“Bells ring others to church, but go not in themselves.”
NO one saw the spirits of the bells up there in the old steeple at
midnight on Christmas Eve. Six quaint figures, each wrapped in a shadowy
cloak and wearing a bell-shaped cap. All were gray-headed, for they were
among the oldest bell-spirits of the city, and “the light of other days”
shone in their thoughtful eyes. Silently they sat, looking down on the
snow-covered roofs glittering in the moonlight, and the quiet streets
deserted by all but the watchmen on their chilly rounds, and such poor
souls as wandered shelterless in the winter night. Presently one of the
spirits said, in a tone, which, low as it was, filled the belfry with
reverberating echoes,—
“Well, brothers, are your reports ready of the year that now lies
dying?”
All bowed their heads, and one of the oldest answered in a sonorous
voice:—
“My report isn’t all I could wish. You know I look down on the
commercial part of our city and have fine opportunities for seeing what
goes on there. It’s my business to watch the business men, and upon my
word I’m heartily ashamed of them sometimes. During the war they did
nobly, giving their time and money, their sons and selves to the good
cause, and I was proud of them. But now too many of them have fallen
back into the old ways, and their motto seems to be, ‘Every one for
himself, and the devil take the hindmost.’ Cheating, lying and stealing
are hard words, and I don’t mean to apply them to _all_ who swarm about
below there like ants on an ant-hill—_they_ have other names for these
things, but I’m old-fashioned and use plain words. There’s a deal too
much dishonesty in the world, and business seems to have become a game
of hazard in which luck, not labor, wins the prize. When I was young,
men were years making moderate fortunes, and were satisfied with them.
They built them on sure foundations, knew how to enjoy them while they
lived, and to leave a good name behind them when they died.
“Now it’s anything for money; health, happiness, honor, life itself, are
flung down on that great gaming-table, and they forget everything else
in the excitement of success or the desperation of defeat. Nobody seems
satisfied either, for those who win have little time or taste to enjoy
their prosperity, and those who lose have little courage or patience to
support them in adversity. They don’t even fail as they used to. In my
day when a merchant found himself embarrassed he didn’t ruin others in
order to save himself, but honestly confessed the truth, gave up
everything, and began again. But now-a-days after all manner of
dishonorable shifts there comes a grand crash; many suffer, but by some
hocus-pocus the merchant saves enough to retire upon and live
comfortably here or abroad. It’s very evident that honor and honesty
don’t mean now what they used to mean in the days of old May, Higginson
and Lawrence.
“They preach below here, and very well too sometimes, for I often slide
down the rope to peep and listen during service. But, bless you! they
don’t seem to lay either sermon, psalm or prayer to heart, for while the
minister is doing his best, the congregation, tired with the breathless
hurry of the week, sleep peacefully, calculate their chances for the
morrow, or wonder which of their neighbors will lose or win in the great
game. Don’t tell me! I’ve seen them do it, and if I dared I’d have
startled every soul of them with a rousing peal. Ah, they don’t dream
whose eye is on them, they never guess what secrets the telegraph wires
tell as the messages fly by, and little know what a report I give to the
winds of heaven as I ring out above them morning, noon, and night.” And
the old spirit shook his head till the tassel on his cap jangled like a
little bell.
“There are some, however, whom I love and honor,” he said, in a
benignant tone, “who honestly earn their bread, who deserve all the
success that comes to them, and always keep a warm corner in their noble
hearts for those less blest than they. These are the men who serve the
city in times of peace, save it in times of war, deserve the highest
honors in its gift, and leave behind them a record that keeps their
memories green. For such an one we lately tolled a knell, my brothers;
and as our united voices pealed over the city, in all grateful hearts,
sweeter and more solemn than any chime, rung the words that made him so
beloved,—
“‘Treat our dead boys tenderly, and send them home to me.’”
He ceased, and all the spirits reverently uncovered their gray heads as
a strain of music floated up from the sleeping city and died among the
stars.
“Like yours, my report is not satisfactory in all respects,” began the
second spirit, who wore a very pointed cap and a finely-ornamented
cloak. But, though his dress was fresh and youthful, his face was old,
and he had nodded several times during his brother’s speech. “My
greatest affliction during the past year has been the terrible
extravagance which prevails. My post, as you know, is at the court end
of the city, and I see all the fashionable vices and follies. It is a
marvel to me how so many of these immortal creatures, with such
opportunities for usefulness, self-improvement and genuine happiness can
be content to go round and round in one narrow circle of unprofitable
and unsatisfactory pursuits. I do my best to warn them; Sunday after
Sunday I chime in their ears the beautiful old hymns that sweetly chide
or cheer the hearts that truly listen and believe; Sunday after Sunday I
look down on them as they pass in, hoping to see that my words have not
fallen upon deaf ears; and Sunday after Sunday they listen to words that
should teach them much, yet seem to go by them like the wind. They are
told to love their neighbor, yet too many hate him because he possesses
more of this world’s goods or honors than they; they are told that a
rich man cannot enter the kingdom of heaven, yet they go on laying up
perishable wealth, and though often warned that moth and rust will
corrupt, they fail to believe it till the worm that destroys enters and
mars their own chapel of ease. Being a spirit, I see below external
splendor and find much poverty of heart and soul under the velvet and
the ermine which should cover rich and royal natures. Our city saints
walk abroad in threadbare suits, and under quiet bonnets shine the eyes
that make sunshine in the shady places. Often as I watch the glittering
procession passing to and fro below me, I wonder if, with all our
progress, there is to-day as much real piety as in the times when our
fathers, poorly clad, with weapon in one hand and Bible in the other,
came weary distances to worship in the wilderness with fervent faith
unquenched by danger, suffering and solitude.
“Yet in spite of my fault-finding I love my children, as I call them,
for all are not butterflies. Many find wealth no temptation to
forgetfulness of duty or hardness of heart. Many give freely of their
abundance, pity the poor, comfort the afflicted, and make our city loved
and honored in other lands as in our own. They have their cares, losses,
and heartaches as well as the poor; it isn’t all sunshine with them, and
they learn, poor souls, that
‘Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.’
“But I’ve hopes of them, and lately they have had a teacher so genial,
so gifted, so well-beloved that all who listen to him must be better for
the lessons of charity, good-will and cheerfulness which he brings home
to them by the magic of tears and smiles. We know him, we love him, we
always remember him as the year comes round, and the blithest song our
brazen tongues utter is a Christmas carol to the Father of ‘The
Chimes!’”
As the spirit spoke his voice grew cheery, his old face shone, and in a
burst of hearty enthusiasm he flung up his cap and cheered like a boy.
So did the others, and as the fairy shout echoed through the belfry a
troop of shadowy figures, with faces lovely or grotesque, tragical or
gay, sailed by on the wings of the wintry wind and waved their hands to
the spirits of the bells.
As the excitement subsided and the spirits reseated themselves, looking
ten years younger for that burst, another spoke. A venerable brother in
a dingy mantle, with a tuneful voice, and eyes that seemed to have grown
sad with looking on much misery.
“He loves the poor, the man we’ve just hurrahed for, and he makes others
love and remember them, bless him!” said the spirit. “I hope he’ll touch
the hearts of those who listen to him here and beguile them to open
their hands to my unhappy children over yonder. If I could set some of
the forlorn souls in my parish beside the happier creatures who weep
over imaginary woes as they are painted by his eloquent lips, that
brilliant scene would be better than any sermon. Day and night I look
down on lives as full of sin, self-sacrifice and suffering as any in
those famous books. Day and night I try to comfort the poor by my cheery
voice, and to make their wants known by proclaiming them with all my
might. But people seem to be so intent on business, pleasure or home
duties that they have no time to hear and answer my appeal. There’s a
deal of charity in this good city, and when the people do wake up they
work with a will; but I can’t help thinking that if some of the money
lavished on luxuries was spent on necessaries for the poor, there would
be fewer tragedies like that which ended yesterday. It’s a short story,
easy to tell, though long and hard to live; listen to it.
“Down yonder in the garret of one of the squalid houses at the foot of
my tower, a little girl has lived for a year, fighting silently and
single-handed a good fight against poverty and sin. I saw her when she
first came, a hopeful, cheerful, brave-hearted little soul, alone, yet
not afraid. She used to sit all day sewing at her window, and her lamp
burnt far into the night, for she was very poor, and all she earned
would barely give her food and shelter. I watched her feed the doves,
who seemed to be her only friends; she never forgot them, and daily gave
them the few crumbs that fell from her meagre table. But there was no
kind hand to feed and foster the little human dove, and so she starved.
“For a while she worked bravely, but the poor three dollars a week would
not clothe and feed and warm her, though the things her busy fingers
made sold for enough to keep her comfortably if she had received it. I
saw the pretty color fade from her cheeks; her eyes grew hollow, her
voice lost its cheery ring, her step its elasticity, and her face began
to wear the haggard, anxious look that made its youth doubly pathetic.
Her poor little gowns grew shabby, her shawl so thin she shivered when
the pitiless wind smote her, and her feet were almost bare. Rain and
snow beat on the patient little figure going to and fro, each morning
with hope and courage faintly shining, each evening with the shadow of
despair gathering darker round her. It was a hard time for all,
desperately hard for her, and in her poverty, sin and pleasure tempted
her. She resisted, but as another bitter winter came she feared that in
her misery she might yield, for body and soul were weakened now by the
long struggle. She knew not where to turn for help; there seemed to be
no place for her at any safe and happy fireside; life’s hard aspect
daunted her, and she turned to death, saying confidingly, ‘Take me while
I’m innocent and not afraid to go.’
“I saw it all! I saw how she sold everything that would bring money and
paid her little debts to the utmost penny; how she set her poor room in
order for the last time; how she tenderly bade the doves good-by, and
lay down on her bed to die. At nine o’clock last night as my bell rang
over the city, I tried to tell what was going on in the garret where the
light was dying out so fast. I cried to them with all my strength,—
“‘Kind souls, below there! a fellow-creature is perishing for lack of
charity! Oh, help her before it is too late! Mothers, with little
daughters on your knees, stretch out your hands and take her in! Happy
women, in the safe shelter of home, think of her desolation! Rich men,
who grind the faces of the poor, remember that this soul will one day be
required of you! Dear Lord, let not this little sparrow fall to the
ground! Help, Christian men and women, in the name of Him whose birthday
blessed the world!’
“Ah me! I rang, and clashed, and cried in vain. The passers-by only
said, as they hurried home, laden with Christmas cheer: ‘The old bell is
merry to-night, as it should be at this blithe season, bless it!’
“As the clocks struck ten, the poor child lay down, saying, as she drank
the last bitter draught life could give her, ‘It’s very cold, but soon I
shall not feel it;’ and with her quiet eyes fixed on the cross that
glimmered in the moonlight above me, she lay waiting for the sleep that
needs no lullaby.
“As the clock struck eleven, pain and poverty for her were over. It was
bitter cold, but she no longer felt it. She lay serenely sleeping, with
tired heart and hands, at rest forever. As the clocks struck twelve, the
dear Lord remembered her, and with fatherly hand led her into the home
where there is room for all. To-day I rung her knell, and though my
heart was heavy, yet my soul was glad; for in spite of all her human woe
and weakness, I am sure that little girl will keep a joyful Christmas up
in heaven.”
In the silence which the spirits for a moment kept, a breath of softer
air than any from the snowy world below swept through the steeple and
seemed to whisper, “Yes!”
“Avast there! fond as I am of salt water, I don’t like this kind,” cried
the breezy voice of the fourth spirit, who had a tiny ship instead of a
tassel on his cap, and who wiped his wet eyes with the sleeve of his
rough blue cloak. “It won’t take me long to spin my yarn; for things are
pretty taut and ship-shape aboard our craft. Captain Taylor is an
experienced sailor, and has brought many a ship safely into port in
spite of wind and tide, and the devil’s own whirlpools and hurricanes.
If you want to see earnestness come aboard some Sunday when the
Captain’s on the quarter-deck, and take an observation. No danger of
falling asleep there, no more than there is up aloft, ‘when the stormy
winds do blow.’ Consciences get raked fore and aft, sins are blown clean
out of the water, false colors are hauled down and true ones run up to
the masthead, and many an immortal soul is warned to steer off in time
from the pirates, rocks and quicksands of temptation. He’s a regular
revolving light, is the Captain,—a beacon always burning and saying
plainly, ‘Here are life-boats, ready to put off in all weathers and
bring the shipwrecked into quiet waters.’ He comes but seldom now, being
laid up in the home dock, tranquilly waiting till his turn comes to go
out with the tide and safely ride at anchor in the great harbor of the
Lord. Our crew varies a good deal. Some of ’em have rather rough
voyages, and come into port pretty well battered; land-sharks full foul
of a good many, and do a deal of damage; but most of ’em carry brave and
tender hearts under the blue jackets, for their rough nurse, the sea,
manages to keep something of the child alive in the grayest old tar that
makes the world his picture-book. We try to supply ’em with
life-preservers while at sea, and make ’em feel sure of a hearty welcome
when ashore, and I believe the year ’67 will sail away into eternity
with a satisfactory cargo. Brother North-End made me pipe my eye; so
I’ll make him laugh to pay for it, by telling a clerical joke I heard
the other day. Bell-ows didn’t make it, though he might have done so, as
he’s a connection of ours, and knows how to use his tongue as well as
any of us. Speaking of the bells of a certain town, a reverend gentleman
affirmed that each bell uttered an appropriate remark so plainly, that
the words were audible to all. The Baptist bell cried, briskly, ‘Come up
and be dipped! come up and be dipped!’ The Episcopal bell slowly said,
‘Apos-tol-ic suc-cess-ion! apos-tol-ic suc-cess-ion!’ The Orthodox bell
solemnly pronounced, ‘Eternal damnation! eternal damnation!’ and the
Methodist shouted, invitingly, ‘Room for all! room for all!’”
As the spirit imitated the various calls, as only a jovial bell-sprite
could, the others gave him a chime of laughter, and vowed they would
each adopt some tune-ful summons, which should reach human ears and draw
human feet more willingly to church.
“Faith, brother, you’ve kept your word and got the laugh out of us,”
cried a stout, sleek spirit, with a kindly face, and a row of little
saints round his cap and a rosary at his side. “It’s very well we are
doing this year; the cathedral is full, the flock increasing, and the
true faith holding its own entirely. Ye may shake your heads if you will
and fear there’ll be trouble, but I doubt it. We’ve warm hearts of our
own, and the best of us don’t forget that when we were starving,
America—the saints bless the jewel!—sent us bread; when we were dying
for lack of work, America opened her arms and took us in, and now helps
us to build churches, homes and schools by giving us a share of the
riches all men work for and win. It’s a generous nation ye are, and a
brave one, and we showed our gratitude by fighting for ye in the day of
trouble and giving ye our Phil, and many another broth of a boy. The
land is wide enough for us both, and while we work and fight and grow
together, each may learn something from the other. I’m free to confess
that your religion looks a bit cold and hard to me, even here in the
good city where each man may ride his own hobby to death, and hoot at
his neighbors as much as he will. You seem to keep your piety shut up
all the week in your bare, white churches, and only let it out on
Sundays, just a trifle musty with disuse. You set your rich, warm and
soft to the fore, and leave the poor shivering at the door. You give
your people bare walls to look upon, commonplace music to listen to,
dull sermons to put them asleep, and then wonder why they stay away, or
take no interest when they come.
“We leave our doors open day and night; our lamps are always burning,
and we may come into our Father’s house at any hour. We let rich and
poor kneel together, all being equal there. With us abroad you’ll see
prince and peasant side by side, school-boy and bishop, market-woman and
noble lady, saint and sinner, praying to the Holy Mary, whose motherly
arms are open to high and low. We make our churches inviting with
immortal music, pictures by the world’s great masters, and rites that
are splendid symbols of the faith we hold. Call it mummery if ye like,
but let me ask you why so many of your sheep stray into our fold? It’s
because they miss the warmth, the hearty, the maternal tenderness which
all souls love and long for, and fail to find in your stern, Puritanical
belief. By Saint Peter! I’ve seen many a lukewarm worshipper, who for
years has nodded in your cushioned pews, wake and glow with something
akin to genuine piety while kneeling on the stone pavement of one of our
cathedrals, with Raphael’s angels before his eyes, with strains of
magnificent music in his ears, and all about him, in shapes of power or
beauty, the saints and martyrs who have saved the world, and whose
presence inspires him to follow their divine example. It’s not
complaining of ye I am, but just reminding ye that men are but children
after all, and need more tempting to virtue than they do to vice, which
last comes easy to ’em since the Fall. Do your best in your own ways to
get the poor souls into bliss, and good luck to ye. But remember,
there’s room in the Holy Mother Church for all, and when your own
priests send ye to the divil, come straight to us and we’ll take ye in.”
“A truly Catholic welcome, bull and all,” said the sixth spirit, who, in
spite of his old-fashioned garments, had a youthful face, earnest,
fearless eyes, and an energetic voice that woke the echoes with its
vigorous tones. “I’ve a hopeful report, brothers, for the reforms of the
day are wheeling into rank and marching on. The war isn’t over nor
rebeldom conquered yet, but the Old Guard has been ‘up and at ’em’
through the year. There has been some hard fighting, rivers of ink have
flowed, and the Washington dawdlers have signalized themselves by a
‘masterly inactivity.’ The political campaign has been an anxious one;
some of the leaders have deserted; some been mustered out; some have
fallen gallantly, and as yet have received no monuments. But at the
Grand Review the Cross of the Legion of Honor will surely shine on many
a brave breast that won no decoration but its virtue here; for the
world’s fanatics make heaven’s heroes, poets say.
“The flock of Nightingales that flew South during the ‘winter of our
discontent’ are all at home again, some here and some in Heaven. But the
music of their womanly heroism still lingers in the nation’s memory, and
makes a tender minor-chord in the battle-hymn of freedom.
“The reform in literature isn’t as vigorous as I could wish; but a sharp
attack of mental and moral dyspepsia will soon teach our people that
French confectionery and the bad pastry of Wood, Braddon, Yates & Co. is
not the best diet for the rising generation.
“Speaking of the rising generation reminds me of the schools. They are
doing well; they always are, and we are justly proud of them. There may
be a slight tendency toward placing too much value upon book-learning;
too little upon home culture. Our girls are acknowledged to be
uncommonly pretty, witty and wise, but some of us wish they had more
health and less excitement, more domestic accomplishments and fewer
ologies and isms, and were contented with simple pleasures and the
old-fashioned virtues, and not quite so fond of the fast, frivolous life
that makes them old so soon. I am fond of our girls and boys. I love to
ring for their christenings and marriages, to toll proudly for the brave
lads in blue, and tenderly for the innocent creatures whose seats are
empty under my old roof. I want to see them anxious to make Young
America a model of virtue, strength and beauty, and I believe they will
in time.
“There have been some important revivals in religion; for the world
won’t stand still, and we must keep pace or be left behind to fossilize.
A free nation must have a religion broad enough to embrace all mankind,
deep enough to fathom and fill the human soul, high enough to reach the
source of all love and wisdom, and pure enough to satisfy the wisest and
the best. Alarm bells have been rung, anathemas pronounced, and
Christians, forgetful of their creed, have abused one another heartily.
But the truth always triumphs in the end, and whoever sincerely
believes, works and waits for it, by whatever name he calls it, will
surely find his own faith blessed to him in proportion to his charity
for the faith of others.
“But look!—the first red streaks of dawn are in the East. Our vigil is
over, and we must fly home to welcome in the holidays. Before we part,
join with me, brothers, in resolving that through the coming year we
will with all our hearts and tongues,—
‘Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring out the false, ring in the true;
Ring in the valiant man and free,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.’”
Then hand in hand the spirits of the bells floated away, singing in the
hush of dawn the sweet song the stars sung over Bethlehem,—“Peace on
earth, good will to men.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Catalogue of American and Foreign Books Published or
Imported by MESSRS. SAMPSON LOW & CO.
can be had on application.
Crown Buildings, 188, Fleet Street, London,
December, 1881