 | Dream life |  |
VII.
The Country Church.
THE country church is a square old building of
wood, without paint or decoration—and of that
genuine, Puritanic stamp, which is now fast giving
way to Greek porticos, and to cockney towers. It
stands upon a hill with a little church yard in its
rear, where one or two sickly looking trees keep watch
and ward over the vagrant sheep that graze among
the graves. Bramble bushes seem to thrive on the
bodies below, and there is no flower in the little yard,
save a few golden rods, which flaunt their gaudy
inodorous color under the lee of the northern wall.
New England country-livers have as yet been very
little innoculated with the sentiment of beauty; even
the door-step to the church is a wide flat stone, that
simplicity is even more severe. Brown galleries run
around three sides of the old building, supported by
timbers, on which you still trace, under the stains from
the leaky roof, the deep scoring of the woodman's axe.
Below, the unpainted pews are ranged in square
forms, and by age, have gained the color of those
fragmentary wrecks of cigar boxes, which you see upon
the top shelves, in the bar-rooms of country taverns.
The minister's desk is lofty, and has once been honored
with a coating of paint;—as well as the huge sounding-board,
which, to your great amazement, protrudes from
the wall, at a very dangerous angle of inclination, over
the speaker's head. As the Squire's pew is the place
of honor, to the right of the pulpit, you have a little
tremor yourself, at sight of the heavy sounding-board,
and cannot forbear indulging in a quiet feeling of
relief, when the last prayer is said.
There are in the Squire's pew, long, faded, crimson
cushions; which, it seems to you, must date back
nearly to the commencement of the Christian era in
this country. There are also sundry old thumb-worn
copies of Dr. Dwight's Version of the Psalms of David
—`appointed to be sung in churches, by authority of
the General Association of the State of Connecticut.'
The sides of Dr. Dwight's Version are, you observe,
sadly warped, and weather-stained; and from some
constrained to think, that the Squire has sometime
employed a quiet interval of the service, with reckoning
up the contents of the old stocking-leg at home.
The parson is a stout man, remarkable in your
opinion, chiefly, for a yellowish-brown wig, a strong
nasal tone, and occasional violent thumps upon the
little, dingy, red velvet cushion, studded with brass
tacks, at the top of the desk. You do not altogether
admire his style; and by the time he has entered upon
his `Fourthly,' you give your attention, in despair, to a
new reading (it must be the twentieth) of the preface
to Dr. Dwight's Version of the Psalms.
The singing has a charm for you. There is a long,
thin-faced, flax-haired man, who carries a tuning fork in
his waistcoat pocket, and who leads the choir. His
position is in the very front rank of gallery benches,
facing the desk; and by the time the old clergyman
has read two verses of the psalm, the country chorister
turns around to his little group of aids—consisting of
the blacksmith, a carroty headed school-master, two
women in snuff-colored silks, and a girl in pink bonnet—
to announce the tune.
This being done in an authoritative manner, he lifts
his long music book,—glances again at his little company,—clears
his throat by a powerful ahem, followed
by a powerful use of a bandanna pocket-handkerchief,—
close his reading. He now reviews once more his
company,—throws a reproving glance at the young
woman in the pink hat, who at the moment is biting
off a stout bunch of fennel,—lifts his music book,—
thumps upon the rail with his fork,—listens keenly,—
gives a slight ahem,—falls into the cadence,—swells into
a strong crescendo,—catches at the first word of the
line, as if he were afraid it might get away,—turns to
his company,—lifts his music book with spirit,—gives it
a powerful slap with the disengaged hand, and with a
majestic toss of the head, soars away, with half the
women below straggling on in his wake, into some such
brave, old melody as—Litchfield!
Being a visitor, and in the Squire's pew, you are
naturally an object of considerable attention to the girls
about your age; as well as to a great many fat, old
ladies in iron spectacles, who mortify you excessively, by
patting you under the chin after church; and insist upon
mistaking you for Frank; and force upon you very dry
cookies, spiced with caraway seeds.
You keep somewhat shy of the young ladies, as they
are rather stout for your notions of beauty; and wear
thick calf-skin boots. They compare very poorly with
Jenny. Jenny, you think, would be above eating
gingerbread between service. None of them, you
imagine, even read Thaddeus of Warsaw, or ever used
quite certain they never did, or they could not, surely,
wear such dowdy gowns, and suck their thumbs as they
do!
The farmers you have a high respect for;—particularly
for one weazen-faced old gentleman in a brown
surtout, who brings his whip into church with him, who
sings in a very strong voice, and who drives a span of
gray colts. You think, however, that he has got rather
a stout wife; and from the way he humors her in
stopping to talk with two or three other fat women,
before setting off for home, (though he seems a little
fidgetty) you naively think, that he has a high regard
for her opinion. Another townsman, who attracts your
notice, is a stout old deacon, who before entering,
always steps around the corner of the church, and puts
his hat upon the ground, to adjust his wig in a quiet
way. He then marches up the broad aisle in a stately
manner, and plants his hat, and a big pair of buckskin
mittens, on the little table under the desk. When he
is fairly seated in his corner of the pew, with his elbow
upon the top-rail—almost the only man who can
comfortably reach it,—you observe that he spreads his
brawny fingers over his scalp, in an exceedingly cautious
manner; and you innocently think again, that it is very
hypocritical in a Deacon, to be pretending to lean upon
his hand, when he is only keeping his wig straight.
After the morning service, they have an `hour's
intermission,' as the preacher calls it; during which, the
old men gather on a sunny side of the building, and
after shaking hands all around, and asking after the
`folks' at home, they enjoy a quiet talk about the
crops. One man for instance, with a twist in his nose,
would say, `it's raether a growin' season;' and another
would reply—`tolerable, but potatoes is feelin' the wet,
badly.' The stout deacon approves this opinion, and
confirms it, by blowing his nose very powerfully.
Two or three of the more worldly minded ones, will
perhaps stroll over to a neighbor's barn-yard, and take a
look at his young stock, and talk of prices, and whittle
a little; and very likely some two of them, will make a
conditional `swop' of `three likely yer'lings' for a pair
of `two-year-olds.'
The youngsters are fond of getting out into the
grave-yard, and comparing jack-knives, or talking about
the school-master, or the menagerie;—or, it may be, of
some prospective `travel' in the fall,—either to town,
or perhaps to the `sea-shore.'
Afternoon service hangs heavily; and the tall chorister
is by no means so blithe, or so majestic in the toss
of his head, as in the morning. A boy in the next box,
tries to provoke you into familiarity by dropping pellets
of gingerbread through the bars of the pew; but as
acquaintance, you decline all overtures.
After the service is finished, the wagons that have
been disposed on either side of the road, are drawn up
before the door. The old Squire meantime, is sure to
have a little chat with the parson before he leaves; in
the course of which, the parson takes occasion to say
that his wife is a little ailing—`a slight touch,' he
thinks, `of the rheumatiz.' One of the children too,
has been troubled with the `summer complaint' for a day
or two; but he thinks that a dose of catnip, under
Providence, will effect a cure. The younger, and
unmarried men, with red wagons, flaming upon bright,
yellow wheels, make great efforts to drive off in the van;
and they spin frightfully near some of the fat, sour-faced
women, who remark in a quiet, but not very Christian
tone, that `they fear the elder's sermon hasn't done the
young bucks much good.' It is much to be feared, in
truth, that it has not.
In ten minutes the old church is thoroughly deserted;
the neighbor who keeps the key has locked up for
another week, the creaking door; and nothing of the
service remains within, except—Dr. Dwight's version,
—the long music books,—crumbs of gingerbread, and
refuse stalks of despoiled fennel.
And yet, under the influence of that old weather-stained
temple, are perhaps growing up—though you
industry, and a respect for virtue, which will make them
stronger for the real work of life, than all the elegant
children of a city. One lesson, which even the rudest
churches of New England teach,—with all their harshness,
and all their repulsive severity of form—is the
lesson of Self-Denial. Once armed with that, and
manhood is strong. The soul that possesses the
consciousness of mastering passion, is endowed with an
element of force, that can never harmonize with
defeat. Difficulties, it wears like a summer garment,
and flings away, at the first approach of the winter of
NEED.
Let not any one suppose then, that in this detail of
the country life, through which our hero is led, I
would cast obloquy, or a sneer, upon its simplicity, or
upon its lack of refinement. Goodness, and strength,
in this world, are quite as apt to wear rough coats, as
fine ones. And the words of thorough, and self-sacrificing
kindness, are far more often dressed in the
uncouth sounds of retired life, than in the polished
utterance of the town. Heaven has not made warm
hearts, and honest hearts distinguishable by the quality
of the covering. True diamonds need no work of the
artificer to reflect, and multiply their rays. Goodness
is more within, than without; and purity is of nearer
kin to the soul, than to the body.
—And, Clarence, it may well happen, that later
in life—under the gorgeous ceilings of Venetian
churches, or at some splendid mass of Notre Dame,
with embroidered coats, and costly silks around you,—
your thoughts will run back to that little storm-beaten
church, and to the willow waving in its yard—with a
Hope that glows;—and with a tear, that you embalm!
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