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 wayamong 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 becameagain 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 lookedupon 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 youalonemust 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.”
As the service ended, it was good to see the kind-hearted feeling, with which the congregation gathered around the venerable man—for he was pure, and sincere, and true; and of a verity, as he said, his voice had arisen among them above the infant’s wail, at thebaptismal font—had joined them with cheerfulness at the marriage feast, and still been heard in solemn sympathy at the side of the dark and silent grave. It was the last time that he addressed them. Not many days, and another voice pronounced the burial service of the dead in that green church-yard, and the form of the good old man was covered from their sight beneath its sod.
As we returned to our cottage home, the crescent moon was streaming in silvery brightness, the constellations and galaxy resplendent with “living fires,” and the far, far worlds rolling in immeasurable distance, as twinkling stars trembled upon our human vision. The dews of night were moist upon the grass, as we re-measured the lawn that led to the cottage; where, after planning our visit for the following morning to Mount Vernon, we soon were wrapped in contented and grateful repose.