Mind Amongst the Spindles — The First Bells

CHAPTER I.

There are times when I am melancholy, when the sun seems to shine with a shadowy light, and the woods are filled with notes of sadness; when the up-springing flowers seem blossoms strewed upon a bier, and every streamlet chants a requiem.

Have we not all our trials?

And though we may bury the sad thoughts to which they give birth in the dark recesses of our own hearts, yet Memory and Sensibility must both be dead, if we can always be light and mirthful.

Once it was not so.

There was a time when I gaily viewed the dull clouds of a rainy day, and could hear the voice of rejoicing in the roarings of the wintry storm, when sorrow was an unmeaning word, and in things which now appear sacred my thoughtless mind could see the ludicrous.

These thoughts have been suggested by the recollection of a poor old couple, to whom in my careless girlhood I gave the name of "the first bells."

And now, I doubt not, you are wondering what strange association of ideas could have led me to fasten this appellation upon a poor old man and woman.

My answer must be the narration of a few facts.

When I was young, we all worshipped in the great meeting-house, which now stands so vacant and forlorn upon the brow of Church Hill.

It is never used but upon town-meeting days--for those who once went up to the house of God in company, now worship in three separate buildings.

There is discord between them--that worst of all hatred, the animosity which arises from difference of religious opinions.

I am sorry for it; not that I regret that they cannot all think alike, but that they cannot "agree to differ."

Because the heads are not in unison, it needeth not that the hearts should be estranged; and a difference of faith may be expressed in kindly words.

I have my friends among them all, and they are not the less dear to me, because upon some doctrinal points our opinions cannot be the same.

A creed which I do not now believe is hallowed by recollections of the Sabbath worship, the evening meetings, the religious feelings--in short, of the faith, hope, and trust of my earlier days.

I remember now how still and beautiful our Sunday mornings used to seem, after the toil and play of the busy week.

I would take my catechism in my hand, and go and sit upon a large flat stone, under the shade of the chestnut tree; and, looking abroad, would wonder if there was a thing which did not feel that it was the Sabbath.

The sun was as bright and warm as upon other days, but its light seemed to fall more softly upon the fields, woods and hills; and though the birds sung as loudly and joyfully as ever, I thought their sweet voices united in a more sacred strain.

I heard a Sabbath tone in the waving of the boughs above me, and the hum of the bees around me, and even the bleating of the lambs and the lowing of the kine seemed pitched upon some softer key.

Thus it is that the heart fashions the mantle with which it is wont to enrobe all nature, and gives to its never silent voices a tone of joy, or sorrow, or holy peace.

We had then no bell; and when the hour approached for the commencement of religious services, each nook and dale sent forth its worshippers in silence.

But precisely half an hour before the rest of our neighbors started, the old man and woman, who lived upon Pine Hill, could be seen wending their way to the meeting-house.

They walked side by side, with a slow even step, such as was befitting the errand which had brought them forth.

Their appearance was always the signal for me to lay aside my book, and prepare to follow them to the house of God.

And it was because they were so unvarying in their early attendance, because I was never disappointed in the forms which first emerged from the pine trees upon the hill, that I gave them the name of "the first bells."

Why they went thus regularly early I know not, but think it probable they wished for time to rest after their long walk, and then to prepare their hearts to join in exercises which were evidently more valued by them than by most of those around them.

Yet it must have been a deep interest which brought so large a congregation from the scattered houses, and many far-off dwellings of our thinly peopled country town.

And every face was then familiar to me.

I knew each white-headed patriarch who took his seat by the door of his pew, and every aged woman who seated herself in the low chair in the middle of it; and the countenances of the middle-aged and the young were rendered familiar by the exchange of Sabbath glances, as we met year after year in that humble temple.

But upon none did I look with more interest than upon "the first bells."

There they always were when I took my accustomed seat at the right hand of the pulpit.

Their heads were always bowed in meditation till they arose to join in the morning prayer; and when the choir sent forth their strain of praise they drew nearer to each other, and looked upon the same book, as they silently sent forth the spirit's song to their Father in heaven.

There was an expression of meekness, of calm and perfect faith, and of subdued sorrow upon the countenances of both, which won my reverence, and excited my curiosity to know more of them.

They were poor.

I knew it by the coarse and much-worn garments which they always wore; but I could not conjecture why they avoided the society and sympathy of all around them.

They always waited for our pastor's greeting when he descended from the pulpit, and meekly bowed to all around, but farther than this, their intercourse with others extended not.

It appeared to me that some heavy trial, which had knit their own hearts more closely together, and endeared to them their faith and its religious observances, had also rendered them unusually sensitive to the careless remarks and curious inquiries of a country neighborhood.

One Sabbath our pastor preached upon parental love.

His text was that affecting ejaculation of David, "O Absalom, my son, my son!"

He spoke of the depth and fervor of that affection which in a parental heart will remain unchanged and unabated, through years of sin, estrangement, and rebellion.

He spoke of that reckless insubordination which often sends pang after pang through the parent's breast; and of wicked deeds which sometimes bring their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.

I heard stifled sobs; and looking up, saw that the old man and woman at the right hand of the pulpit had buried their faces in their hands.

They were trembling with agitation, and I saw that a fount of deep and painful remembrances had now been opened.

They soon regained their usual calmness, but I thought their steps more slow, and their countenances more sorrowful that day, when after our morning service had closed, they went to the grave in the corner of the churchyard.

There was no stone to mark it, but their feet had been wearing, for many a Sabbath noon, the little path which led to it.

I went that night to my mother, and asked her if she could not tell me something about "the first bells."

She chid me for the phrase by which I was wont to designate them, but said that her knowledge of their former life was very limited.

Several years before, she added, a man was murdered in hot blood in a distant town, by a person named John L. The murderer was tried and hung; and not long after, this old man and woman came and hired the little cottage upon Pine Hill.

Their names were the same that the murderer had borne, and their looks of sadness and retiring manners had led to the conclusion that they were his parents.

No one knew, certainly, that it was so--for they shrunk from all inquiries, and never adverted to the past; but a gentle and sad looking girl, who had accompanied them to their new place of abode, had pined away, and died within the first year of their arrival.

She was their daughter, and was supposed to have died of a broken heart for her brother who had been hung.

She was buried in the corner of the churchyard, and every pleasant Sabbath noon her aged parents had mourned together over her lowly grave.

"And now, my daughter," said my mother, in conclusion "respect their years, their sorrows, and, above all, the deep fervent piety which cheers and sustains them, and which has been nurtured by agonies, and watered by tears, such as I hope my child will never know."

My mother drew me to her side, and kissed me tenderly; and I resolved that never again would I in a spirit of levity call Mr. and Mrs. L.

"the first bells."

CHAPTER II.

Years passed on; and through summer's sunshine and its showers, and through winter's cold and frost, and storms, that old couple still went upon their never-failing Sabbath pilgrimage.

I can see them even now, as they looked in days long gone by.

The old man, with his loose, black, Quaker-like coat, and low-crowned, much-worn hat, his heavy cowhide boots, and coarse blue mittens; and his partner walking slowly by his side, wearing a scanty brown cloak with four little capes, and a close, black, rusty-looking bonnet.

In summer the cloak was exchanged for a cotton shawl, and the woollen gown for one of mourning print.

The Sabbath expression was as unchangeable as its dress.

Their features were very different, but they had the same mild, mournful look, the same touching glance, whenever their eyes rested upon each other; and it was one which spoke of sympathy, hallowed by heartfelt piety.

At length a coffin was borne upon a bier from the little house upon the hill; and after that the widow went alone each Sabbath noon to the two graves in the corner of the churchyard.

I felt sad when I thought how lonely and sorrowful she must be now; and one pleasant day I ventured an unbidden guest into her lowly cot.

As I approached her door, I heard her singing in a low, tremulous tone, "How are thy servants blessed, O Lord."

I was touched to the heart; for I could see that her blessings were those of a faith, hope, and joy, which the world could neither give nor take away.

She was evidently destitute of what the world calls comforts, and I feared she might also want its necessaries.

But her look was almost cheerful as she assured me that her knitting (at which I perceived she was quite expeditious) supplied her with all which she now wanted.

I looked upon her sunburnt, wrinkled countenance, and thought it radiant with moral beauty.

She wore no cap, and her thin grey hair was combed back from her furrowed brow.

Her dress was a blue woollen skirt, and a short loose gown; and her hard shrivelled hands bore witness to much unfeminine labor.

Yet she was contented, and even happy, and singing praise to God for his blessings.

The next winter I thought I could perceive a faltering in her gait whenever she ascended Church Hill; and one Sabbath she was not in her accustomed seat.

The next, she was also absent; and when I looked upon Pine Hill, I could perceive no smoke issuing from her chimney.

I felt anxious, and requested liberty to make, what was then in our neighborhood an unusual occurrence, a Sabbath visit.

My mother granted me permission to go, and remain as long as my services might be necessary; and at the close of the afternoon worship, I went to the little house upon the hill.

I listened eagerly for some sound as I entered the cold apartment; but hearing none, I tremblingly approached the low hard bed.

She was lying there with the same calm look of resignation, and whispered a few words of welcome as I took her hand.

"You are sick and alone," said I to her; "tell me what I can do for you."

"I am sick," was her reply, "but not _alone_.

He who is every where, and at all times present, has been with me, in the day and in the night.

I

have prayed to him, and received answers of mercy, love, and peace.

He has sent His angel to call me home, and there is nought for you to do but to watch the spirit's departure."

I felt that it was so; yet I must do something.

I kindled a fire, and prepared some refreshment; and after she drank a bowl of warm tea, I thought she looked better.

She asked me for her Bible, and I brought her the worn volume which had been lying upon the little stand.

She took from it a soiled and much worn letter, and after pressing it to her lips, endeavored to open it--but her hands were too weak, and it dropped upon the bed.

"No matter," said she, as I offered to open it for her; "I know all that is in it, and in that book also.

But I thought I should like to look once more upon them both.

I have read them daily for many years till now; but I do not mind it--I shall go soon."

She followed me with her eyes as I laid them aside, and then closing them, her lips moved as if in prayer.

She soon after fell into a slumber, and I watched her every breath, fearing it might be the last.

What lessons of wisdom, truth and fortitude were taught me by that humble bed-side!

I had never before been with the dying, and I had always imagined a death-bed to be fraught with terror.

I expected that there were always fearful shrieks and appalling groans, as the soul left its clay tenement; but my fears were now dispelled.

A sweet calmness stole into my inmost soul, as I watched by the low couch of the sufferer; and I said, "If this be death, may my last end be like hers."

But at length I saw that some dark dream had brought a frown upon the pallid brow, and an expression of woe around the parched lips.

She was endeavoring to speak or to weep, and I was about to awaken her, when a sweet smile came like a flash of sunlight over her sunken face, and I saw that the dream of woe was exchanged for one of pleasure.

Then she slept calmly, and I wondered if the spirit would go home in that peaceful slumber.

But at length she awoke, and after looking upon me and her little room with a bewildered air, she heaved a sigh, and said mournfully, "I thought that I was not to come back again, but it is only for a little while.

I have had a pleasant dream, but not at first.

I

thought once that I stood in the midst of a vast multitude, and we were all looking up at one who was struggling on a gallows.

O, I have seen that sight in many a dream before, but still I could not bear it, and I said, 'Father, have mercy;' and then I thought that the sky rolled away from behind the gallows, and there was a flood of glory in the depth beyond; and I heard a voice saying to him who was hanging there, 'This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise!'

And then the gallows dropped, and the multitude around me vanished, and the sky rolled together again;

but before it had quite closed over that scene of beauty, I looked again, and _they were all there_.

Yes," added she with a placid smile, "I know that _he_ is there with them; the _three_ are in heaven, and _I_ shall be there soon."

She ceased, and a drowsy feeling came over her.

After a while she opened her eyes with a strange look of anxiety and terror.

I went to her, but she could not speak, and she pressed my hand closely, as though she feared I would leave her.

It was a momentary terror, for she knew that the last pangs were coming on.

There was a painful struggle, and then came rest and peaceful confidence.

"That letter," whispered she convulsively; and I went to the Bible, and took from it the soiled paper which claimed her thoughts even in death.

I laid it in her trembling hands, which clasped it nervously, and then pressing it to her heart, she fell into that slumber from which there is no awakening.

When I saw that she was indeed gone, I took the letter, and laid it in its accustomed place; and then, after straightening the limbs, and throwing the bed-clothes over the stiffening form, I left the house.

It was a dazzling scene of winter beauty that met my eye as I went forth from that lowly bed of death.

The rising sun threw a rosy light upon the crusted snow, and the earth was dressed in a robe of sparkling jewels.

The trees were hung with glittering drops, and the frozen streams were dressed in lobes of brilliant beauty.

I thought of her upon whose eyes a brighter morn had beamed, and of a scene of beauty upon which no sun should ever set, and whose never-fading glories shall yield a happiness which may never pass away.

I went home, and told my mother what had passed; and she went, with some others, to prepare the body for burial.

I went to look upon it once more, the morning of the funeral.

The features had assumed a rigid aspect, but the placid smile was still there.

The hands were crossed upon the breast; and as the form lay so still and calm in its snowy robes, I almost wished that the last change might come upon me, so that it would bring a peace like this, which should last for evermore.

I went to the Bible, and took from it that letter.

Curiosity was strong within me, and I opened it.

It was signed "John L. ," and dated from his prison the night before his execution.

But I did not read it.

O no!

it was too sacred.

It contained those words of penitence and affection over which her stricken heart had brooded for years.

It had been the well-spring from which she had drunk joy and consolation, and derived her hopes of a reunion where there should be no more shame, nor sorrow, nor death.

I could not destroy that letter: so I laid it beneath the clasped hands, over the heart to which it had been pressed when its beatings were forever stilled; and they buried her, too, in the corner of the churchyard; and that tattered paper soon mouldered to ashes upon her breast.

* * * * We have now a bell upon our new meeting-house; and when I hear its Sabbath morning peal, my thoughts are subdued to a tone fitting for sacred worship; for my mind goes back to that old couple, whom I was wont to call "the first bells;" and I think of the power of religion to hallow and strengthen the affections, to elevate the mind, and sustain the drooping spirit, even in the saddest and humblest lot of life.

SUSANNA.

[Illustration: Decoration] EVENING BEFORE PAY-DAY.