I struck in a pathway half-worn o’er the sod
By the feet that went up to the worship of God.
* * * * *
Such language as his I may never recall,
But his theme was salvation, salvation to all--
And the souls of his hearers in ecstacy hung
On the manna-like sweetness that fell from his tongue
Not alone on the ear his wild eloquence stole;
Enforced by each gesture, it sunk to the soul,
Till it seemed that an angel had brightened the sod,
And brought to each bosom a message from God.
Mrs. Amelia Welby.
Seem’st thou dimly to remember
Some sweet spot ne’er seen before,
To have visited or known it,
Or in dreams or times of yore?
Doth a word send waking fancies,
Ringing thought’s familiar brain,
Faint and distant, yet familiar,
Where and when we seek in vain.
Mrs. Acton Tindal.
We must allow an interval of sixteen years to pass away ere we again
appear before our readers. To the quiet meeting-house mentioned in our
opening chapter, we now revert. The chaplets and flowers we described
previously, had long since withered away and returned to their parent
dust, and with them, except in faint tradition and in the hearts of the
bereaved parents, the name of the lost boy.
The humble building was now half-covered with ivy, and the small,
secluded grave-yard was studded with simple stones and heaped with
grassy mounds; showing that Time had not been idle in his allotted work.
On one side lay the garden of the little house belonging to the
pastor--a quiet dwelling shaded with sycamores, which threw large
branches over the wall, and heavily shaded that side of the grave-yard.
The low bell had done ringing some time, and the congregation had all
assembled. The small house overflowed with numbers, and what cannot be
said of many such assemblies, contained but one class of human
beings--all meeting on equal terms--none striving after the highest
seat--difference of station having never been so much as named among
them. These consisted chiefly of old men dressed in the respectable garb
of the colonists, and women of different ages.
Opposite the reading-desk was Pastor Bartlett’s pew. The only occupants
were his wife and daughter. The latter would have attracted attention in
any assembly, for her beauty was of an uncommon cast. Her face was of
that kind which is our ideal of a cherub’s--rounded, pure, innocent and
happy. The long, golden hair absolutely sparkled in the light, while her
skin realized the old poet’s exquisite description:
“Fair as the snow whose fleeces clothe
Our Alpine hills;--sweet the rose’s spirit
Or violet’s cheek, on which the morning leaves
A tear at parting.”
Altogether nothing could be more peaceful and soothing than the effect
produced by the congregation assembled in that little, unadorned place
of worship, set off alone by the deep and expressive tones which
proceeded from the reading-desk. The venerable Pastor Bartlett was a
thin, pale, reverend looking person, with his locks thickly sprinkled
with gray. He was reading a psalm from David, in the most beautiful and
deeply earnest manner. His voice and pronunciation were those of a man
of education, and his countenance refined and intellectual. But that
which struck the beholder particularly about him, was the deep and
unaffected seriousness with which he performed the holy office he was
engaged in.
Whether it was the peaceful quiet and seclusion of the scene--whether it
was their frame of mind, or whether it was the teaching voice of the
reader we know not, but all paid the most devout attention. On the
conclusion of the psalm, the preacher went up into his little,
worm-eaten pulpit, and began. His text was, “Why will ye labor for that
which is not bread?” There was something so seriously in earnest in his
manner that the words seemed to go to the hearts of his hearers. He
spoke of the emptiness, the insufficiency of pleasures which terminated
here to satisfy a spirit created for an hereafter. He represented the
powerlessness of those aids to support and tranquilize the heart in its
sufferings and its dangers. He drew a living picture of the human
heart--its secret restlessness and disquiet, its sense of the hollowness
of all things. He then told them of that which was the true bread--of
fountains whence flowed living waters--their immortal relations--their
high destiny--their sonship and communion with the infinite God.
The clergyman was in the midst of his solemn discourse, when the
attention of his hearers was attracted by loud and unusual sounds in the
churchyard. There were the galloping of a horse, the clang of spurs, and
the crack of a whip. The suspense was brief, for in a few moments a
stranger entered the sanctuary.
The intruder was a young man of some twenty years of age. He had that
air which, if not embodied in the words _high bred_, is beyond the reach
of words; and his whole countenance was one to rivet attention in a
crowd--the whole marking him no common person.
He paused at the entrance, for the crowded state of the little building
rendered it somewhat difficult for him to perceive a vacant seat.
Another moment, and the stalwort form of Deacon Winthrop was seen to
arise and beckon the embarrassed stranger to a place by his side.
The slight interruption to which the intrusion of the young man had
given rise subsided, and in another moment he was listening with the
most respectful attention to the resumed discourse. At its close,
supposing the services ended, he arose to withdraw. He had turned slowly
to the door, when a doxology arose, led by a voice in the pastor’s pew
in front of him, that arrested his steps. He listened, charmed and
spell-bound--words came o’er his ear, words long unfamiliar to him, and
but imperfectly remembered--words connected with his early and childish
years--words that seemed as the ghosts of the past. He lingered after
these had ended to catch a glimpse of the singer. Grace Bartlett was,
indeed, a beautiful vision, as she thus stood among the now erect
congregation, with her delicate bloom and rounded form, a picture of
youth and hope. Her thoughts seemed turned from earth to heaven, and her
eyes took the same direction. There was a something so pure, so
spiritual about her at that moment, that an enthusiast might have
thought her an inhabitant of upper air.
The stranger stood rooted to the spot as she turned. It was a face whose
expression had long unconsciously haunted his young dreams. It was one
that he had seen before, though where, he could not recall. Her eyes
encountered his, and she blushed to her temples, an enchanting picture
of bashful confusion.
Turning away embarrassed, the young man said to Deacon Winthrop, “I am
to blame for having trespassed upon the hospitalities of your place of
worship.”
“Nay, not so, young man,” replied the excellent deacon, “the word of God
is free to all. But if you will allow me to offer you those of my house,
we will be glad if thou wilt accompany us home, and dine with myself and
my wife.”
The youth accepted the offer--and they left the place together.
Much conjecture was afloat that day at the various dinner-tables of the
village, respecting the young stranger who was sharing Deacon Winthrop’s
hospitality. The sudden appearance of any stranger in this primitive
spot was sure to produce a sensation; and in this case, where the
intruder was young and handsome, that sensation was proportionably
increased.
Deacon Winthrop was beset by questions, to which he replied with a
benign affability, “We must show this young man every attention. His
religion is not ours, it is true, but he has a right to his own
opinion.”
Many more of the villagers, through this advice, had soon an opportunity
of judging of the stranger for themselves, for he remained for some time
among them; and the curiosity respecting him at first evinced, if it
continued any longer, ceased to be expressed in the admiration his
courteous manners and agreeable conversation excited in the minds of
all.