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.