit alone on the
church steps, her white face beaming with benevolence beneath her
gray poke bonnet. The great bell hung over the steps, high in air.
It was silent then, or rung only by the sharp gusts of winds. Before
her was the old Puritan graveyard, in which slept all to whom she
could claim kin. Hannah Semple was a poor, lone woman. Her home was
among the lilac-bushes and apple-trees, but all that was mortal of
those dear to her was here under the gray stones. She loved to visit
them at early evenings. Her Sundays were always spent with them.
Hannah Semple’s heart had been true to her own family while they were
living; it was true still, and would always be the same.
I can, in memory, hear her sing, and her cracked voice was tender
and pitiful. Her favorite hymn began with a curious simile that
excited my curiosity before I knew its history, and my imagination,
afterwards:
“As on some lonely building’s top
The sparrow tells her moan,
Far from the tents of joy and hope,
I sit and grieve alone.”
The tune was “Hallowell,” a great favorite in the olden time. It was
one of those tunes in which, to my boyish ears, the singers of the
different parts chased each other about in a most harmonious and
wonderful way, and finally came out together at the end. The country
choirs who could perform such tunes to the accompaniment of bass
viols, were thought by the country people to have made great progress
in musical art. It was in the days of these majestic performances in
the choir-loft of the progressive Puritan church, that Hannah Semple
used to sing _countre_.
The church was closed now, and had been closed for two years: as
silent as the graveyard in which the hardy Puritans slept under the
mosses and zigzag stones. There was a progressive spirit in the old
Swansea neighborhood, which was one of the successive communities
that ran from Plymouth to the old towns founded by Roger Williams
and the Quaker-Baptists on the Narragansett Bay. This was shown by
the introduction of the bass viol into the choir, which soon found
an evolution in two bass viols; then in fugued tunes by Billings
and Holden and Maxim; then more bass viols, which were played on
Thanksgiving Day.
The greatest choral performance in those days, when Hannah sang
_countre_, was a tune called “Majesty,” by Billings. William Billings
was the musical wonder of these eventful times,—a rural Handel of the
many neighborhoods of Puritan churches. He did not know much about
counterpoint,—he followed only natural inspiration; but his music is
still to be found in collections. This tune, “Majesty,” was thought
to be his masterpiece, and was sung on all great occasions. The words
were as stirring as the music:—
“The Lord descended from above,
And bowed the heavens most high,
And underneath his feet he cast
The darkness of the sky.
“On cherub and on cherubim
Full royally he rode,
And on the wings of mighty winds
Came flying all abroad.”
Vigorous indeed was the rendering of this tune on Independence
days, after the reading of the immortal Declaration, and before the
Oration; and as inspiring also on Thanksgiving mornings, before the
long sermon. It required much practice on the part of the orchestra,
and hard were the bitings of the tuning fork, and severe were the
rehearsals, before it could be acceptably performed. The soprano was
a rural Patti, and as for the _basso profundo_, there is no present
comparison.
To sing _countre_ was held to be a great accomplishment in the days
of the music of Billings, Maxim, and Holden. By _countre_ we do
not mean the counter alto of the present time, but a kind of alto
or contralto. It was often called the “natural alto,” for in these
days of rural Handels, each church developed one or more female
singers that were thought to have the gift of singing alto by direct
inspiration.
In the prosperous days of the old Swansea church, when the
descendants of heroic Samson Mason, of Cromwell’s army, and of like
heroes, sent out missionary colonies to Nova Scotia and elsewhere,
Hannah Semple sang _countre_ in the ancient meeting-house, and her
voice was the pride of the many neighborhoods. People used to visit
the church from the distant villages in ark-like carryalls, and it
was often said that many of them came less to hear the long sermon,
in regard to the domestic affairs of the Jews in Jerusalem, than to
hear musical Hannah, who sang _countre_.
In the days of her musical triumphs Hannah never changed her humble
name into Hannahetti. Her guileless soul never entertained any vanity
like that, and yet local appreciation had given her a name as long as
that of any modern singer. She was never spoken of as simply Hannah,
but always as “Hannah, who sang _countre_,” a name that would be
sufficiently picturesque for a modern concert bill.
I first saw the old woman on a Sunday morning, as I was riding with
my father to another church. It was in early May.
As we came to a low, red cottage, a gate in front slowly opened, and
the tall, thin form of a woman appeared, in a gray dress, Rob-Roy
shawl, and high poke bonnet, followed by a Maltese cat. There was
something so pleasant in the expression of her face, so patient and
kindly, that I followed her movements with sympathetic curiosity.
“Who is that, Father?” I asked, in an undertone.
“That is ‘Hannah, who sang _countre_.’ She holds a meeting alone
every Sunday morning, on the old church steps, and declares that
the church-members will come together again, and there will be a
great thanksgiving, if she remains faithful. Her mind is slightly
unbalanced, and she thinks she is a prophetess.”
My father bowed to her, and her face lightened up as she said,—
“A beautiful morning. ’Tis a morning of the trees of the Lord, and
I am one of the branches. Do you believe in the Great Thanksgiving?”
Her face seemed full of hope.
“No, Hannah, no,” said my father, truthfully.
“No? Well, I am sorry you don’t believe it. But I must be faithful.
It is sure to come, for it has been revealed to me. I have been
faithful to the dead,—and now I must be faithful to the living. This
is all I have to live for. It will come! The people of the Lord in
these plantations will gather again. The doors will open, and there
will be great thanksgiving. I shall be there,—right before the
pulpit, right by the deacon’s seat. It has been revealed to me. I
don’t know how I shall be there. That is a veiled mystery; there is a
shadow over it; I cannot see _how_ it will be, but I shall be there.”
“Where are you going this morning? Will you ride?” asked my father.
“I’m going to meetin’.”
“Who is to preach?”
“I.”
[Illustration: MUSICIANS FROM MOORISH THEATRE.]
“Who attends the meeting?”
“I.”
“Who sings?”
“I.”
“Do you sing _countre_?”
She dropped her eyes, and looked down on the violets, and when at
last she lifted her face, it was wet with tears.
“Bless you, no! There is no one now to sing _countre_. It takes
two voices to sing _countre_. They will sing again after the Great
Thanksgiving, but now I am left to sing alone. I have to sing the
upper part now. My voice is not so good as it used to be.”
She broke some purple lilacs from the sunny bushes by the roadside,
and gave them to me. I thanked her, and, with a heart full of boyish
sympathy, said,—
“I wish I had something to give you.”
“You are a good boy to say so, but I don’t expect anything from any
one now. My folks are all housed in the graveyard, and the sun is
shinin’ upon them, and the violets bloom in there. I shall be with
them soon. I wish you would come to meetin’ with me some Sunday
morning. I’ll sing to ye, and tell of my vision, and the Great
Thanksgiving. It is lonesome to preach all to one’s self, and the
dead.”
“Don’t any one ever come to hear you?” asked I.
“Yes, the Lord comes regularly. _They_ are there. Those I love are
always there, down under the moss. Do they listen? I think they do.
The sun comes down on the steps, and the winds come from the meadows,
and the birds come. The world is full of beautiful things that come
to hear me preach to myself. Child, if you will come to hear me next
Sunday mornin’, I will sing you one of the most beautiful songs that
you ever heard, and will tell you about the Great Thanksgiving, just
as I said. Now you will come—do.”
The next Sabbath was not a meeting day with the family. The horses
had been worked so hard in ploughing that Father decided that they
must be allowed to rest. At the breakfast-table an allusion was made
to old Hannah, and I startled the family with the question,—
“May I go over there to-day, and see Hannah, and get some lilacs?”
“Yes,” said my mother, whose heart was all sympathy. “You would be
company for her. I never knew a woman who was so self-forgetful, or
did so much for poor people and sick people, as she has done. She
is not a prophetess, but I do think if the angels of heaven have a
message for any one, it must be for her. Poor old Hannah!”
“Perhaps she will tell you about her beau, Peter Rugg, who thought
that a sheep was a catamount,” said one of the work-people, dryly.
As I approached the silent meeting-house, I saw, through the opening
in the locust-trees, Hannah, sitting on its sunny steps. She met me
with a smile, exclaiming, “Come _in_; meetin’ hasn’t begun. I’m glad
you’ve come. We will have the service, then I will prophesy as the
Lord commands, and after that you shall go home with me for some cake
to eat. You will live to see the Great Thanksgiving. It has been
revealed to me.”
She held a hymn book in her hand, and an old-time parallelogram of
tunes, with slant sides, lay beside her. She took up the music book,
opened it, and held it in one hand, and the hymn book in the other.
“This tune that I am goin’ to sing has a mighty curious history,”
said she. “It was written by Abraham Maxim, or Granville Maxim.
He lived in Maine, and he named his tunes for the towns in Maine:
‘Portland,’ ‘Hallowell,’ ‘Bath,’ and the like.
“He was disappointed in love, Maxim was. So was I. I’ll tell you
about it when I get home, after meetin’. One day he went out into
the woods to hang himself, carryin’ with him a rope. He sat down in
a lonely place, near a shed, to meditate before he tied the rope to
a tree. Well, as Providence would have it, a sparrer, whose nest had
been disturbed, uttered its little plaintive cry of fear, because
of its young. It touched his heart, and he wrote down on a piece of
birch-bark the hymn I’m goin’ to sing. Then he wrote to the hymn
a tune in deep minor, endin’ with a very solemn chord. It’s very
comfortin’ to me.”
She lifted up the music book, and sang the most melancholy piece of
music to which I ever listened, ending with the very solemn chord:—
“As on some lone_ly_ building’s top
The sparrow makes her moan,
Far from the tents of joy and hope
I sit and grieve alone.”
Hannah then made a prayer in glowing Hebrew figures, a kind of
rhapsody of Hebrew poetry. She sang another hymn tune of Maxim’s,
then laid down her books and stood up.
“My child,” she said, “this is my text; it was written for you
thousands of years ago,—‘And Reuben returned unto the pit; and behold
Joseph was not in the pit.’” Her thought was that a lost opportunity
for doing good, of being loving, kind, and merciful, could seldom be
recalled. Her words were homely and quaint, but her figures and ideas
were poetic. She preached charity to all men. I recall only one whole
sentence. It was: “Never lose an opportunity of doing good; if you
do, it will injure _you_. We are all passin’ away; he that hath ears
to hear, let him hear.”
When she had finished her discourse, she said, “Now, I am goin’ to
prophesy.”
She stood in silence at first, looking up to the sky; then lifting
her hand, she repeated the first six verses of the Fifty-first
chapter of the poetry of Isaiah, in a tone quite unlike her usual
voice.
“It will come,” she said,—“that Great Thanksgiving will come in these
towns that were founded by the old prophets. You will be there; that
is revealed to me. I shall be there. But how? That is not clear. When
I try to see myself there, there comes a cloud; the vision shuts
down. Men have shut the doors of the old church, but the doors of the
heavens are not closed. The Great Thanksgiving that I see will come,
if I only prove faithful. It will come! It will come! The people will
gather, as in days of old. There will be preachin’ in the old pulpit,
and singing though I may not be here to sing _countre_. I can see the
people comin’ through the graveyard, under the trees, but I am not
there. Oh, where am I? Where am I? I don’t see myself anywhere; yet
the Voice tells me I shall be there.”
She sank down, a shadow on her serene face.
She arose again, and sang a strange hymn. Each stanza ended with
the words: “With glory in our souls.” It was a long hymn, with a
plaintive air.
“Come, child,” said she, when the song ended, “meetin’ is over now.
Let us go.”
She led me to the red cottage among the lilac-trees. How clean and
neat it was! Then, in her kindly way, she brought me cake and milk,
and drove out of the house a solitary fly, an early intruder.
“You live alone?” I said.
“Oh, no, no, child; _they_ all live with me; they come to visit me.
The Lord lives with me, when I don’t murmur nor complain, and He
never turns against me.
“Shall I tell you about myself? Well, I was very happy as a child,
roamin’ among the berry pastures, goin’ to the deestrict school, and
helpin’ Mother about the house. Mother was a great-hearted, good
woman, and Father was an honest, hard-working man. I never thought
that I should be a public singer, and sit in the gallery, and sing
_countre_ in the ‘Easter Anthem.’ I never thought I should sing
before the great Daniel Webster, on Independence Day.
“It all came about in this way. Old Schoolmaster Mason opened a
singin’ school in the vestry of the church, and asked me to attend.
I always loved music, and I did not go to the school but a little
while, before I found that I could sing _countre_. Even in a new
piece that I had never seen, if I only had the words before me, I
could make up a _countre_ to the singing of the air.
“I learned to sing low tones that the people thought were wonderful.
It used sometimes to trouble me because they seemed to think more
about _how_ I sang, than _what_ I sang.
“There was a young man in the neighborhood, at the time, named
Peter Rugg. He is dead now. He used to listen to the _countre_ at
the singin’ school as though he was spellbound. One night, after I
had been singin’, he came to me, and asked leave to see me home. He
was fine-looking, with curly hair and a high forehead, and he tried
to sing tenor. I liked him, and, after a time, he used to visit me
often, and one night he said,—
“‘Hannah, if I ever should save money enough to marry anybody, it
would be you; you do sing _countre_ so solemn.’
“I felt that he paid to me the greatest compliment that could be paid
to a woman, and says I, says I,—
“‘Peter, if I were ever to leave my home, I should want to jine my
lot with yourn, you do sing so high.’
“I was kind of modest, and I didn’t wish to say any more than he did,
but I really did love him, and I would have been glad to have married
him.
“Well, one winter, all the country round was thrown into a state of
great fright, by a report that some woodchoppers had seen a catamount
in the woods. Soon after this, sheep and pigs began to disappear, and
the loss was laid to the catamount. There used to be catamounts in
New England, and in the great woods, along the Pocassett coast, one
would be seen occasionally.
“The excitement grew. A great many people began to think that they
had seen the catamount, though whether there was one, at that time,
in Massachusetts, no one can say.
“One day, when the people were all excited about the catamount, Peter
Rugg took tea at our house, and went with me in the evenin’ to the
singin’ school. I sang my best that night, and Peter was so pleased
that he said to me: ‘Hannah, whatever may happen, I will always be
true to you.’ I was very happy, and we left the vestry to walk home.
“We took a roundabout way, but had not gone far, when we heard a
patterin’ of feet on the other side of the wall.
“‘Hark, it’s the catamount!’ Peter cried.
“‘I’ll cling to you forever,’ said I. ‘We will die true. If he
devours you, he shall devour me.’
“We hurried on, trembling in every limb. The patter of the feet
continued on the other side of the wall.
“‘Let go my arm,’ he said, ‘and I’ll see what it is.’
“I released his arm, when, could you believe it? he ran off,
sayin’,—‘I’ll get a gun,’ and he flew over the hill. I never saw him
again for a year. I stood dumb in the road. In my indignation all
fear left me. A moment later I heard a sheep ‘ba-a’ on the other side
of the wall.
“Nobody can tell what a heavy heart I carried home that night. All
respect for the man I thought I loved was gone. I cried myself to
sleep. For months I suffered more than I can ever tell, but I never
told the story while Peter lived. I forgave him when death touched
him. We are all poor and weak. We must be merciful in our thoughts.
“Well, Father was stricken with the palsy, and Mother, she began to
lose her mind, and thought she had committed the unpardonable sin,
or that she should do some violence to herself, and she wanted to be
watched all the time. She didn’t sleep much for years, and, amid all
these troubles, my only sister died. I tried to take care of them
all. I did my best. How I used to work in those days! There were
weeks at a time when I could not take off my dress at night.
“Well, the old folks died; then my poor sister passed away: so life
goes. One goes, then more, and the number grows. I have no blood kin
now. The lot in the graveyard is full, but sometimes they visit me in
spirit. It makes me happy to think that I did all I could for them,
when they were living. I know where they are; they know where I am.
There is no real partin’ among hearts that are true to each other.
“I had one great comfort in all my hard lot. It was music. I did
love to sing. My voice made me a little vain at first, but I meant
to use it only for good, and never for myself. I came to hold it as
a trust. I could see how it helped and comforted others, and that
made me happy. I used to sing, ‘Peace, troubled soul,’ at funerals,
and, ‘Come, ye disconsolate,’ and, ‘Come unto me when shadows darkly
gather.’ I had no father, mother, sister, brother, husband, or child;
but I was happy in the choir. That fellowship was everything to me.
“Then came the great church quarrel. How can such things be! A part
of the members became Six-Principle Baptists, and a part Christian
Baptists, and each claimed the church. Neither party would yield. So
the old church was closed. The doors were nailed up, and the rope
taken off the bell.
“I felt that I was utterly alone when the bell ceased to ring,” she
said. “People sent for me to take care of their sick, to comfort the
dying, and to lay out the dead, and sing at funerals. That was all
the life I had. Then my voice began to break, and my hair to turn
gray. It is white, now,—see.
“One morning I came home early, after watching all night with poor
Widow Green, who was sick so long. I laid down on the lounge, with
my dress on, and fell asleep. It was the day after it was resolved
to close the church. Well, there came to me a vision. I seemed to
be sittin’ alone on the church steps, when there stood before me a
noble-lookin’ man, in a silvery haze, and said: ‘I am Elder John
Myles. I was the founder of these plantations. I love this people,
and the old church, which I founded. You are God’s child. Be true
to His cause. Go to the old church every Sunday, and hold a meetin’
on the steps. If you remain true, the people will be gathered here
again, and there will be a Great Thanksgiving, and you will be there
in body or in soul.’ I woke. It was gone,—the beautiful face in
the silver cloud. But the words were printed on my mind. They are
there,—always there.
“People call me crazy Hannah, but they all send for me when they
are in trouble. Their harvests come and go, but the bell does not
ring, nor the doors open. But I am true to the vision. The Great
Thanksgiving will come, and I shall be there.”
She then sang the song that she had promised. The words and music
were really beautiful. I recall the first lines:—
“How sweet to reflect on the joys that await me
In yon blissful region, the haven of rest.”
One of the stanzas began:—
“Then hail, blessed state! hail, ye songsters of glory!
Ye harpers of bliss, soon I’ll meet you above.”
The beatific look that I had seen in her face, on the church steps,
came back to her. It was the most lovely expression I ever saw.
The music of the school of Billings, Holden, and Maxim, and the hymns
and ballads to which it was written, were no weak compositions. There
were people in those days who delighted to sing—
“If you want to see the devil run,
Shoot him with the Gospel gun,”
to a dance rhythm, but the primitive, original psalmody of the old
Orthodox churches was, as a rule, as solid as it was solemn. “While
shepherds watched their flocks by night” had something of modern
lightness and sprightliness, which may account for its popularity
to-day, as a number in the programme of old folks’ concerts; but
Maxim’s “Turner” and “Bath,” and Holden’s “Coronation” and “No war
nor battle sound,” and Billings’ “Boston,” and many tunes, all of
which formed a part of the musical experience of the best New
England homes, some fifty years ago, were serious work, of the school
of Tausur and of Handel.
The great patriotic song of those times was entitled “Ode on
Science.” This was the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Independence days and
Thanksgivings, and Hannah had once sung _countre_ in the performance
of it before Daniel Webster.
Two years after my interview with Hannah she responded to the
Governor’s Proclamation, and, faithful to the old traditions,
resolved to celebrate the approaching Thanksgiving on the church
steps. On the morning of that day she took her music book, which
contained the famous “Ode on Science,” put her spectacles into her
ample pocket, and, followed by her cat, went to the steps of the old
meeting-house. It was a mild Indian summer day, of melting frosts,
dropping nuts, and lingering splendors. The woods were crimson, with
an odor of decay in the leaves, and the orchards red, with a cidery
scent. The call of the lively bluejay was heard here and there, and
the whir of the partridge wings on the margin of the woods. The
farmers were busy husking their stacks of corn, and the cellar doors
were heaped with squashes and pumpkins of enormous size, taking a
last mellowing in the sun.
Just as Hannah arose on the church steps to give thanks for all these
blessings of plenty, Deacon Goodwin approached in his cart, that was
loaded with corn and pumpkins. He took the _Christian_ view, as the
word was pronounced, in the great theological discussion. His heart
was touched at the sight of the white hair of old Hannah, and he
stopped to hear her sing.
It was a striking picture that she presented, on that bright morning,
in her straight gown, poke bonnet, Rob-Roy shawl, and white hair,
which filled the dark cavern over her forehead. She stood with her
hymn book in one hand, and beating time with her other hand, she
began:—
“The morning sun shines from the east,
And spreads his glories in the west.
All nations with his beams are blest.”
Her voice was high. Her free hand waved vigorously to tell how—
“Freedom her attendant waits
To bless the portals of her gates,
To crown the young and rising States
With laurels of immortal day.
“The British yoke, the Gallic chain,
Was urged upon our necks in vain.
All haughty tyrants we disdain,
And shout, Long live Ameri_ca_.”
The last word rang out with a long sound of _ca_ at the end.
She stopped, removed her spectacles, and looked down upon Deacon
Goodwin, inquiringly.
“I declare it’s too bad,” said the Deacon, “that you have to be the
Thanksgiving for the hull town. Two or three people have had their
own heads here about long enough, it’s my opinion. If I could have my
way, Hannah, we’d not be ruled as we are. I’ll see what can be done.
Somethin’ ’ll have to be done, and I’ll do it.
“Go lang!” and he laid a long birch stick on the back of the patient
beast before him, and left Hannah to conclude her devotions among the
dead.
An epidemic of smallpox spread over the towns between the coast and
Narragansett Bay, and in a neighboring town there was no one to
go into the pest-house and nurse the sick. Hannah was told of the
situation, and it touched her heart.
“I will go,” she said.
“But you have never had the smallpox,” said the visitor.
“It makes no difference. I have a promise in my heart. Pain is
nothing when it is over, and it is a glorious thing to bear for the
sake of others. I shall surely live until the Great Thanksgiving. I
will go. They need me.”
She gave herself, night and day, to the sufferers, and did not take
the disease. But she was very old, and when she returned to her
cottage, it was with exhausted strength.
To the church steps she went feebly, with each returning Sabbath.
Autumn came with bountiful harvests. The blue gentians bloomed in the
cranberry meadows and by the roadside; the apples, red and russet,
bent down the trees; the cornfields rustled, and the hunter’s moon
rose in the nightfall.
The farmers were very busy filling their bursting barns and cribs;
but Hannah’s home was silent. No one remembered to have seen her
enter it. The curtains were drawn, the door closed. The next Sunday
morning she did not appear upon the church steps as usual, and some
neighbors went to the door of the little red house to inquire if
she were ill. They rapped, and waited for the sound of feet under
the withered morning-glory vines, but none came. The house seemed
tenantless. One of the farmers at length pushed open a shutter, and,
looking into the room usually occupied by Hannah, turned and said:
“She lies there on the bed,—she is dead.”
“The dream is ended,” said the other. “Poor soul, she was a good
woman. God has taken her to Himself.”
The window was forced. The worn body was tenderly cared for, and
preparations were made for the funeral. Her will was found. She had
given her property to the poor of the town, and requested that she
might be buried from the church. The will also contained this
strange request: “Since I leave all I have to the town, I hope the
Selectmen will ask Rev. John Leland to attend my funeral, and that
the bell may be tolled when my body is taken into the church, and
rung when it is borne to the grave. I have given my life, and all I
have of property, to the people of this town. May I ask, as a return
for this, that the people will, in kindness, grant my last request?”
[Illustration: ELECTRICITY AND MANUFACTURES BUILDING.]
The funeral was appointed for the morning of Thanksgiving Day, and
a messenger was dispatched to Elder John Leland, of Cheshire, the
eloquent evangelist, who was then in Boston, to ask him if he would
conduct the services. The tender-hearted old man heard the story of
Hannah’s life with deep sympathy.
“I will come,” said he, “but not to mourn for the dead. She does
not need our tears. God has cleared her vision, and has taken her
to Himself. Let us do as she wished. Your town had glorious names
among its founders, and your church is closed, even though it is
the harvest time. I shall preach not a funeral, but a Thanksgiving
sermon, and I hope that every one who has been blessed during the
year will be there. When the year has made a good harvest, and one
has made a good life, all men should be thankful.”
The news was received with gladness in the thrifty community, which
had so long lifted the pagan idols of theology over the religion of
the heart and life. All the people of the rural towns who could leave
their farms, prepared to attend the funeral of old Hannah, who sung
_countre_, for in her death they had recognized her worth. No event
had awakened so much interest for years.
The name of John Leland was at that time a household word. It lives
now chiefly in connection with the almost Ambrosian hymn, “The day
is past and gone,” and the story of the great Cheshire Cheese. He
was a friend of Madison and Jefferson; at one time a member of the
Massachusetts General Court,—a truly wonderful man in all relations
of life. He used to travel any weather, praying along the roads,
mounting the pulpit singing; always democratic, and a friend to all
men.
It was an Indian summer day, calm and clear. The sun grew warm; and
the heat dropped the frost-crimsoned leaves in showers. Early in the
day people began to gather about the church. Most of them were glad
that the blind day of theological disputation was to be broken by
the ringing of the old bell. They came from neighboring towns in all
kinds of conveyances.
The old sexton came with a claw hammer, and drew the nails out of
the door, and dusted the pews, and aired the musty aisles, and tied
a bell rope again to the bell. The church soon filled with people;
afterward, the steps, and then the graveyard. The gathering was so
great that it was difficult to keep a vacant place for poor old
Hannah’s body.
Toll! The bell smote reproachfully on the glimmering air. Toll! The
pine coffin was coming with fringed gentians upon it. Toll! Every
heart there felt a moral shrinkage, as the coffin broke its way
through the people.
They set it down at last under the high pulpit, near the deacon’s
seat. But the crowd out of doors was larger than that in the house,
and all were eager to hear what Elder Leland would have to say.
“Let us hold the services outside,” said the venerable evangelist.
“Take the body out into the graveyard, and set it down in the middle
of the graves of those to whom she was always so faithful, and I will
preach where she used to preach to the birds and to the dead, from
the meeting-house steps.”
They bore out the body, and set it down under the great cool trees,
where the crisp leaves were dropping upon the graves. They opened the
lid on the calm, sweet, face, where the people on the high ground
could see it, and the tears of those in whose homes she had been a
blessing to the sick and a comfort to the dying, fell like rain.
Tender and eloquent were the words spoken by the white-haired Elder,
over that still, dead, untroubled face.
The old trustees of the church were stirred as they had never been
before. Soon after the close of the sermon, one of them mounted the
steps, with a word to say to the people.
“She has opened these doors with her dead hand,” he said. “May they
never be closed again by the living. The trustees have just had a
meeting, and have agreed once more to open the house. This is a
fitting ending to this day of mourning, and of Thanksgiving. Now, let
the old bell ring.”
They closed the lid of the coffin forever, and bore the body to the
open earth. The bell began to ring. The voice of the Elder rose in
a sublime thanksgiving Psalm, as the bell pealed on, and the grave
closed over all that was mortal of Hannah, who sang _countre_.
The people left the grounds, one by one. The struggle was ended. The
work of this lone, feeble woman was done. She rested at last on the
day of the Great Thanksgiving, of which she had prophesied. And she
had been there, and the _countre_ tone of her life had never made
sweeter harmony.
She lies in a grave long neglected; but should one kneel down beside
the stone that is sinking slowly into the earth, and peel away the
moss, and follow the light carving on the blue slate under some
quaint pictures of cherubs, one might read,—
HANNAH SEMPLE, WHO SANG COUNTRE
IN THE CHOIR, ÆTAT. 90.
The old generation has been gathered to their fathers, but the
new generation still feels the beneficent influence of that Great
Thanksgiving.