University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER SEVENTH.
THE THANKSGIVING SERMON.

The morning of the day of Thanksgiving came
calm, clear and beautiful. A stillness, as of heaven
and not of earth, ruled the wide landscape. The Indian
summer, which had been as a gentle mist or
veil upon the beauty of the time, had gone away a
little—retired, as it were, into the hills and back
country, to allow the undimmed heaven to shine
down upon the happy festival of families and nations.
The cattle stood still in the fields without a low;
the trees were quiet as in friendly recognition of the
spirit of the hour; no reaper's hook or mower's
scythe glanced in the meadow, no rumbling wain was
on the road. The birds alone, as being more nearly
akin to the feeling of the scene, warbled in the
boughs.

But out of the silent gloom of the mist there
sprang as by magic, a lovely illumination which lit

the country far and wide, as with a thousand varicolored
lamps. As a maiden who has tarried in her
chamber, some hour the least expected appears before
us, apparelled in all the pomp and hue of brilliant
beauty, the fair country, flushed with innumerable
tints of the changed autumn-trees, glided forth upon
the Indian summer scene, and taught that when
kindly nature seems all foregone and spent, she can
rise from her couch fresher and more radiant than in
her very prime.

What wonder if with the peep of dawn the children
leaped from bed, eager to have on their new
clothes reserved for the day, and by times appeared
before old Sylvester in proud array of little hats,
new-brightened shoes and shining locks, span new
as though they had just come from the mint; anxious
to have his grandfatherly approval of their comeliness?
Shortly after, the horses caught in the distant
pastures, the Captain and Farmer Oliver having
charge of them, were brought in and tied under the
trees in the door-yard.

Then, breakfast being early dispatched, there was
a mighty running to and fro of the grown people
through the house, dresses hurried from old clothes-presses

and closets, a loud demand on every hand for
pins, of which there seemed to be (as there always is
on such occasions) a great lack. The horses were put
to Mrs. Carrack's coach, the Captain's gig, the old
house-wagon, with breathless expectation on the part
of the children; and in brief, after bustling preparation
and incessant summoning of one member of the
family and another from the different parts of the
house, all being at last ready and in their seats, the
Peabodys set forth for the Thanksgiving Sermon at
the country Meeting-house, a couple of miles away.

The Captain took the lead with his wife and Peabody
Junior somewhere and somehow between
them, followed by the wagon with old Sylvester, still
proud of his dexterity as a driver, Oliver, much
pleased with the popular character of the conveyance
and wife, with young Robert; William Peabody and
wife; little Sam riding between his grandfather's legs
in front, and allowed to hold the end of the reins.
Slowly and in great state, after all rolled Mrs. Carrack's
coach with herself and son within, and footman
and coachman without.

Chanticleer, too, clear of eye and bright of wing,
walked the garden wall, carried his head up, and acted

as if he had also put on his thanksgiving suit and
expected to take the road presently, accompany the
family, and join his voice with theirs at the little
meeting-house.

Although the Captain, with his high-actioned
white horse kept out of eye-shot ahead, it was Mrs.
Carrack's fine carriage that had the triumph of the
road to itself, for as it rolled glittering on, the simple
country people, belated in their own preparations, or
tarrying at home to provide the dinner, ran to the
windows in wonder and admiration. The plain wagons,
bent in the same direction, turned out of the path
and gave the great coach the better half of the way,
staring a broadside as it passed.

And when the party reached the little meeting-house,
what a peace hung about it! The air seemed
softer, the sunshine brighter, there, as it stood in
humble silence among the tall trees which waved
with a gentle murmur before its windows. The people,
as they arrived, glided noiselessly in, in their
neat dresses and looks of decent devotion; others
as they came made fast their horses under the sheds
and trees about—most of them in wagons and plain
chaises, brightened into all of beauty they were capable

of, by a severe attention to the harness and
mountings; others—these were a few bachelors and
striplings—trotted in quietly on horseback. Before
service a few of the old farmers lingered outside discussing
the late crops or inquiring after each other's
families, who presently went within, summoning from
the grassy churchyard—which lay next to the meeting
house—the children who were loitering there
reading the grave-stones.

When the Captain arrived with his gig, under
such extraordinary headway that he was near driving
across the grave-yard into the next county—the
country people scampered aside, like scared fowl;
Mrs. Carrack's great coach, with its liveried outriders,
set them staring as if they did not or could not believe
their own eyes. With the arrival of old Sylvester
they re-gathered, and, almost in a body, proffered
their aid to hold the horses—to help the old
Patriarch to the ground—in a word, to show their regard
and affection in every way in their power. He
tarried but a moment at the door, to speak a word
with one or two of the oldest of his neighbors, and
passed in, followed by all of his family save Mrs.
Carrack and her son, who under color of hunting up

the grave of some old relation, delay in order to
make their appearance in the meeting-house by
themselves, and independently of the Peabody connection.

Will you pardon me, reader, if I fail to tell you
whether this house of worship was of the Methodist,
Episcopal, or Baptist creed, whether it had a chancel
or altar, or painted windows? Whether the pews
had doors to them and were cushioned or not?
Whether the minister wore a gown and bands, or
plain suit of black, or was undistinguished in his
dress? Will it not suffice if I tell you, as the very
belief of my soul, that it was a christian house, that
there were seats for all, that things were well intended
and decently ordered, and that with a hymn sung
with such purity of heart that its praises naturally
joined in with the chiming of the trees and the carols
of the birds without and floated on without a stop to
Heaven, when a meek man rose up:

Some two hundred years ago, our ancestors (he
said,) finding themselves more comfortable in the
wilderness of the new world, than they could have
reasonably looked for, set apart a day of Thanksgiving
to Almighty God for his manifold mercies. That

day, God be praised, has been steadily observed
throughout this happy land, by cheerful gatherings
of families, and other festive and devotional observances,
down to the present time. Our fathers covenanted,
in the love of Christ, to cleave together, as
brethren, however hard the brunt of fortune might be.
That bond still continues. We may not live (he went
on, in the very spirit and letter of the first Thanksgiving
discourse ever delivered amongst us,) as retired
hermits, each in our cell apart, nor inquire, like
David, how liveth such a man? How is he clad?
How is he fed? He is my brother, we are in league
together, we must stand and fall by one another. Is
his labor harder than mine? Surely I will ease him.
Hath he no bed to lie on? I have two—I will lend
him one. Hath he no apparel? I have two suits
—I will give him one of them. Eats he coarse food,
bread and water, and have I better? Surely we
will part stakes. He is as good a man as I, and we
are bound each to other; so that his wants must be
my wants; his sorrows, my sorrows; his sickness my
sickness; and his welfare my welfare; for I am as
he is; such a sweet sympathy were excellent, comfortable,
nay, heavenly, and is the only maker and conserver
of churches and commonwealths.”

To such as looked upon old Sylvester there seemed
a glow and halo about his aged brow and whitened
locks, for this was the very spirit of his life.

As though he knew the very secrets of their souls, and
touched their very heart-strings with a gentle hand,
the preacher glanced from one member of the Peabody
household to another, as he proceeded, something
in this manner. (For William Peabody:) do I
find on this holy day that I love God in all his glorious
universe, more than the image even of Liberty,
which hath ensnared and enslaved the soul of many
a man on the coin of this world? (For buxom Mrs.
Jane, in her vandyke:) Do I stifle the vanity of good
looks and comfortable circumstances under a plain
garb? (For the jovial Captain:) Am I not over hasty
in pursuit of carnal enjoyment? (For Mr. Oliver:
who was wiping his brow with the Declaration of Independence,)
and eager over much for the good opinion
of men, when I should be quietly serving them without
report? (For Mrs. Carrack and her son:) And what
are pomp and fashion, but the painted signs of good
living where there is no life? These (he continued,)

are all outward, mere pretences to put off our duty,
and the care of our souls. Yea, we may have
churches, schools, hospitals abounding—but these are
mere lath and mortar, if we have not also within
our own hearts, a church where the pure worship
ever goeth on, a school where the true knowledge is
taught, a hospital, the door whereof standeth constantly
open, into which our fellow-creatures are welcomed
and where their infirmities are first cared for
with all kindness and tenderness. If these be our
inclinings this day, let us be reasonably thankful on
this Thanksgiving morning. Let such as are in
health be thankful for their good case; and such as
are out of health be thankful that they are no worse.
Let such as are rich be thankful for their wealth, (if
it hath been honestly come by;) and let such as are
poor be thankful that they have no such charge upon
their souls. Let old folks be thankful for their wisdom
in knowing that young folks are fools; and let
young ones be thankful that they may live to see the
time when they may use the same privilege. Let
lean folks be thankful for their spare ribs, which are
not a burthen in the harvest-field; fat folks may
laugh at lean ones, and grow fatter every day. Let
married folks be thankful for blessings both little and
great; let bachelors and old maids be thankful for
the privilege of kissing other folks' babies, and great
good may it do them.

With what a glow of mutual friendship the quaint
preacher was warming the plain old meeting-house on
that thanksgiving day!

Finally, and to conclude, (he went on in the language
of a chronicle of the time:)—Let no man
look upon a turkey to-day, and say, `This also
is vanity.' What is the life of man without creature-comforts,
and the stomach of the son of man
with no aid from the tin kitchen? Despise not the
day of small things, while there are pullets on the
spit, and let every fowl have fair play, between the
jaws of thy philosophy. Are not puddings made to
be sliced, and pie-crust to be broken? Go thy ways,
then, according to good sense, good cheer, good appetite,
the Governor's proclamation, and every other
good thing under the sun;—render thanks for all the
good things of this life, and good cookery among the
rest; eat, drink, and be merry; make not a lean laudation
of the bounties of Providence, but let a lively
gusto follow a long grace. Feast thankfully, and

feast hopingly; feast in good will to all mankind,
Grahamites included; feast in the full and joyous
persuasion, that while the earth remaineth, seed-time
and harvest, dinner-time, pudding-time, and supper-time,
are not likely to go out of fashion;—feast with
exulting confidence in the continuance of cooks, kitchens,
and orthodox expounders of Scripture and the
constitution in our ancient, blessed, and fat-sided
commonwealth—feast, in short, like a good Christian,
proving all things, relishing all things, hoping all
things, expecting all things, and enjoying all things.
Let a good stomach for dinner go hand in hand with
a good mind for sound doctrine. Let us all be
thankful that a gracious Providence hath furnished
each and all with a wholesome and bountiful dinner
this day; and, if there be none so furnished, let him
now make it known, and we will instantly contribute
thereto of our separate abundance. There are none
who murmur—we all, therefore, have a thanksgiving
dinner waiting for us; let us hie home cheerily, and
in a becoming spirit of mirth and devotion partake
thereof.

The windows of the little meeting-house were up
to let in the pleasant sunshine; and the very horses

who were within hearing of his voice, seemed by the
pricking up of their brown ears to relish and approve
of his discourse. The Captain's city nag, as wide
awake as any, seemed to address himself to an acquaintance
of a heavy bay plougher, who stood at
the same post, and laying their heads together for
the better part of the sermon, they appeared to regard
it, as far as they caught its meaning, as sound
doctrine, particularly acknowledging that this was as
fine a thanksgiving morning as they (who had been
old friends and had spent their youth together, being
in some way related, in a farm-house in that neighborhood)
had ever known; and when they had said
as much as this, they laughed out in very merriness
of spirit, with a great winnow, as the happy audience
came streaming forth at the meeting-house door.
There were no cold, haughty, or distrustful faces
now, as when they had entered in an hour ago; the
genial air of the little meeting-house had melted
away all frosts of that kind; and as they mingled under
the sober autumn-trees, loitering for conversation,
inquiring after neighbors, old folks whose infirmities
kept them at home, the young children; they seemed
indeed, much more a company of brethren, embarked
(as sailors say) on a common bottom for happiness
and enjoyment. The children were the first
to set out for home through the fields on foot; Peabody
the younger, little Sam and Robert being attended
by the footman in livery, whom Mrs. Carrack
relieved from attendance at the rear of the coach.

If the quaint preacher had urged the rational enjoyment
of the Thanksgiving cheer from the pulpit,
Mopsey labored with equal zeal at home to have it
worthy of enjoyment. At an early hour she had
cleared decks, and taken possession of the kitchen:
kindling, with dawn, a great fire in the oven for the
pies, and another on the hearth for the turkey. But
it was from the oven, heaping it to the top with fresh
relays of dry wood, that she expected the Thanksgiving
angel to walk in all his beauty and majesty.
In performance of her duty, and from a sense only
that there could be no thanksgiving without a turkey,
she planted the tin oven on the hearth, spitted the
gobbler, and from time to time, merely as a matter
of absolute necessity, gave it a turn; but about the
mouth of the great oven she hovered constantly, like
a spirit—had her head in and out at the opening
every other minute; and, when at last the pies were

slided in upon the warm bottom, she lingered there
regarding the change they were undergoing with the
fond admiration with which a connoisseur in sunsets
hangs upon the changing colors of the evening sky.
The leisure this double duty allowed her was employed
by Mopsey in scaring away the poultry and idle
young chickens which rushed in at the back entrance
of the kitchen in swarms, and hopped with yellow
legs about the floor with the racket of constant falling
showers of corn. Upon the half door opening on the
front the red rooster had mounted, and with his head
on one side observed with a knowing eye all that
went forward; showing perhaps most interest in the
turning of the spit, the impalement of the turkey
thereon having been with him an object of special
consideration.

The highly colored picture of Warren at Bunker-Hill,
writhing in his death-agony on one wall of the
kitchen, and General Marion feasting from a potato,
in his tent, on the other, did not in the least attract
the attention of Mopsey. She saw nothing on the
whole horizon of the glowing apartment but the
pies and the turkey, and even for the moment neglected
to puzzle herself, as she was accustomed to in

the pauses of her daily labors, with the wonders
and mysteries of an ancient dog-eared spelling-book
which lay upon the smoky mantel.

Meanwhile, in obedience to the spirit of the day,
the widow Margaret and Miriam, having each diligently
disposed of their separate charge in the preparations,
making a church of the homestead, conducted
a worship in their own simple way. Opposite
to each other in the little sitting-room, Miriam opened
the old Family Bible, and at the widow Margaret's
request read from that chapter which gives the story
of the prodigal son. It was with a clear and pensive
voice that she read, but not without a struggle with
herself. Where the story told that the young man
had gone into a far country; that he had wasted his
substance in riotous living; that he was abased to the
feeding of swine; that he craved in his hunger the
very husks; that he lamented the plenty of his
father's house—a cloud came upon her countenance,
and the simplest eye could have interpreted the
thoughts that troubled her. And how the fair young
face brightened, when she read that the young man
resolved to arise and return to the house of his
father; the dear encounter; the rejoicing over his

return, and the glad proclamation, “This, my son, was
dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

“If he would come back even so,” said the widow
when the book was closed, “in sorrow, in poverty, in
crime even, I would thank God and be grateful.”

“He is not guilty, mother,” Miriam pleaded, casting
her head upon the widow's bosom and clinging
close about her neck.

“I will not think that he is,” Margaret answered,
lifting up her head. “Guilty or innocent, he is my
son—my son.” Clasping the young orphan's hand,
after a pause of tender silence, she gave utterance to
her feelings in a Thanksgiving hymn. These were
the words:—

At this moment a tumult of children's voices was
heard in the door-yard, and as the widow turned,
young William Peabody was seen struggling with

Robert and little Sam, who were holding him back
with all their force. As he dragged them forward,
being their elder and superior in strength, Peabody
Junior stretched his throat and called towards the
house—“I've seen him—I've seen him!”

“Who have you seen?” asked the widow, rising
and approaching the door.

“Mr. Barbary.” When Peabody Junior made
this answer the widow advanced with a gleam on her
countenance, and gently releasing him, said, “Come,
William, and tell us all about it.”

“Aunt Margaret,” said Robert, thrusting himself
between, “don't listen to a word he has to say. I'll
tell you all about it. You see we were coming home
from meeting, and little Sam got tired, and William
and I made a cradle of our hands and were carrying
him along very nice.”

“Not so very nice, either,” Peabody Junior interrupted,
“for I was plaguy tired.”

“That's what I was going to tell you, Aunt Margaret.
Bill did get tired, and as we came through
the Locust Wood, he made believe to see something,
and run away to get clear of carrying little Sam any
further.”

“I did see him!” said Peabody Junior, firmly.

“Where was he?” the widow asked.

“Behind the hazel-bush, with his head just looking
out at the top, all turned white as dead folks do.”

Mopsey was in immediately with her dark head,
crying out, “Don't belief a word of it.”

“I guess you saw nothing but the hazel-bush,
William,” said the widow.

“That was it, Aunt; it was the hazel-bush with a
great mop of moss on it,” Robert added.

Miriam sat looking on and listening, pale and
trembling.

“If your cousin Elbridge and Mr. Barbary should
ever come back,” said the widow, addressing Peabody
Junior, “you would be sorry for what you have
said, William.”

“So he would, Aunt,” echoed Robert.

Mopsey was in again from the kitchen; this time
she advanced several steps from the door-sill into the
room, lifted up both her arms and addressed the
assembled company.

“One ting I know,” said Mopsey, “dere's a big
pie baking in dat ere oven, and if Mas'r Elbridge
don't eat that pie it'll haf to sour, dat I know.”

“What is it, Mopsey,” asked Margaret, “that
gives you such a faith in my son?”

“I tell you what it is, Missus,” Mopsey answered
promptly, “dast tanksgivin when I tumbled down
on dis ere sef-same floor bringin' in de turkey, every
body laugh but Mas'r Elbridge, and he come from his
place and pick me up. He murder any body! I'll
eat de whole tanksgivin dinner myself if he touch
a hair of de old preacher's head to hurt it.” Suddenly
changing her tone, she added, “Dey're comin'
from meetin', I hear de old wagon.”