Autumn Leaves | Page 3

to-day in our church, Nathan!" he cried to the young
saddler. "What can it mean?" But Nathan answered not a word. He
caught the horse by the head, and fastened him to a post before the door.
Then stepping to the side of the sleigh, he said to Mr. Dudley, "Come
with me, Sir." Mr. Dudley looked upon the pale face and trembling lips
of his parishioner, and followed in silence.
Nathan sprang upon the shed at the side of the church, and scrambled
up to the little window. Mr. Dudley followed, and, with Nathan's help,
gained the same precarious foothold. "Look in, Sir," said Nathan, not
venturing a glance himself. Mr. Dudley looked, and had not Nathan's
arm been about his body he would have lost his hold, in sheer
amazement. The building was crowded, as he had never known it
before; and crowded with people whom his eye, versed in the dress and
manners of our forefathers, recognized as the church-goers of a century
and a half ago. The singers' gallery was filled by a choir of girls and
boys, while his own place in the pulpit was occupied by a white-haired
figure, whom he recognized as the original of a portrait which he had
purchased and hung in his parlor at home for its singular beauty. It was
said to be a portrait of a minister in the town, who lived in the last
century, and is still remembered for his virtues. The sight of this old
man's face completely stilled the agitation of the young minister. He
was leaning over the great Bible, with his hands folded upon it, and his
eyes seemingly filled with tears of pleasure and gratitude, and bent
upon the choir. Mr. Dudley listened intently, and could catch what
seemed the words of some old Christmas carol:
"Thou mak'st my cup of joy run o'er."
And he was so rapt with the sights and the sounds within, that it needed
all Nathan's endeavors to uphold him.
By this time the sound of a gathering crowd below, which he had not
heeded at first, was forced more and more upon his notice; and the

anxious voice of his oldest deacon calling, "Mr. Dudley! Mr. Dudley!"
rose high and loud; while a great thundering at the front door of the
church announced that the people below had also caught the sound of
the music, and were clamorous for admission. Mr. Dudley hastened
round to prevent their causing any disturbance to the congregation
within; but he came only in time to see the door burst open, and to be
borne in with the crowd. All gazed about in wonder. The congregation,
indeed, were gone, and the preacher, and the choir; and the room was
cold. But there was a great green cross over the pulpit, and words along
the walls, and festoons upon the galleries, and great wreaths, like vast
green serpents, coiled about the cold pillars. The church of the
Orthodox parish of ---- had been fairly dressed for Christmas by spirit
hands.
When Mr. Dudley reached his home, after the wonder had in part spent
itself, he found that an enormous Christmas pie had been left at his
door by a white-haired old man dressed in black, about six in the
morning, just after he had gone to visit his sick parishioner. The girl
who received it reported the old man as saying, in a tremulous, but very
kind voice, "Give your master the Christmas blessing of an old Puritan
minister." How the meaning of this message would have been known to
Mr. Dudley, had not the events we have told disclosed it, who can say?
Need I add, that my friend, Mr. Dudley, from whose lips I have taken
down the above narrative, has directed the decorations to remain in his
church during the coming month, and that he avows the intention of
observing the Christmas of the following year with public services,
unless, indeed, he should be anticipated by his ancient
predecessor. It
may not be impertinent to observe, that I am invited to dine and spend
the day with the Dudleys on that occasion, and I shall not fail to make
an accurate report of whatever glimpse I may obtain into the mysterious
ceremonies of a Puritan Christmas.
IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE.
A LEGEND OF LADY LEE.

In the village churchyard she lies,
Dust is in her beautiful eyes,
No
more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs;
At her feet and at her head

Lies a slave to attend the dead,
But their dust is white as hers.
Was she, a lady of high degree,
So much in love with the vanity

And foolish pomp of this world of ours?
Or was it Christian charity,

And lowliness and humility,
The richest and rarest of all dowers?
Who shall tell us? No one