III.
There is a romance mingled with this sweet,
Wild forest scenery; this cool, deep glade,
Whose nooks at noon are dark with thickest shade,
These gulfs where boughs of beech and maple meet
And mingle in the sultry mid-day heat;
Dark hollow, and green bluff, all teem with wild
And glorious legends. From this cliff up-piled
With moss-stained rocks, where mid his green retreat
In the dense thicket the brown wood-thrush sings,
Far through the landscape's mild and mellowing haze
I mark the battle-fields of other days,
Fields trod of old by the red Mohawk kings,
And misty valleys golden with the blaze
Which Summer from the heaven of August flings.
H. W. R.
Utica, (New-York,) 1843.
[SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY.]
BY PETER VON GRIST.
It is Sunday in our pleasant village, and the very air seems to feel it. It is lighter and purer than it was yesterday, and moves stealthily, as though afraid of breaking the general stillness by its rustling. The shops are all shut, but there is no gloominess about them: they too are enjoying the season of rest. And three or four venerable cows are stretched on the green common, lulled to a state of philosophic calmness, and sunk in sober meditation. What delicious music the church-bell makes! It rings out, sotto voce; and the still, charmed air modulates with a gentle motion, like unbroken ripples on the surface of a sleeping pond. First comes a single, heavy peal; then a vibration, like a distant echo; then another, fainter and more distant still; and another, and another, each fainter and quicker than the preceding; till in the course of a few seconds nothing is heard but a confused jingling; and while we are thinking whether this jingling is not that which we sometimes hear in our ears at the dead of night, and which we then decide to be fairy-bells, afar off, another heavy stroke sends down another clear, sweet wave of sound, and the process of vibrations is repeated.
But now the people from the country around begin to come in. Huge lumber-wagons, containing farmers and their sons, in Sunday coats and stiff collars, with their wives and daughters in straw bonnets and pink ribands, and calico dresses, come rattling through the streets, and deposit their loads on the church-steps. The villagers too come out of their houses and walk slowly over toward the meeting-house. It is easy to distinguish the great men of the place; (what place has not its great men, on one scale or another?) the lawyer, the physician, and those older inhabitants, who came here first, and have grown rich through age. They wear finer clothes, their boots are polished, and perhaps their faces are ornamented with spectacles. It is easy to distinguish them, too, by their demeanor. Their walk shows their consciousness of possessing superior importance; and a very pleasant thing that consciousness is, on any scale. Arrived on the steps, they accost each other with affability; nod to the farmers with benignity, and say, 'How do you do, Mrs. Johnson?' in an open tone of voice, that the standers-by may see how friendly they are to all. The young men and maidens look on them with silent veneration: for from their earliest youth they have been accustomed to regard Doctor Brown and 'Squire White as among the greatest in the land; men who had a care over the whole country, and whose dignity of bearing was the consequence and indication of that elevation of mind which was necessary in order to take in such wide views. They are men whose knowledge knows no bounds; they are the ones who make speeches on the Fourth of July; are officers of the temperance society, and the regiment of militia; and therefore the young men and maidens reverence them, and the old men make way for them, in the assembly of the people. It is a natural feeling, natural and pleasant to all parties; and I cannot tell to which it is the most pleasant, the admirer or the admired. But they are going in: I enter with them, and walk down the aisle with a sedate step and slow.
One of those of whom I have spoken last, the doctor, I should judge from his appearance, has given me a seat in his slip, near the centre of the church. What a holy repose steals over the spirit, as we sit down in the house of worship! The strife and turmoil of the world never obtrude themselves into this sacred place; all are for a while forgotten. The oil of awe, and yet of gladness, is poured on the bubbling waters of passion, and they sink to rest. The faint heart, 'wounded, sick, and sore,' is revived and healed by the very breath of the sanctuary; for within these walls the air itself seems consecrated. A solemn and reverential feeling settles down on the mind of the worshipper; and he involuntarily assumes a serious deportment. The people come in, one by one, and take their seats noiselessly, as though they had put off their shoes from their feet on this holy ground. The light rustle of a lady's dress, and the occasional slam of a pew-door, in opening or shutting, alone are heard; and these interruptions only serve to make the succeeding silence more deeply felt.
I look around on the assembly, and among so many men, who for the past week have been digging in the earth, or hammering incessantly on the anvil or the lap-stone, or engaged in the most mean and unintellectual employments, there is not one careless or vacant face. Every heart is elevated, and every face is refined in its expression, by the associations of the place. The humble are exalted, as it is in man's nature to be, when his eyes and thoughts, from being fixed on the earth, are lifted up, and hold communion with things above the earth. Ambition of honor or wealth is shamed; the world is but a little thing, when, as now, we look down on it; and here pride finds no place. Care smooths his rugged brow, and over the sunny face of the maiden steals a shade of deeper thought. Therefore we are all alike; the barriers of ice which during the week have separated man from his fellow, are to-day broken down; and we feel, sitting here worshipping together, that we are fellow-pilgrims; that we are indeed of the same family.
Anon the minister comes in, with reverend countenance and careful step. Every eye is bent on him, with affectionate respect, as he places his hat on the bright little table under the desk, and mounts up to, and shuts himself in, the pulpit. Instinctively we all rise when he does, and invoke the divine presence; though we are conscious that that presence has been with us, and around us, ever since we entered the house. When the rustle of re-seating ourselves, like that of many dry leaves shaken by the wind, has subsided, how calmly and soothingly the voice of the speaker falls on our ears, reading out of the holy book! It is a familiar passage; a passage which I had heard often and often before I could read it, or understand all the words; one which I learned by heart almost as soon as I could learn any thing; which I have heard repeated week after week for many years; and yet now every syllable is sounded so distinctly that the picture comes up as vividly as ever, and I cannot help listening. I forget for the time all that is to come; submit myself to follow slowly along with the words of the speaker, and feel my quiet heart overflowing, as it receives the beautiful story, with its simple and sublime moral.
While I sit and suffer these thoughts, like the spontaneous images of a dream, to pass over my mind, the hymn has been read, and my reveries are broken by music from the choir, floating softly down. I am in no mood to criticise, and it is not difficult to imagine that the sounds do not proceed from mere human lips; but that beings who take a deeper interest in man's welfare than he himself takes, are clothing their words of exhortation or comfort in melody, and speaking at once to our heart and understanding. If this was not fully imagined before, it becomes almost real when the last long-drawn note dies away, as though the sweet minstrels had accomplished their mission to this earthly tabernacle, and had departed toward their own abode.
And now rises the preacher, severe and grave. Every glance is directed toward him, and every ear is open to catch the first, long-coming accents. I do not wonder that they love to gaze on him; even I do now. He is a man past the prime of life; gray hairs are plentifully sprinkled over his head; his face is somewhat thin and worn, as though with long watching and study; but his frame is upright, and the look which he slowly casts over the expectant congregation, is full of import and solemnity. There is a mild, affectionate light in his eye, and love to God and to all God's creatures beams out from every lineament of his countenance. Calmly he displays, after the good old fashion, his handkerchief of spotless white, and calmly deposits it under the right lid of the book before him. There is such an air of quiet dignity about the movement, that I love him for it. But the preparations are all gone through with; a routine which we would not miss, and which he would be lost without. He reads his text with emphatic enunciation, and begins his heart-felt address. It is evident that he does feel it. I cannot doubt it for a moment, when I look on his face. I can see that it is heart-felt; and therefore it is not strange that it should be heart-felt by his hearers too.
What a luxury to hear those plain truths! There is no mystery about them, no darkness. The mind is not led off into futile speculations concerning things infinitely above its reach, or so subtle as for ever to elude its grasp; but the grandest principles—and there are none but what are grand—appear on their natural level, the level of the humblest comprehension. While we are least thinking of it, the good man turns some general remark, in the truth of which we have just acquiesced, toward us, personally, as individuals; meanwhile, by his eye, making every hearer feel that he is meant. I cannot divert my attention; I am compelled to think only as he wills, and am startled by the conviction which forces itself on me, so personally does he speak to me, that he is looking strait into my heart. The chapel becomes a hall of justice; my evil motives, and passions, and actions, in long array come thronging up, and I must perforce sit in judgment on them. No excuses or shiftings avail; in the twinkling of an eye, I see the character of the motive or action, and, in spite of myself, decide justly respecting them. It is humbling, truly, and it ought to do me good.
In fact, it has done me good already, as well as the rest who hear. For now, when the speaker comes to tell of love, and goodness, and mercy, how much sweeter sound the words than ever they did before! The house itself seems lighter, and the faces of all in it are brightened, like the faces of men which have been darkened through fear, under the shadow of an eclipse, when it passes happily away. We all feel that it is good for us to be here, and are surprised that it is so late, when, after another brief prayer, we are summoned to rise and receive the benediction—it seems to me that we should kneel to receive a blessing from such lips—and the morning services are over.
If I followed my inclinations, I should stay here during the intermission; but that would expose me to notice; so I take up my hat, and mingle in the crowd which is pouring out. How different from the crowd which one meets in the saloon of fashion, or at a political meeting, or at any other place, where men are accustomed to congregate! Here we are all jostled together, but gently, decorously. We do not lose sight of ourselves, or of the dignity of reflecting beings. We are rather a company so full of the thoughts which we have just received, that we must think them all over again, and have no time to stop and exchange compliments, or to respond to them with laughter equally inane. Not even when we emerge on to the common, and all take our diverging ways toward home, can a voice be heard rising higher than a whisper. A Sabbath stillness reigns over all.
In the afternoon, the scene is much the same as in the morning. With the first stroke of the bell, I take my former seat, and occupy myself with turning over the leaves of a pocket-Bible that belongs to the slip. There is rather more confusion and noise of people coming in, than there was in the forenoon. Footsteps fall heavier, and pew-doors slam louder. A few old ladies, collected into two or three contiguous seats, for the purpose of enjoying, in the interval of worship, a little whispering consultation, have not yet intermitted their humming voices. Children, released from the Sunday school, come clattering along the aisles. Young gentlemen and ladies do not appear quite so stiff as they did in the morning, and are not so careful that their attitudes should be exactly perpendicular. The chorister also makes some remarks to the choir on the importance of keeping time, and on sundry other things, in a tone of mild command. All these little things go to make up a good deal of confusion in the house; all which, nevertheless, it is exceedingly pleasant to sit and listen to.
But the pastor enters; the bell ceases its tolling; the whispering old ladies disperse themselves to their respective seats; the deacons, who have been waiting for the minister on the steps, follow him in; and in less than a minute silence once more settles down on the assembly.
It may be fancy, but it strikes me that the choir sing a trifle louder and freer than before; that the female singers put in variations, which are not set down for them in the book, sliding graces, one might call them; all indicative of increased confidence in their own powers. However this may be, I am certain that the young damsel in the slip before me, whose face I have not seen, is mingling her voice in the harmony. I can almost hear it. But while I am watching to catch her tones, a universal shutting of books announces that the hymn is ended.
It may be fancy, too, but the preacher seems to me a thought less solemn than in the forenoon; perhaps a little warmer and more animated. Perhaps, too, the hearers are more restless and disposed to be critical. There is not that same hush of breathless listening. But they are sweet words; and the speaker appears to be conscious that he is not giving utterance to idle breath, so deliberately and thoughtfully do the lessons of good come from his lips. And this deliberation and thoughtfulness increase as he draws near the close of the sermon; till at last, his voice is sunk almost to a whisper; and our attention has to be closely riveted to catch the sounds. Now may be seen the whole congregation bending forward with strained eyes, and animated faces, drinking in the thoughts and precepts, and exhortations, as though for their lives. And when the conclusion of the whole matter comes, 'And thereby shall ye have hope of eternal life,' and during the deep pause which succeeds the enunciation of these words, an hundred long-drawn sighs may be heard, telling of relieved and lightened bosoms.
After the prayer, a hymn is read; a good old hymn, unmutilated from Watts, and we all rise to sing it. It is set to a good old tune too, one with which every body is familiar, and the first verse is carried roundly off. The second verse sets in heavier; the voices of the singers grow louder through use. The bass, which before was rather faint, now comes out with the power of a dozen organs, from fifty pairs of lungs that never knew what weakness was. The air, too, has cast off its timidity, and rises high and shrill; while the alto and tenor, each clear and distinct, fill up the intermediate space, and all four blend together harmoniously, so that no jar or dissonance is perceptible. The tide of song sways up and down, like the breathless rocking of the wave. The whole house is crowded with sound. The voices gush out and swell with measured movement; and while the different parts combine and unite, a mingled stream of harmony and praise is sent up toward the heavens. It is evident that the hearts of the singers are rising with their words. I can speak for myself, at least; I find it difficult to resist the current of enthusiasm; so I allow myself to be borne away; and, albeit somewhat unskilled in the gentle art of psalmody, into this grand hallelujah chorus I cast the strength of my voice with right good will.