CHAPTER X.THE FOLK-SONG FESTIVAL.

AMONG the most delightful of all the entertainments given under the auspices of the World’s Congress Auxiliary in the Art Palace, Chicago, was the festival of the home songs of all nations. It was held in the halls of Washington and Columbus, the same singers passing from the one hall to the other, so that two audiences might enjoy the review of the world’s popular songs on the same evening.

MR. FIELD.

The singers, many of whom came from the nations represented on the Midway Plaisance, were dressed in the costumes of their own country, and were accompanied by their national instruments. The most beautiful of all folk-songs were those of Wales; among the most unique, those of India.

The representation of old New England tunes was interesting. The concert closed late at night, the last number being “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” sung by Dr. Root, the composer of the song.

Our trio listened to this wonderful festival with delight.

“Every town ought to have a choral society to sing these songs,” said Mr. Marlowe; “they are, for the most part, songs of the heart. Even the songs of the nations that we call heathen have human sympathy in them. The human heart is one.”

Mr. Marlowe saved his programme for use in making up some limited entertainment of the kind for home use.

HUNGARIAN DANCERS.

“I will tell the story of ‘Hannah, Who Sang Countre,’” he said,“when the Club meets again, and I will sing some of the old New England tunes while telling the story.”

Mr. Marlowe carried into effect the thought. The story was as follows:—

I cansee her now in my mind’s eye, as she used to sit alone on the church steps, her white face beaming with benevolence beneath her gray poke bonnet. The great bell hung over the steps, high in air. It was silent then, or rung only by the sharp gusts of winds. Before her was the old Puritan graveyard, in which slept all to whom she could claim kin. Hannah Semple was a poor, lone woman. Her home was among the lilac-bushes and apple-trees, but all that was mortal of those dear to her was here under the gray stones. She loved to visit them at early evenings. Her Sundays were always spent with them. Hannah Semple’s heart had been true to her own family while they were living; it was true still, and would always be the same.I can, in memory, hear her sing, and her cracked voice was tender and pitiful. Her favorite hymn began with a curious simile that excited my curiosity before I knew its history, and my imagination, afterwards:“As on some lonely building’s topThe sparrow tells her moan,Far from the tents of joy and hope,I sit and grieve alone.”The tune was “Hallowell,” a great favorite in the olden time. It was one of those tunes in which, to my boyish ears, the singers of the different parts chased each other about in a most harmonious and wonderful way, and finally came out together at the end. The country choirs who could perform such tunes to the accompaniment of bass viols, were thought by the country people to have made great progress in musical art. It was in the days of these majestic performances in the choir-loft of the progressive Puritan church, that Hannah Semple used to singcountre.The church was closed now, and had been closed for two years: as silent as the graveyard in which the hardy Puritans slept under the mosses and zigzag stones. There was a progressive spirit in the old Swansea neighborhood, which was one of the successive communities that ran from Plymouth to theold towns founded by Roger Williams and the Quaker-Baptists on the Narragansett Bay. This was shown by the introduction of the bass viol into the choir, which soon found an evolution in two bass viols; then in fugued tunes by Billings and Holden and Maxim; then more bass viols, which were played on Thanksgiving Day.The greatest choral performance in those days, when Hannah sangcountre, was a tune called “Majesty,” by Billings. William Billings was the musical wonder of these eventful times,—a rural Handel of the many neighborhoods of Puritan churches. He did not know much about counterpoint,—he followed only natural inspiration; but his music is still to be found in collections. This tune, “Majesty,” was thought to be his masterpiece, and was sung on all great occasions. The words were as stirring as the music:—“The Lord descended from above,And bowed the heavens most high,And underneath his feet he castThe darkness of the sky.“On cherub and on cherubimFull royally he rode,And on the wings of mighty windsCame flying all abroad.”Vigorous indeed was the rendering of this tune on Independence days, after the reading of the immortal Declaration, and before the Oration; and as inspiring also on Thanksgiving mornings, before the long sermon. It required much practice on the part of the orchestra, and hard were the bitings of the tuning fork, and severe were the rehearsals, before it could be acceptably performed. The soprano was a rural Patti, and as for thebasso profundo, there is no present comparison.To singcountrewas held to be a great accomplishment in the days of the music of Billings, Maxim, and Holden. Bycountrewe do not mean the counter alto of the present time, but a kind of alto or contralto. It was often called the “natural alto,” for in these days of rural Handels, each church developed one or more female singers that were thought to have the gift of singing alto by direct inspiration.In the prosperous days of the old Swansea church, when the descendants of heroic Samson Mason, of Cromwell’s army, and of like heroes, sent out missionary colonies to Nova Scotia and elsewhere, Hannah Semple sangcountrein the ancient meeting-house, and her voice was the pride of the many neighborhoods. People used to visit the church from the distant villages inark-like carryalls, and it was often said that many of them came less to hear the long sermon, in regard to the domestic affairs of the Jews in Jerusalem, than to hear musical Hannah, who sangcountre.In the days of her musical triumphs Hannah never changed her humble name into Hannahetti. Her guileless soul never entertained any vanity like that, and yet local appreciation had given her a name as long as that of any modern singer. She was never spoken of as simply Hannah, but always as “Hannah, who sangcountre,” a name that would be sufficiently picturesque for a modern concert bill.I first saw the old woman on a Sunday morning, as I was riding with my father to another church. It was in early May.As we came to a low, red cottage, a gate in front slowly opened, and the tall, thin form of a woman appeared, in a gray dress, Rob-Roy shawl, and high poke bonnet, followed by a Maltese cat. There was something so pleasant in the expression of her face, so patient and kindly, that I followed her movements with sympathetic curiosity.“Who is that, Father?” I asked, in an undertone.“That is ‘Hannah, who sangcountre.’ She holds a meeting alone every Sunday morning, on the old church steps, and declares that the church-members will come together again, and there will be a great thanksgiving, if she remains faithful. Her mind is slightly unbalanced, and she thinks she is a prophetess.”My father bowed to her, and her face lightened up as she said,—“A beautiful morning. ’Tis a morning of the trees of the Lord, and I am one of the branches. Do you believe in the Great Thanksgiving?” Her face seemed full of hope.“No, Hannah, no,” said my father, truthfully.“No? Well, I am sorry you don’t believe it. But I must be faithful. It is sure to come, for it has been revealed to me. I have been faithful to the dead,—and now I must be faithful to the living. This is all I have to live for. It will come! The people of the Lord in these plantations will gather again. The doors will open, and there will be great thanksgiving. I shall be there,—right before the pulpit, right by the deacon’s seat. It has been revealed to me. I don’t know how I shall be there. That is a veiled mystery; there is a shadow over it; I cannot seehowit will be, but I shall be there.”“Where are you going this morning? Will you ride?” asked my father.“I’m going to meetin’.”“Who is to preach?”“I.”

I can, in memory, hear her sing, and her cracked voice was tender and pitiful. Her favorite hymn began with a curious simile that excited my curiosity before I knew its history, and my imagination, afterwards:

“As on some lonely building’s topThe sparrow tells her moan,Far from the tents of joy and hope,I sit and grieve alone.”

“As on some lonely building’s top

The sparrow tells her moan,

Far from the tents of joy and hope,

I sit and grieve alone.”

The tune was “Hallowell,” a great favorite in the olden time. It was one of those tunes in which, to my boyish ears, the singers of the different parts chased each other about in a most harmonious and wonderful way, and finally came out together at the end. The country choirs who could perform such tunes to the accompaniment of bass viols, were thought by the country people to have made great progress in musical art. It was in the days of these majestic performances in the choir-loft of the progressive Puritan church, that Hannah Semple used to singcountre.

The church was closed now, and had been closed for two years: as silent as the graveyard in which the hardy Puritans slept under the mosses and zigzag stones. There was a progressive spirit in the old Swansea neighborhood, which was one of the successive communities that ran from Plymouth to theold towns founded by Roger Williams and the Quaker-Baptists on the Narragansett Bay. This was shown by the introduction of the bass viol into the choir, which soon found an evolution in two bass viols; then in fugued tunes by Billings and Holden and Maxim; then more bass viols, which were played on Thanksgiving Day.

The greatest choral performance in those days, when Hannah sangcountre, was a tune called “Majesty,” by Billings. William Billings was the musical wonder of these eventful times,—a rural Handel of the many neighborhoods of Puritan churches. He did not know much about counterpoint,—he followed only natural inspiration; but his music is still to be found in collections. This tune, “Majesty,” was thought to be his masterpiece, and was sung on all great occasions. The words were as stirring as the music:—

“The Lord descended from above,And bowed the heavens most high,And underneath his feet he castThe darkness of the sky.“On cherub and on cherubimFull royally he rode,And on the wings of mighty windsCame flying all abroad.”

“The Lord descended from above,And bowed the heavens most high,And underneath his feet he castThe darkness of the sky.

“The Lord descended from above,

And bowed the heavens most high,

And underneath his feet he cast

The darkness of the sky.

“On cherub and on cherubimFull royally he rode,And on the wings of mighty windsCame flying all abroad.”

“On cherub and on cherubim

Full royally he rode,

And on the wings of mighty winds

Came flying all abroad.”

Vigorous indeed was the rendering of this tune on Independence days, after the reading of the immortal Declaration, and before the Oration; and as inspiring also on Thanksgiving mornings, before the long sermon. It required much practice on the part of the orchestra, and hard were the bitings of the tuning fork, and severe were the rehearsals, before it could be acceptably performed. The soprano was a rural Patti, and as for thebasso profundo, there is no present comparison.

To singcountrewas held to be a great accomplishment in the days of the music of Billings, Maxim, and Holden. Bycountrewe do not mean the counter alto of the present time, but a kind of alto or contralto. It was often called the “natural alto,” for in these days of rural Handels, each church developed one or more female singers that were thought to have the gift of singing alto by direct inspiration.

In the prosperous days of the old Swansea church, when the descendants of heroic Samson Mason, of Cromwell’s army, and of like heroes, sent out missionary colonies to Nova Scotia and elsewhere, Hannah Semple sangcountrein the ancient meeting-house, and her voice was the pride of the many neighborhoods. People used to visit the church from the distant villages inark-like carryalls, and it was often said that many of them came less to hear the long sermon, in regard to the domestic affairs of the Jews in Jerusalem, than to hear musical Hannah, who sangcountre.

In the days of her musical triumphs Hannah never changed her humble name into Hannahetti. Her guileless soul never entertained any vanity like that, and yet local appreciation had given her a name as long as that of any modern singer. She was never spoken of as simply Hannah, but always as “Hannah, who sangcountre,” a name that would be sufficiently picturesque for a modern concert bill.

I first saw the old woman on a Sunday morning, as I was riding with my father to another church. It was in early May.

As we came to a low, red cottage, a gate in front slowly opened, and the tall, thin form of a woman appeared, in a gray dress, Rob-Roy shawl, and high poke bonnet, followed by a Maltese cat. There was something so pleasant in the expression of her face, so patient and kindly, that I followed her movements with sympathetic curiosity.

“Who is that, Father?” I asked, in an undertone.

“That is ‘Hannah, who sangcountre.’ She holds a meeting alone every Sunday morning, on the old church steps, and declares that the church-members will come together again, and there will be a great thanksgiving, if she remains faithful. Her mind is slightly unbalanced, and she thinks she is a prophetess.”

My father bowed to her, and her face lightened up as she said,—

“A beautiful morning. ’Tis a morning of the trees of the Lord, and I am one of the branches. Do you believe in the Great Thanksgiving?” Her face seemed full of hope.

“No, Hannah, no,” said my father, truthfully.

“No? Well, I am sorry you don’t believe it. But I must be faithful. It is sure to come, for it has been revealed to me. I have been faithful to the dead,—and now I must be faithful to the living. This is all I have to live for. It will come! The people of the Lord in these plantations will gather again. The doors will open, and there will be great thanksgiving. I shall be there,—right before the pulpit, right by the deacon’s seat. It has been revealed to me. I don’t know how I shall be there. That is a veiled mystery; there is a shadow over it; I cannot seehowit will be, but I shall be there.”

“Where are you going this morning? Will you ride?” asked my father.

“I’m going to meetin’.”

“Who is to preach?”

“I.”

MUSICIANS FROM MOORISH THEATRE.

“Who attends the meeting?”“I.”“Who sings?”“I.”“Do you singcountre?”She dropped her eyes, and looked down on the violets, and when at last she lifted her face, it was wet with tears.“Bless you, no! There is no one now to singcountre. It takes two voices to singcountre. They will sing again after the Great Thanksgiving, but now I am left to sing alone. I have to sing the upper part now. My voice is not so good as it used to be.”She broke some purple lilacs from the sunny bushes by the roadside, and gave them to me. I thanked her, and, with a heart full of boyish sympathy, said,—“I wish I had something to give you.”“You are a good boy to say so, but I don’t expect anything from any one now. My folks are all housed in the graveyard, and the sun is shinin’ upon them, and the violets bloom in there. I shall be with them soon. I wish you would come to meetin’ with me some Sunday morning. I’ll sing to ye, and tell of my vision, and the Great Thanksgiving. It is lonesome to preach all to one’s self, and the dead.”“Don’t any one ever come to hear you?” asked I.“Yes, the Lord comes regularly.Theyare there. Those I love are always there, down under the moss. Do they listen? I think they do. The sun comes down on the steps, and the winds come from the meadows, and the birds come. The world is full of beautiful things that come to hear me preach to myself. Child, if you will come to hear me next Sunday mornin’, I will sing you one of the most beautiful songs that you ever heard, and will tell you about the Great Thanksgiving, just as I said. Now you will come—do.”The next Sabbath was not a meeting day with the family. The horses had been worked so hard in ploughing that Father decided that they must be allowed to rest. At the breakfast-table an allusion was made to old Hannah, and I startled the family with the question,—“May I go over there to-day, and see Hannah, and get some lilacs?”“Yes,” said my mother, whose heart was all sympathy. “You would be company for her. I never knew a woman who was so self-forgetful, or did so much for poor people and sick people, as she has done. She is not a prophetess, but I do think if the angels of heaven have a message for any one, it must be for her. Poor old Hannah!”“Perhaps she will tell you about her beau, Peter Rugg, who thought that a sheep was a catamount,” said one of the work-people, dryly.As I approached the silent meeting-house, I saw, through the opening in the locust-trees, Hannah, sitting on its sunny steps. She met me with a smile, exclaiming, “Comein; meetin’ hasn’t begun. I’m glad you’ve come. We will have the service, then I will prophesy as the Lord commands, and after that you shall go home with me for some cake to eat. You will live to see the Great Thanksgiving. It has been revealed to me.”She held a hymn book in her hand, and an old-time parallelogram of tunes, with slant sides, lay beside her. She took up the music book, opened it, and held it in one hand, and the hymn book in the other.“This tune that I am goin’ to sing has a mighty curious history,” said she. “It was written by Abraham Maxim, or Granville Maxim. He lived in Maine, and he named his tunes for the towns in Maine: ‘Portland,’ ‘Hallowell,’ ‘Bath,’ and the like.“He was disappointed in love, Maxim was. So was I. I’ll tell you about it when I get home, after meetin’. One day he went out into the woods to hang himself, carryin’ with him a rope. He sat down in a lonely place, near a shed, to meditate before he tied the rope to a tree. Well, as Providence would have it, a sparrer, whose nest had been disturbed, uttered its little plaintive cry of fear, because of its young. It touched his heart, and he wrote down on a piece of birch-bark the hymn I’m goin’ to sing. Then he wrote to the hymn a tune in deep minor, endin’ with a very solemn chord. It’s very comfortin’ to me.”She lifted up the music book, and sang the most melancholy piece of music to which I ever listened, ending with the very solemn chord:—“As on some lonelybuilding’s topThe sparrow makes her moan,Far from the tents of joy and hopeI sit and grieve alone.”Hannah then made a prayer in glowing Hebrew figures, a kind of rhapsody of Hebrew poetry. She sang another hymn tune of Maxim’s, then laid down her books and stood up.“My child,” she said, “this is my text; it was written for you thousands of years ago,—‘And Reuben returned unto the pit; and behold Joseph was not in the pit.’” Her thought was that a lost opportunity for doing good, of being loving, kind, and merciful, could seldom be recalled. Her words were homely and quaint, but her figures and ideas were poetic. She preached charity to all men. I recall only one whole sentence. It was: “Never lose an opportunityof doing good; if you do, it will injureyou. We are all passin’ away; he that hath ears to hear, let him hear.”When she had finished her discourse, she said, “Now, I am goin’ to prophesy.”She stood in silence at first, looking up to the sky; then lifting her hand, she repeated the first six verses of the Fifty-first chapter of the poetry of Isaiah, in a tone quite unlike her usual voice.“It will come,” she said,—“that Great Thanksgiving will come in these towns that were founded by the old prophets. You will be there; that is revealed to me. I shall be there. But how? That is not clear. When I try to see myself there, there comes a cloud; the vision shuts down. Men have shut the doors of the old church, but the doors of the heavens are not closed. The Great Thanksgiving that I see will come, if I only prove faithful. It will come! It will come! The people will gather, as in days of old. There will be preachin’ in the old pulpit, and singing though I may not be here to singcountre. I can see the people comin’ through the graveyard, under the trees, but I am not there. Oh, where am I? Where am I? I don’t see myself anywhere; yet the Voice tells me I shall be there.”She sank down, a shadow on her serene face.She arose again, and sang a strange hymn. Each stanza ended with the words: “With glory in our souls.” It was a long hymn, with a plaintive air.“Come, child,” said she, when the song ended, “meetin’ is over now. Let us go.”She led me to the red cottage among the lilac-trees. How clean and neat it was! Then, in her kindly way, she brought me cake and milk, and drove out of the house a solitary fly, an early intruder.“You live alone?” I said.“Oh, no, no, child;theyall live with me; they come to visit me. The Lord lives with me, when I don’t murmur nor complain, and He never turns against me.“Shall I tell you about myself? Well, I was very happy as a child, roamin’ among the berry pastures, goin’ to the deestrict school, and helpin’ Mother about the house. Mother was a great-hearted, good woman, and Father was an honest, hard-working man. I never thought that I should be a public singer, and sit in the gallery, and singcountrein the ‘Easter Anthem.’ I never thought I should sing before the great Daniel Webster, on Independence Day.“It all came about in this way. Old Schoolmaster Mason opened a singin’ school in the vestry of the church, and asked me to attend. I always loved music, and I did not go to the school but a little while, before I found that Icould singcountre. Even in a new piece that I had never seen, if I only had the words before me, I could make up acountreto the singing of the air.“I learned to sing low tones that the people thought were wonderful. It used sometimes to trouble me because they seemed to think more abouthowI sang, thanwhatI sang.“There was a young man in the neighborhood, at the time, named Peter Rugg. He is dead now. He used to listen to thecountreat the singin’ school as though he was spellbound. One night, after I had been singin’, he came to me, and asked leave to see me home. He was fine-looking, with curly hair and a high forehead, and he tried to sing tenor. I liked him, and, after a time, he used to visit me often, and one night he said,—“‘Hannah, if I ever should save money enough to marry anybody, it would be you; you do singcountreso solemn.’“I felt that he paid to me the greatest compliment that could be paid to a woman, and says I, says I,—“‘Peter, if I were ever to leave my home, I should want to jine my lot with yourn, you do sing so high.’“I was kind of modest, and I didn’t wish to say any more than he did, but I really did love him, and I would have been glad to have married him.“Well, one winter, all the country round was thrown into a state of great fright, by a report that some woodchoppers had seen a catamount in the woods. Soon after this, sheep and pigs began to disappear, and the loss was laid to the catamount. There used to be catamounts in New England, and in the great woods, along the Pocassett coast, one would be seen occasionally.“The excitement grew. A great many people began to think that they had seen the catamount, though whether there was one, at that time, in Massachusetts, no one can say.“One day, when the people were all excited about the catamount, Peter Rugg took tea at our house, and went with me in the evenin’ to the singin’ school. I sang my best that night, and Peter was so pleased that he said to me: ‘Hannah, whatever may happen, I will always be true to you.’ I was very happy, and we left the vestry to walk home.“We took a roundabout way, but had not gone far, when we heard a patterin’ of feet on the other side of the wall.“‘Hark, it’s the catamount!’ Peter cried.“‘I’ll cling to you forever,’ said I. ‘We will die true. If he devours you, he shall devour me.’“We hurried on, trembling in every limb. The patter of the feet continued on the other side of the wall.“‘Let go my arm,’ he said, ‘and I’ll see what it is.’“I released his arm, when, could you believe it? he ran off, sayin’,—‘I’ll get a gun,’ and he flew over the hill. I never saw him again for a year. I stood dumb in the road. In my indignation all fear left me. A moment later I heard a sheep ‘ba-a’ on the other side of the wall.“Nobody can tell what a heavy heart I carried home that night. All respect for the man I thought I loved was gone. I cried myself to sleep. For months I suffered more than I can ever tell, but I never told the story while Peter lived. I forgave him when death touched him. We are all poor and weak. We must be merciful in our thoughts.“Well, Father was stricken with the palsy, and Mother, she began to lose her mind, and thought she had committed the unpardonable sin, or that she should do some violence to herself, and she wanted to be watched all the time. She didn’t sleep much for years, and, amid all these troubles, my only sister died. I tried to take care of them all. I did my best. How I used to work in those days! There were weeks at a time when I could not take off my dress at night.“Well, the old folks died; then my poor sister passed away: so life goes. One goes, then more, and the number grows. I have no blood kin now. The lot in the graveyard is full, but sometimes they visit me in spirit. It makes me happy to think that I did all I could for them, when they were living. I know where they are; they know where I am. There is no real partin’ among hearts that are true to each other.“I had one great comfort in all my hard lot. It was music. I did love to sing. My voice made me a little vain at first, but I meant to use it only for good, and never for myself. I came to hold it as a trust. I could see how it helped and comforted others, and that made me happy. I used to sing, ‘Peace, troubled soul,’ at funerals, and, ‘Come, ye disconsolate,’ and, ‘Come unto me when shadows darkly gather.’ I had no father, mother, sister, brother, husband, or child; but I was happy in the choir. That fellowship was everything to me.“Then came the great church quarrel. How can such things be! A part of the members became Six-Principle Baptists, and a part Christian Baptists, and each claimed the church. Neither party would yield. So the old church was closed. The doors were nailed up, and the rope taken off the bell.“I felt that I was utterly alone when the bell ceased to ring,” she said. “People sent for me to take care of their sick, to comfort the dying, and to lay out the dead, and sing at funerals. That was all the life I had. Then my voice began to break, and my hair to turn gray. It is white, now,—see.“One morning I came home early, after watching all night with poor Widow Green, who was sick so long. I laid down on the lounge, with my dress on, and fell asleep. It was the day after it was resolved to close the church. Well, there came to me a vision. I seemed to be sittin’ alone on the church steps, when there stood before me a noble-lookin’ man, in a silvery haze, and said: ‘I am Elder John Myles. I was the founder of these plantations. I love this people, and the old church, which I founded. You are God’s child. Be true to His cause. Go to the old church every Sunday, and hold a meetin’ on the steps. If you remain true, the people will be gathered here again, and there will be a Great Thanksgiving, and you will be there in body or in soul.’ I woke. It was gone,—the beautiful face in the silver cloud. But the words were printed on my mind. They are there,—always there.“People call me crazy Hannah, but they all send for me when they are in trouble. Their harvests come and go, but the bell does not ring, nor the doors open. But I am true to the vision. The Great Thanksgiving will come, and I shall be there.”She then sang the song that she had promised. The words and music were really beautiful. I recall the first lines:—“How sweet to reflect on the joys that await meIn yon blissful region, the haven of rest.”One of the stanzas began:—“Then hail, blessed state! hail, ye songsters of glory!Ye harpers of bliss, soon I’ll meet you above.”The beatific look that I had seen in her face, on the church steps, came back to her. It was the most lovely expression I ever saw.The music of the school of Billings, Holden, and Maxim, and the hymns and ballads to which it was written, were no weak compositions. There were people in those days who delighted to sing—“If you want to see the devil run,Shoot him with the Gospel gun,”to a dance rhythm, but the primitive, original psalmody of the old Orthodox churches was, as a rule, as solid as it was solemn. “While shepherds watched their flocks by night” had something of modern lightness and sprightliness, which may account for its popularity to-day, as a number in the programme of old folks’ concerts; but Maxim’s “Turner” and “Bath,” and Holden’s “Coronation” and “No war nor battle sound,” and Billings’ “Boston,” and many tunes, all of which formed a part of the musical experience of the bestNew England homes, some fifty years ago, were serious work, of the school of Tausur and of Handel.The great patriotic song of those times was entitled “Ode on Science.” This was thechef-d’œuvreof Independence days and Thanksgivings, and Hannah had once sungcountrein the performance of it before Daniel Webster.Two years after my interview with Hannah she responded to the Governor’s Proclamation, and, faithful to the old traditions, resolved to celebrate the approaching Thanksgiving on the church steps. On the morning of that day she took her music book, which contained the famous “Ode on Science,” put her spectacles into her ample pocket, and, followed by her cat, went to the steps of the old meeting-house. It was a mild Indian summer day, of melting frosts, dropping nuts, and lingering splendors. The woods were crimson, with an odor of decay in the leaves, and the orchards red, with a cidery scent. The call of the lively bluejay was heard here and there, and the whir of the partridge wings on the margin of the woods. The farmers were busy husking their stacks of corn, and the cellar doors were heaped with squashes and pumpkins of enormous size, taking a last mellowing in the sun.Just as Hannah arose on the church steps to give thanks for all these blessings of plenty, Deacon Goodwin approached in his cart, that was loaded with corn and pumpkins. He took theChristianview, as the word was pronounced, in the great theological discussion. His heart was touched at the sight of the white hair of old Hannah, and he stopped to hear her sing.It was a striking picture that she presented, on that bright morning, in her straight gown, poke bonnet, Rob-Roy shawl, and white hair, which filled the dark cavern over her forehead. She stood with her hymn book in one hand, and beating time with her other hand, she began:—“The morning sun shines from the east,And spreads his glories in the west.All nations with his beams are blest.”Her voice was high. Her free hand waved vigorously to tell how—“Freedom her attendant waitsTo bless the portals of her gates,To crown the young and rising StatesWith laurels of immortal day.“The British yoke, the Gallic chain,Was urged upon our necks in vain.All haughty tyrants we disdain,And shout, Long live America.”The last word rang out with a long sound ofcaat the end.She stopped, removed her spectacles, and looked down upon Deacon Goodwin, inquiringly.“I declare it’s too bad,” said the Deacon, “that you have to be the Thanksgiving for the hull town. Two or three people have had their own heads here about long enough, it’s my opinion. If I could have my way, Hannah, we’d not be ruled as we are. I’ll see what can be done. Somethin’ ’ll have to be done, and I’ll do it.“Go lang!” and he laid a long birch stick on the back of the patient beast before him, and left Hannah to conclude her devotions among the dead.An epidemic of smallpox spread over the towns between the coast and Narragansett Bay, and in a neighboring town there was no one to go into the pest-house and nurse the sick. Hannah was told of the situation, and it touched her heart.“I will go,” she said.“But you have never had the smallpox,” said the visitor.“It makes no difference. I have a promise in my heart. Pain is nothing when it is over, and it is a glorious thing to bear for the sake of others. I shall surely live until the Great Thanksgiving. I will go. They need me.”She gave herself, night and day, to the sufferers, and did not take the disease. But she was very old, and when she returned to her cottage, it was with exhausted strength.To the church steps she went feebly, with each returning Sabbath. Autumn came with bountiful harvests. The blue gentians bloomed in the cranberry meadows and by the roadside; the apples, red and russet, bent down the trees; the cornfields rustled, and the hunter’s moon rose in the nightfall.The farmers were very busy filling their bursting barns and cribs; but Hannah’s home was silent. No one remembered to have seen her enter it. The curtains were drawn, the door closed. The next Sunday morning she did not appear upon the church steps as usual, and some neighbors went to the door of the little red house to inquire if she were ill. They rapped, and waited for the sound of feet under the withered morning-glory vines, but none came. The house seemed tenantless. One of the farmers at length pushed open a shutter, and, looking into the room usually occupied by Hannah, turned and said: “She lies there on the bed,—she is dead.”“The dream is ended,” said the other. “Poor soul, she was a good woman. God has taken her to Himself.”The window was forced. The worn body was tenderly cared for, and preparations were made for the funeral. Her will was found. She had given her property to the poor of the town, and requested that she might be buried from the church. The will also contained this strange request: “Since I leave all I have to the town, I hope the Selectmen will ask Rev. John Leland to attend my funeral, and that the bell may be tolled when my body is taken into the church, and rung when it is borne to the grave. I have given my life, and all I have of property, to the people of this town. May I ask, as a return for this, that the people will, in kindness, grant my last request?”

“Who attends the meeting?”

“I.”

“Who sings?”

“I.”

“Do you singcountre?”

She dropped her eyes, and looked down on the violets, and when at last she lifted her face, it was wet with tears.

“Bless you, no! There is no one now to singcountre. It takes two voices to singcountre. They will sing again after the Great Thanksgiving, but now I am left to sing alone. I have to sing the upper part now. My voice is not so good as it used to be.”

She broke some purple lilacs from the sunny bushes by the roadside, and gave them to me. I thanked her, and, with a heart full of boyish sympathy, said,—

“I wish I had something to give you.”

“You are a good boy to say so, but I don’t expect anything from any one now. My folks are all housed in the graveyard, and the sun is shinin’ upon them, and the violets bloom in there. I shall be with them soon. I wish you would come to meetin’ with me some Sunday morning. I’ll sing to ye, and tell of my vision, and the Great Thanksgiving. It is lonesome to preach all to one’s self, and the dead.”

“Don’t any one ever come to hear you?” asked I.

“Yes, the Lord comes regularly.Theyare there. Those I love are always there, down under the moss. Do they listen? I think they do. The sun comes down on the steps, and the winds come from the meadows, and the birds come. The world is full of beautiful things that come to hear me preach to myself. Child, if you will come to hear me next Sunday mornin’, I will sing you one of the most beautiful songs that you ever heard, and will tell you about the Great Thanksgiving, just as I said. Now you will come—do.”

The next Sabbath was not a meeting day with the family. The horses had been worked so hard in ploughing that Father decided that they must be allowed to rest. At the breakfast-table an allusion was made to old Hannah, and I startled the family with the question,—

“May I go over there to-day, and see Hannah, and get some lilacs?”

“Yes,” said my mother, whose heart was all sympathy. “You would be company for her. I never knew a woman who was so self-forgetful, or did so much for poor people and sick people, as she has done. She is not a prophetess, but I do think if the angels of heaven have a message for any one, it must be for her. Poor old Hannah!”

“Perhaps she will tell you about her beau, Peter Rugg, who thought that a sheep was a catamount,” said one of the work-people, dryly.

As I approached the silent meeting-house, I saw, through the opening in the locust-trees, Hannah, sitting on its sunny steps. She met me with a smile, exclaiming, “Comein; meetin’ hasn’t begun. I’m glad you’ve come. We will have the service, then I will prophesy as the Lord commands, and after that you shall go home with me for some cake to eat. You will live to see the Great Thanksgiving. It has been revealed to me.”

She held a hymn book in her hand, and an old-time parallelogram of tunes, with slant sides, lay beside her. She took up the music book, opened it, and held it in one hand, and the hymn book in the other.

“This tune that I am goin’ to sing has a mighty curious history,” said she. “It was written by Abraham Maxim, or Granville Maxim. He lived in Maine, and he named his tunes for the towns in Maine: ‘Portland,’ ‘Hallowell,’ ‘Bath,’ and the like.

“He was disappointed in love, Maxim was. So was I. I’ll tell you about it when I get home, after meetin’. One day he went out into the woods to hang himself, carryin’ with him a rope. He sat down in a lonely place, near a shed, to meditate before he tied the rope to a tree. Well, as Providence would have it, a sparrer, whose nest had been disturbed, uttered its little plaintive cry of fear, because of its young. It touched his heart, and he wrote down on a piece of birch-bark the hymn I’m goin’ to sing. Then he wrote to the hymn a tune in deep minor, endin’ with a very solemn chord. It’s very comfortin’ to me.”

She lifted up the music book, and sang the most melancholy piece of music to which I ever listened, ending with the very solemn chord:—

“As on some lonelybuilding’s topThe sparrow makes her moan,Far from the tents of joy and hopeI sit and grieve alone.”

“As on some lonelybuilding’s top

The sparrow makes her moan,

Far from the tents of joy and hope

I sit and grieve alone.”

Hannah then made a prayer in glowing Hebrew figures, a kind of rhapsody of Hebrew poetry. She sang another hymn tune of Maxim’s, then laid down her books and stood up.

“My child,” she said, “this is my text; it was written for you thousands of years ago,—‘And Reuben returned unto the pit; and behold Joseph was not in the pit.’” Her thought was that a lost opportunity for doing good, of being loving, kind, and merciful, could seldom be recalled. Her words were homely and quaint, but her figures and ideas were poetic. She preached charity to all men. I recall only one whole sentence. It was: “Never lose an opportunityof doing good; if you do, it will injureyou. We are all passin’ away; he that hath ears to hear, let him hear.”

When she had finished her discourse, she said, “Now, I am goin’ to prophesy.”

She stood in silence at first, looking up to the sky; then lifting her hand, she repeated the first six verses of the Fifty-first chapter of the poetry of Isaiah, in a tone quite unlike her usual voice.

“It will come,” she said,—“that Great Thanksgiving will come in these towns that were founded by the old prophets. You will be there; that is revealed to me. I shall be there. But how? That is not clear. When I try to see myself there, there comes a cloud; the vision shuts down. Men have shut the doors of the old church, but the doors of the heavens are not closed. The Great Thanksgiving that I see will come, if I only prove faithful. It will come! It will come! The people will gather, as in days of old. There will be preachin’ in the old pulpit, and singing though I may not be here to singcountre. I can see the people comin’ through the graveyard, under the trees, but I am not there. Oh, where am I? Where am I? I don’t see myself anywhere; yet the Voice tells me I shall be there.”

She sank down, a shadow on her serene face.

She arose again, and sang a strange hymn. Each stanza ended with the words: “With glory in our souls.” It was a long hymn, with a plaintive air.

“Come, child,” said she, when the song ended, “meetin’ is over now. Let us go.”

She led me to the red cottage among the lilac-trees. How clean and neat it was! Then, in her kindly way, she brought me cake and milk, and drove out of the house a solitary fly, an early intruder.

“You live alone?” I said.

“Oh, no, no, child;theyall live with me; they come to visit me. The Lord lives with me, when I don’t murmur nor complain, and He never turns against me.

“Shall I tell you about myself? Well, I was very happy as a child, roamin’ among the berry pastures, goin’ to the deestrict school, and helpin’ Mother about the house. Mother was a great-hearted, good woman, and Father was an honest, hard-working man. I never thought that I should be a public singer, and sit in the gallery, and singcountrein the ‘Easter Anthem.’ I never thought I should sing before the great Daniel Webster, on Independence Day.

“It all came about in this way. Old Schoolmaster Mason opened a singin’ school in the vestry of the church, and asked me to attend. I always loved music, and I did not go to the school but a little while, before I found that Icould singcountre. Even in a new piece that I had never seen, if I only had the words before me, I could make up acountreto the singing of the air.

“I learned to sing low tones that the people thought were wonderful. It used sometimes to trouble me because they seemed to think more abouthowI sang, thanwhatI sang.

“There was a young man in the neighborhood, at the time, named Peter Rugg. He is dead now. He used to listen to thecountreat the singin’ school as though he was spellbound. One night, after I had been singin’, he came to me, and asked leave to see me home. He was fine-looking, with curly hair and a high forehead, and he tried to sing tenor. I liked him, and, after a time, he used to visit me often, and one night he said,—

“‘Hannah, if I ever should save money enough to marry anybody, it would be you; you do singcountreso solemn.’

“I felt that he paid to me the greatest compliment that could be paid to a woman, and says I, says I,—

“‘Peter, if I were ever to leave my home, I should want to jine my lot with yourn, you do sing so high.’

“I was kind of modest, and I didn’t wish to say any more than he did, but I really did love him, and I would have been glad to have married him.

“Well, one winter, all the country round was thrown into a state of great fright, by a report that some woodchoppers had seen a catamount in the woods. Soon after this, sheep and pigs began to disappear, and the loss was laid to the catamount. There used to be catamounts in New England, and in the great woods, along the Pocassett coast, one would be seen occasionally.

“The excitement grew. A great many people began to think that they had seen the catamount, though whether there was one, at that time, in Massachusetts, no one can say.

“One day, when the people were all excited about the catamount, Peter Rugg took tea at our house, and went with me in the evenin’ to the singin’ school. I sang my best that night, and Peter was so pleased that he said to me: ‘Hannah, whatever may happen, I will always be true to you.’ I was very happy, and we left the vestry to walk home.

“We took a roundabout way, but had not gone far, when we heard a patterin’ of feet on the other side of the wall.

“‘Hark, it’s the catamount!’ Peter cried.

“‘I’ll cling to you forever,’ said I. ‘We will die true. If he devours you, he shall devour me.’

“We hurried on, trembling in every limb. The patter of the feet continued on the other side of the wall.

“‘Let go my arm,’ he said, ‘and I’ll see what it is.’

“I released his arm, when, could you believe it? he ran off, sayin’,—‘I’ll get a gun,’ and he flew over the hill. I never saw him again for a year. I stood dumb in the road. In my indignation all fear left me. A moment later I heard a sheep ‘ba-a’ on the other side of the wall.

“Nobody can tell what a heavy heart I carried home that night. All respect for the man I thought I loved was gone. I cried myself to sleep. For months I suffered more than I can ever tell, but I never told the story while Peter lived. I forgave him when death touched him. We are all poor and weak. We must be merciful in our thoughts.

“Well, Father was stricken with the palsy, and Mother, she began to lose her mind, and thought she had committed the unpardonable sin, or that she should do some violence to herself, and she wanted to be watched all the time. She didn’t sleep much for years, and, amid all these troubles, my only sister died. I tried to take care of them all. I did my best. How I used to work in those days! There were weeks at a time when I could not take off my dress at night.

“Well, the old folks died; then my poor sister passed away: so life goes. One goes, then more, and the number grows. I have no blood kin now. The lot in the graveyard is full, but sometimes they visit me in spirit. It makes me happy to think that I did all I could for them, when they were living. I know where they are; they know where I am. There is no real partin’ among hearts that are true to each other.

“I had one great comfort in all my hard lot. It was music. I did love to sing. My voice made me a little vain at first, but I meant to use it only for good, and never for myself. I came to hold it as a trust. I could see how it helped and comforted others, and that made me happy. I used to sing, ‘Peace, troubled soul,’ at funerals, and, ‘Come, ye disconsolate,’ and, ‘Come unto me when shadows darkly gather.’ I had no father, mother, sister, brother, husband, or child; but I was happy in the choir. That fellowship was everything to me.

“Then came the great church quarrel. How can such things be! A part of the members became Six-Principle Baptists, and a part Christian Baptists, and each claimed the church. Neither party would yield. So the old church was closed. The doors were nailed up, and the rope taken off the bell.

“I felt that I was utterly alone when the bell ceased to ring,” she said. “People sent for me to take care of their sick, to comfort the dying, and to lay out the dead, and sing at funerals. That was all the life I had. Then my voice began to break, and my hair to turn gray. It is white, now,—see.

“One morning I came home early, after watching all night with poor Widow Green, who was sick so long. I laid down on the lounge, with my dress on, and fell asleep. It was the day after it was resolved to close the church. Well, there came to me a vision. I seemed to be sittin’ alone on the church steps, when there stood before me a noble-lookin’ man, in a silvery haze, and said: ‘I am Elder John Myles. I was the founder of these plantations. I love this people, and the old church, which I founded. You are God’s child. Be true to His cause. Go to the old church every Sunday, and hold a meetin’ on the steps. If you remain true, the people will be gathered here again, and there will be a Great Thanksgiving, and you will be there in body or in soul.’ I woke. It was gone,—the beautiful face in the silver cloud. But the words were printed on my mind. They are there,—always there.

“People call me crazy Hannah, but they all send for me when they are in trouble. Their harvests come and go, but the bell does not ring, nor the doors open. But I am true to the vision. The Great Thanksgiving will come, and I shall be there.”

She then sang the song that she had promised. The words and music were really beautiful. I recall the first lines:—

“How sweet to reflect on the joys that await meIn yon blissful region, the haven of rest.”

“How sweet to reflect on the joys that await me

In yon blissful region, the haven of rest.”

One of the stanzas began:—

“Then hail, blessed state! hail, ye songsters of glory!Ye harpers of bliss, soon I’ll meet you above.”

“Then hail, blessed state! hail, ye songsters of glory!

Ye harpers of bliss, soon I’ll meet you above.”

The beatific look that I had seen in her face, on the church steps, came back to her. It was the most lovely expression I ever saw.

The music of the school of Billings, Holden, and Maxim, and the hymns and ballads to which it was written, were no weak compositions. There were people in those days who delighted to sing—

“If you want to see the devil run,Shoot him with the Gospel gun,”

“If you want to see the devil run,

Shoot him with the Gospel gun,”

to a dance rhythm, but the primitive, original psalmody of the old Orthodox churches was, as a rule, as solid as it was solemn. “While shepherds watched their flocks by night” had something of modern lightness and sprightliness, which may account for its popularity to-day, as a number in the programme of old folks’ concerts; but Maxim’s “Turner” and “Bath,” and Holden’s “Coronation” and “No war nor battle sound,” and Billings’ “Boston,” and many tunes, all of which formed a part of the musical experience of the bestNew England homes, some fifty years ago, were serious work, of the school of Tausur and of Handel.

The great patriotic song of those times was entitled “Ode on Science.” This was thechef-d’œuvreof Independence days and Thanksgivings, and Hannah had once sungcountrein the performance of it before Daniel Webster.

Two years after my interview with Hannah she responded to the Governor’s Proclamation, and, faithful to the old traditions, resolved to celebrate the approaching Thanksgiving on the church steps. On the morning of that day she took her music book, which contained the famous “Ode on Science,” put her spectacles into her ample pocket, and, followed by her cat, went to the steps of the old meeting-house. It was a mild Indian summer day, of melting frosts, dropping nuts, and lingering splendors. The woods were crimson, with an odor of decay in the leaves, and the orchards red, with a cidery scent. The call of the lively bluejay was heard here and there, and the whir of the partridge wings on the margin of the woods. The farmers were busy husking their stacks of corn, and the cellar doors were heaped with squashes and pumpkins of enormous size, taking a last mellowing in the sun.

Just as Hannah arose on the church steps to give thanks for all these blessings of plenty, Deacon Goodwin approached in his cart, that was loaded with corn and pumpkins. He took theChristianview, as the word was pronounced, in the great theological discussion. His heart was touched at the sight of the white hair of old Hannah, and he stopped to hear her sing.

It was a striking picture that she presented, on that bright morning, in her straight gown, poke bonnet, Rob-Roy shawl, and white hair, which filled the dark cavern over her forehead. She stood with her hymn book in one hand, and beating time with her other hand, she began:—

“The morning sun shines from the east,And spreads his glories in the west.All nations with his beams are blest.”

“The morning sun shines from the east,

And spreads his glories in the west.

All nations with his beams are blest.”

Her voice was high. Her free hand waved vigorously to tell how—

“Freedom her attendant waitsTo bless the portals of her gates,To crown the young and rising StatesWith laurels of immortal day.“The British yoke, the Gallic chain,Was urged upon our necks in vain.All haughty tyrants we disdain,And shout, Long live America.”

“Freedom her attendant waitsTo bless the portals of her gates,To crown the young and rising StatesWith laurels of immortal day.

“Freedom her attendant waits

To bless the portals of her gates,

To crown the young and rising States

With laurels of immortal day.

“The British yoke, the Gallic chain,Was urged upon our necks in vain.All haughty tyrants we disdain,And shout, Long live America.”

“The British yoke, the Gallic chain,

Was urged upon our necks in vain.

All haughty tyrants we disdain,

And shout, Long live America.”

The last word rang out with a long sound ofcaat the end.

She stopped, removed her spectacles, and looked down upon Deacon Goodwin, inquiringly.

“I declare it’s too bad,” said the Deacon, “that you have to be the Thanksgiving for the hull town. Two or three people have had their own heads here about long enough, it’s my opinion. If I could have my way, Hannah, we’d not be ruled as we are. I’ll see what can be done. Somethin’ ’ll have to be done, and I’ll do it.

“Go lang!” and he laid a long birch stick on the back of the patient beast before him, and left Hannah to conclude her devotions among the dead.

An epidemic of smallpox spread over the towns between the coast and Narragansett Bay, and in a neighboring town there was no one to go into the pest-house and nurse the sick. Hannah was told of the situation, and it touched her heart.

“I will go,” she said.

“But you have never had the smallpox,” said the visitor.

“It makes no difference. I have a promise in my heart. Pain is nothing when it is over, and it is a glorious thing to bear for the sake of others. I shall surely live until the Great Thanksgiving. I will go. They need me.”

She gave herself, night and day, to the sufferers, and did not take the disease. But she was very old, and when she returned to her cottage, it was with exhausted strength.

To the church steps she went feebly, with each returning Sabbath. Autumn came with bountiful harvests. The blue gentians bloomed in the cranberry meadows and by the roadside; the apples, red and russet, bent down the trees; the cornfields rustled, and the hunter’s moon rose in the nightfall.

The farmers were very busy filling their bursting barns and cribs; but Hannah’s home was silent. No one remembered to have seen her enter it. The curtains were drawn, the door closed. The next Sunday morning she did not appear upon the church steps as usual, and some neighbors went to the door of the little red house to inquire if she were ill. They rapped, and waited for the sound of feet under the withered morning-glory vines, but none came. The house seemed tenantless. One of the farmers at length pushed open a shutter, and, looking into the room usually occupied by Hannah, turned and said: “She lies there on the bed,—she is dead.”

“The dream is ended,” said the other. “Poor soul, she was a good woman. God has taken her to Himself.”

The window was forced. The worn body was tenderly cared for, and preparations were made for the funeral. Her will was found. She had given her property to the poor of the town, and requested that she might be buried from the church. The will also contained this strange request: “Since I leave all I have to the town, I hope the Selectmen will ask Rev. John Leland to attend my funeral, and that the bell may be tolled when my body is taken into the church, and rung when it is borne to the grave. I have given my life, and all I have of property, to the people of this town. May I ask, as a return for this, that the people will, in kindness, grant my last request?”

ELECTRICITY AND MANUFACTURES BUILDING.

The funeral was appointed for the morning of Thanksgiving Day, and a messenger was dispatched to Elder John Leland, of Cheshire, the eloquent evangelist, who was then in Boston, to ask him if he would conduct the services. The tender-hearted old man heard the story of Hannah’s life with deep sympathy.“I will come,” said he, “but not to mourn for the dead. She does not need our tears. God has cleared her vision, and has taken her to Himself. Let us do as she wished. Your town had glorious names among its founders, and your church is closed, even though it is the harvest time. I shall preach not a funeral, but a Thanksgiving sermon, and I hope that every one who has been blessed during the year will be there. When the year has made a good harvest, and one has made a good life, all men should be thankful.”The news was received with gladness in the thrifty community, which had so long lifted the pagan idols of theology over the religion of the heart and life. All the people of the rural towns who could leave their farms, prepared to attend the funeral of old Hannah, who sungcountre, for in her death they had recognized her worth. No event had awakened so much interest for years.The name of John Leland was at that time a household word. It lives now chiefly in connection with the almost Ambrosian hymn, “The day is past and gone,” and the story of the great Cheshire Cheese. He was a friend of Madison and Jefferson; at one time a member of the Massachusetts General Court,—a truly wonderful man in all relations of life. He used to travel any weather, praying along the roads, mounting the pulpit singing; always democratic, and a friend to all men.It was an Indian summer day, calm and clear. The sun grew warm; and the heat dropped the frost-crimsoned leaves in showers. Early in the day people began to gather about the church. Most of them were glad that the blind day of theological disputation was to be broken by the ringing of the old bell. They came from neighboring towns in all kinds of conveyances.The old sexton came with a claw hammer, and drew the nails out of the door, and dusted the pews, and aired the musty aisles, and tied a bell rope again to the bell. The church soon filled with people; afterward, the steps, and then the graveyard. The gathering was so great that it was difficult to keep a vacant place for poor old Hannah’s body.Toll! The bell smote reproachfully on the glimmering air. Toll! The pine coffin was coming with fringed gentians upon it. Toll! Every heart there felt a moral shrinkage, as the coffin broke its way through the people.They set it down at last under the high pulpit, near the deacon’s seat. But the crowd out of doors was larger than that in the house, and all were eager to hear what Elder Leland would have to say.“Let us hold the services outside,” said the venerable evangelist. “Take the body out into the graveyard, and set it down in the middle of the graves of those to whom she was always so faithful, and I will preach where she used to preach to the birds and to the dead, from the meeting-house steps.”They bore out the body, and set it down under the great cool trees, where the crisp leaves were dropping upon the graves. They opened the lid on the calm, sweet, face, where the people on the high ground could see it, and the tears of those in whose homes she had been a blessing to the sick and a comfort to the dying, fell like rain. Tender and eloquent were the words spoken by the white-haired Elder, over that still, dead, untroubled face.The old trustees of the church were stirred as they had never been before. Soon after the close of the sermon, one of them mounted the steps, with a word to say to the people.“She has opened these doors with her dead hand,” he said. “May they never be closed again by the living. The trustees have just had a meeting, and have agreed once more to open the house. This is a fitting ending to this day of mourning, and of Thanksgiving. Now, let the old bell ring.”They closed the lid of the coffin forever, and bore the body to the open earth. The bell began to ring. The voice of the Elder rose in a sublime thanksgiving Psalm, as the bell pealed on, and the grave closed over all that was mortal of Hannah, who sangcountre.The people left the grounds, one by one. The struggle was ended. The work of this lone, feeble woman was done. She rested at last on the day of the Great Thanksgiving, of which she had prophesied. And she had been there, and thecountretone of her life had never made sweeter harmony.She lies in a grave long neglected; but should one kneel down beside the stone that is sinking slowly into the earth, and peel away the moss, and follow the light carving on the blue slate under some quaint pictures of cherubs, one might read,—Hannah Semple, who sang Countrein the Choir, Ætat. 90.The old generation has been gathered to their fathers, but the new generation still feels the beneficent influence of that Great Thanksgiving.

“I will come,” said he, “but not to mourn for the dead. She does not need our tears. God has cleared her vision, and has taken her to Himself. Let us do as she wished. Your town had glorious names among its founders, and your church is closed, even though it is the harvest time. I shall preach not a funeral, but a Thanksgiving sermon, and I hope that every one who has been blessed during the year will be there. When the year has made a good harvest, and one has made a good life, all men should be thankful.”

The news was received with gladness in the thrifty community, which had so long lifted the pagan idols of theology over the religion of the heart and life. All the people of the rural towns who could leave their farms, prepared to attend the funeral of old Hannah, who sungcountre, for in her death they had recognized her worth. No event had awakened so much interest for years.

The name of John Leland was at that time a household word. It lives now chiefly in connection with the almost Ambrosian hymn, “The day is past and gone,” and the story of the great Cheshire Cheese. He was a friend of Madison and Jefferson; at one time a member of the Massachusetts General Court,—a truly wonderful man in all relations of life. He used to travel any weather, praying along the roads, mounting the pulpit singing; always democratic, and a friend to all men.

It was an Indian summer day, calm and clear. The sun grew warm; and the heat dropped the frost-crimsoned leaves in showers. Early in the day people began to gather about the church. Most of them were glad that the blind day of theological disputation was to be broken by the ringing of the old bell. They came from neighboring towns in all kinds of conveyances.

The old sexton came with a claw hammer, and drew the nails out of the door, and dusted the pews, and aired the musty aisles, and tied a bell rope again to the bell. The church soon filled with people; afterward, the steps, and then the graveyard. The gathering was so great that it was difficult to keep a vacant place for poor old Hannah’s body.

Toll! The bell smote reproachfully on the glimmering air. Toll! The pine coffin was coming with fringed gentians upon it. Toll! Every heart there felt a moral shrinkage, as the coffin broke its way through the people.

They set it down at last under the high pulpit, near the deacon’s seat. But the crowd out of doors was larger than that in the house, and all were eager to hear what Elder Leland would have to say.

“Let us hold the services outside,” said the venerable evangelist. “Take the body out into the graveyard, and set it down in the middle of the graves of those to whom she was always so faithful, and I will preach where she used to preach to the birds and to the dead, from the meeting-house steps.”

They bore out the body, and set it down under the great cool trees, where the crisp leaves were dropping upon the graves. They opened the lid on the calm, sweet, face, where the people on the high ground could see it, and the tears of those in whose homes she had been a blessing to the sick and a comfort to the dying, fell like rain. Tender and eloquent were the words spoken by the white-haired Elder, over that still, dead, untroubled face.

The old trustees of the church were stirred as they had never been before. Soon after the close of the sermon, one of them mounted the steps, with a word to say to the people.

“She has opened these doors with her dead hand,” he said. “May they never be closed again by the living. The trustees have just had a meeting, and have agreed once more to open the house. This is a fitting ending to this day of mourning, and of Thanksgiving. Now, let the old bell ring.”

They closed the lid of the coffin forever, and bore the body to the open earth. The bell began to ring. The voice of the Elder rose in a sublime thanksgiving Psalm, as the bell pealed on, and the grave closed over all that was mortal of Hannah, who sangcountre.

The people left the grounds, one by one. The struggle was ended. The work of this lone, feeble woman was done. She rested at last on the day of the Great Thanksgiving, of which she had prophesied. And she had been there, and thecountretone of her life had never made sweeter harmony.

She lies in a grave long neglected; but should one kneel down beside the stone that is sinking slowly into the earth, and peel away the moss, and follow the light carving on the blue slate under some quaint pictures of cherubs, one might read,—

Hannah Semple, who sang Countrein the Choir, Ætat. 90.

The old generation has been gathered to their fathers, but the new generation still feels the beneficent influence of that Great Thanksgiving.

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