Though the spire of
Salisbury was, perhaps, an epic in Masonic poetry, yet in humble hamlets
of England, beyond her most distant hills, and amid many an unnamed
"sunny spot of greenery," were idyls sung no less exquisite than this.
Many a village-spire, of conception no less beautiful, arose above the
tree-tops among the most untrodden ways. All day long its shadow lingers
in the quiet churchyard, and points among the humble graves, as if, over
this dial of human life, it loved to preach silent homilies on "the
passing away," even to the simplest poor. It must be inexpressibly
touching to meet with these beautiful forms in the lonely wilderness,
where the ivy alone, as it throws its loving arms around them, appears
to recognize their grace and all their tender significance. It is like
the chance discovery of a good deed done in the darkness, or like a
pure life spent in the sweet and serious retirement of a little hamlet,
pointing the way to heaven for its scanty flock of cottagers.
It was the custom in those days, during the celebration of Mass, at the
moment when the Host was raised, to ring a peculiar bell in the tower,
in order that those not gathered beneath the consecrated roof might be
made aware far and wide of the awful ceremony, and be reminded to offer
up their devotion in unison.
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