The mild breeze bore in the sweet perfume of the honey-suckle from a neighbouring arbour, and the broad Potomac, stretched tranquilly onwards, undisturbed save by the occasional jibe of the boom, or lazy creak of the rudder of some craft, reflected with her white sails upon its surface. The garden, with its white-gravelled walks, bordered with box, descended in parterres to the river’s edge—an embroidered carpet of flowers; and lemon and orange trees, released from their winter’s confinement, displayed their golden fruit, hanging amid the green leaves in tempting profusion. I bent over and looked into the hammock, and could not but admire the serenity of the manly features, the measured heave of the broad chest, and the masses of raven locks, playing around the white forehead of the sleeper, as they were slowly lifted by the play of the passing wind. I thought it were a sin to disturb him, so drawing out my cigar case, I stretched myself on the settee at his side, complacently reclining my head upon its arm. Whiles watching the blue smoke of my “Regalia,” as it slowly wreathed and floated above my head—whiles watching the still dreamy flow of the river—and whiles—if I must confess it—cogitating which had been the wisest, myself the bachelor, or Tom the married man,—Tom, myself, the dogs, forming a tolerably correct picture of still life,—a still life that remained unbroken for some half hour, when through the glass door of the drawing-room a beautiful boy of three or four years came galloping into the piazza, and bounding towards the dogs, threw himself full length upon the shaggy Newfoundlander, manfully striving to pull open his huge jaws with his little hands. The Newfoundlander opening his eyes, saw me, and raising himself on his legs, gave a low growl; while the child, relinquishing his hold upon the ears to which he had clung, as the dog rose to his feet, came slowly up to me, and placing his plump little hands upon my knee, looked curiously and inquiringly into my face, his golden locks falling in a profusion of ringlets down his superb sunburnt shoulders. I was charmed with the confidence, and innocence, and sweetness beaming from his gaze, and took him upon my knee, his hand playing with my watch guard, while his beautiful blue eyes remained fixed in the same look of curious inquiry on mine. I said it was a picture of still life. Tom, aroused by the dog, slowly lifted his head over the edge of the hammock, rubbed his eyes as if uncertain whether he were in a dream, as I calmly and silently returned his astonished gaze, and then, with a single swing, was at my side, both of my hands clasped in his. The next moment, I fancy the picture was other than still life.
Why should I tell you of the tea-table, loaded with delicacies in the matted hall, as the soft evening sun-set poured its last rays through it? of the symmetrical figure clad in snowy whiteness—the Grecian features, the dark Andalusian eyes, beaming with kindness from behind the glittering silver at its head? Why, that the youngster tied by the handkerchief in the high chair at his mother’s side, pertinaciously kicked his tiny red shoes about him in frolic glee, while my little knight of the golden locks, did the duty of the trencher at his father’s elbow? Why, that as the shades of evening faded into twilight, that the young gentry were snugly ensconced in their little bed, the mother’s soft cheek pressed against the forehead of the eldest as he lisped his evening prayer? and why, as soon “like twin roses on one stalk,” as they were wrapped in innocent slumber, we sat in the fading twilight, talking over old scenes and boyish recollections, retracing our steps back to those days which, softened by the lapse of time, appear divested of every thing save brightness and sunshine? why but to tell you that we were aroused from those retrospections, by the sound of the church-going bell, musically chiming in the distance.
THE COUNTRY PASTOR.
The slow tolling—now almost dying away, and now striking more strongly upon the ear—arose from the church in the neighbouring town, where my friends were in the habit of worshipping, and where they were to have the opportunity on that evening of hearing the voice of their time-honoured pastor—an opportunity which his great age and increasing infirmities had made equally rare and valuable. I gladly accepted the invitation to join them, as, aside from a desire to see the aged man, of whom I had so often heard, if there is a time for devotion more consonant to my feelings than another, it is when the quietness and serenity of a summer’s evening dispel all external impressions, and every thing appears in unison with harmony and benevolence.
As we walked the short half mile between the cottage and the church, the stars shone in beauty amid the still rosy tints of the west—the night-hawk stooped towards us, as he wheeled in his airy circles—the whip-poor-will in the adjoining meadows sounded his mournful note, and the crickets, with the chirping frogs in the neighbouring ponds, sustained a ceaseless chorus. Arrived at the church-yard, we picked our way among the old brown tomb-stones, their quaint devices, contrasted here and there with others of more modern pretensions in white marble, and entering the church, took our seats in silence. We were early; but as the church gradually filled, it was interesting to watch group after group, as it noiselessly measured the aisles, and sunk quietly upon the cushioned seats. Now and then a pair of bright eyes would glance curiously around from beneath a gay bonnet, and a stray tress be thrown hastily aside; but alas! those clad in the habiliments of wo, too, too often moved, phantom-like, to their places; the lights, as they threw a momentary glare on their pale and care-worn faces, making more dark the badges which affection has assumed as a tame index of inward grief. The slow toll of the bell ceased—the silence became more deep;—an occasional cough—the rustling of a dress—the turn of a leaf alone breaking the perfect stillness.
The low tones of the organ rose gently and sweetly, and the voluntary floated softly and mist-like over the assembly; now rising, and falling, and undulating, with like dreamy harmony, as if the Æolian harp were answering, with the passing airs playing among its strings, the ocean gently laving her pebbly shores; then gradually rising and increasing in depth, it grandly and solemnly ascended upwards, till thrown back, reverberated from the walls of the circular dome above us, it rolled away in deep and distant thunders. All became again silent. The venerable form of a man of four-score years, his hair bleached with the sorrows of eighty winters, rose slowly in the pulpit, and as, with eyes closed, yet lifted to Heaven, he feebly supported himself with outstretched arms upon its cushion, we heard almost in a whisper, “Let us pray, my brethren,” fall tremulously from his lips. Nought, but the perfect stillness, enabled us at first to hear the sentences pronounced with evident and painful effort; but as he advanced in prayer, that almost whisper, became firm and distinct, and his pallid cheek lighted up with a hectic flush, as he waxed eloquent in the presence of his Maker.
His venerable features appeared to glow almost with inspiration, as he drew near the throne of the Holy One; and the hearts of the mourners beat more calmly, as they felt themselves carried into the presence of Him that suffered. More thoughtless than the swallow that skims the summer skies, must he have been, who could have heard that prayer, and not have joined with reverence in its solemnity. His closing words still ring upon my ear, and long will remain stamped upon my memory.
“My children—your fathers, and your fathers’ fathers have listened to my voice. Generations have passed by me to their long account, and still I have been left, and still my voice hath arisen from this holy place. Wo! wo is me, if my Master hath looked upon me as a slack and unworthy servant to his people. My children—but a few short days, and this trembling voice that still strives to teach his blessed will, shall be hushed in that sleep which the Archangel’s trump alone shall break—this tottering form be laid beneath the mould from whence it came, there to remain till that trump shall demand its presence at the judgment seat. But with the last tones of this quivering voice, with the last grasp of these trembling hands, I extend to you the sacred volume, as your guide to happiness in this, your only light into the world to come.
“The sneers of human reason and vain philosophy shall desert you assuredly, my children, as you stand upon the edge of that awful precipice, where each of you alone must take the fated plunge into the deep darkness of the future—but this, this shall make clear your passage as brightest noon-day. My children—I look back upon you as I speak—my hand is on the door-latch—my foot upon the threshold—oh! when your short days like mine are numbered, may you with the same reliance in his mercy, say, Lo, blessed Master, we stand without—receive us into thy kingdom.”