University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
A COUNTRY CHURCH IN 1765.

If the reader will deign to cast his eyes back, he will see that
the events we have just related, occurred on days immediately
succeeding each other. Captain Ralph had finished
Lanky's business on Friday morning; the picnic in the
woods had taken place upon Saturday forenoon, that day
being holiday for the Cornstalk regiment; then this same
Saturday had seen the soldier on his way to Riverhead, and
had witnessed his defeat by the fox-hunter. Lastly, the
scene we have this moment related, occurred in the afternoon,
at the Hall, as the reader knows.

We now beg leave to continue our history, with the
events of the next day—Sunday; and for the purpose of
connecting the narrative by links so plain that they will need
no commentary at our hands, shall accompany the Effingham
Hall carriage to church.

The chariot drove up to the old edifice, which was gilded
by the fresh light of the pure May morning, and deposited
its freight at one of the doors, at which stood a group of
young men, whose self-imposed duty was to assist the ladies
from their chariots when they arrived. The chariot contained
the whole family from the Hall, who looked very calm
and happy, with the exception of Mr. Effingham, whose face
was unusually pale, and all entered the old church and
devoutly knelt. Perhaps a word of description would not be
inappropriate here; for these old houses of the Lord
differed, we need not say, materially from those of the present
day and generation. Christ Church was an old building of
discolored stone, and above it waved the boughs of a great
elm; the windows and doors were surmounted by little roofs,
so to speak, supported by iron rods; a stone slab lay before

each door. Within, the feet trod upon flag stones, and the
pews were enormously high, and with perfectly straight backs.
In these, the audience were almost buried. On the walls of
the chancel were inscribed the ten commandments—gilt
letters on an azure ground; and below the reading desk and
pulpit, stood the box and bench of the “clark,” whose duty
was to make the responses. The pulpit was very lofty, and
in the shape of a tub; it was reached by two circular flights
of steps, and above it was stretched a canopy, on the nether
side of which a golden star irradiated, while upon the summit,
a dove expanded its wings, symbolizing the spirit of the
Holy Ghost.

The old edifice, as we have said, was overshadowed by
the boughs of a great elm, and beneath this elm were a number
of monuments, which told the virtues of those who slept
beneath. Some of the tombstones were adorned with coats
of arms, and flourishing panegyrics, which make the dead
more noble and perfect than the great father of Manrique;
—many an armiger was made matchless and superior to
Bayard the reproachless knight; many a noble lady had her
charities narrated in that grand eulogistic rhetoric of the
past, and still lived in the eyes of all, through the veiled
head carved on the stone, with clasped hands. But then
there were other memorials which more deeply impressed
the beholder—plain stones, indicating the resting-place of
some child, with those simple inscriptions which affect men
so strangely as they wander through these resting-places of
the dead; for all that is sublime is simple. Great feeling
does not rant; and these small white headstones seemed to
have more of the other world about them, so to speak, than
the fine monuments which, though the feeling of those who
erected them were doubtless quite as pure, yet seemed to
cling still to the pomps and vanities, dead now to those who
slept.

The tombstones, white, against the green velvety grass,
made the churchyard pure and happy, not gloomy. They
looked calm and peaceful; and the good Mr. Christian's flock
listened more attentively, as they murmured the responses
more devoutly, for having before their eyes those memorials
of rest and peace. And children played about them: men
came and read the inscriptions, and mused. thinking of

the holy dead; and even the birds singing above the old
edifice seemed better pleased to have the marble headstones
there. So the old mansion rested quietly beneath
its whispering elm, among the graves. It looked calm and
hopeful, giving promise of another world.

Mr. Christian's sermon was upon humility, and the danger
of pride and vaingloriousness—of those moods of mind when
the heart and brain fancy themselves equal to every thing,
and so spurn all humble thoughts. He spoke of that sublime
humility of our Saviour, when he washed his disciples'
feet; and the low, eloquent voice was full of soothing, tender
emotion. He then presented the evils arising from a
haughty and overbearing spirit, and denounced them with
impassioned vigor: he branded the proud and self-willed
man until the picture grew hateful and repulsive; he then
depicted the strength and greatness of humility, even in a
worldly sense: the overwhelming power of conscious weakness.
Finally; he enforced his doctrines by the Saviour's
command to men, to grow like little children in hnmility if they
would enter into the kingdom of heaven. All this the worthy
pastor enforced with a mild strength which produced a
strong impression upon his bearers. When he raised his
hands to bless his flock before dismissing them, all hearts
felt purer for his teachings, and charity and humility were
in every face.

Then succeeded that lengthy shaking of hands and interchange
of neighborly gossip which characterizes, we believe,
all country churches. And so while Miss Alethea was inquiring
about a variety of interesting matters within, with
her lady friends, the squire laughed without, strutting about
in his fine Sunday suit, and not imagining for a single moment
that he wanted humility:—the preacher's sermon was
meant for other people.

Mr. Effingham leaned against the trunk of the great elm,
pale, haughty, and only half returning the bows made to
him. Once, however, he did rise suddenly erect and make
a proud and ceremonious inclination of his head:—Mr. Hamilton
had bowed to him in passing. Beyond this, he showed
scarcely any consciousness of where he was. Absorbed in
his gloomy reverie, he paid as little attention to the brilliant
groups of fair ladies, who looked with no slight admiration

on his pale, handsome face, as he had done to the sermon.
That sermon had not produced the least impression on him—
he had not heard it even; for near him sat Clare, and all his
gloom had returned at sight of her.

He loved her now a thousand fold more than ever: she
was dearer to him than all the world beside: the sight of
her brought back to him every happy day he had spent in
the past—the knowledge of the fact that she was lost to
him renewed his most passionate anguish. It was a singular
spectacle which he presented, standing thus in the middle
of the gay, laughing crowd, as perfectly isolated as if that
crowd did not exist, and nothing were around him but the
calm white tombstones. His brow, as we have said, was
pale, his eyes were shadowy, his lips compressed; he might
have been taken for one of those characters of romance who
throw their fiery passions and wild natures into the tranquil
stream of ordinary life, and lash it into foam. And, in Mr.
Effingham's case, this, as we know, was not very far from
the fact;—he had defied society for a woman, carried that
woman off, and done many other things which much better
suited heroes of poetry or opera grandees, than a plain Virginia
citizen;—and now we see in his face the ravages of
that wild, passionate character, so dangerous when aroused.

The congregation slowly dispersed, and the Riverhead
carriage and that of the squire drew up together. Mr. Effingham
saw a form that made him tremble pass before him.
His hand for a moment sustained the white arm, covered
only with a diaphanous lace, as he assisted her into the
chariot, he knew not how. A shadowy mist seemed to envelope
all from which a pair of soft blue eyes, and a young
girl's blushing cheeks emerged—and then the four horses
were whipped up, he heard distinctly the crack of the lash,
and the vision disappeared. He saw two cavaliers, one
riding upon each side—the one was smiling the other gloomy.
The smiling one was Mr. Hamilton, who was talking through
the window to Clare, and looking back occasionally at Mr.
Effingham, who ground his teeth. The gloomy cavalier was
Captain Ralph, who had caught a smile directed by Henrietta
towards Mr. Effingham, and totally unseen by that gentleman.

We may hazard here the observation that lovers are

wholly destitute of conscience, magnanimity, common sense,
and ordinary courtesy. Mr. Hamilton was laughing at his
friend, the Captain was quarrelling with a smile of simple
courtesy.

Mr. Effingham entered the Effingham chariot with the
squire, Miss Alethea, and Kate, and Will mounted his
pony. The old sexton locked the church, and, putting his
spectacles away, tottered homeward. Church was over.