my mind when I was first pronounced old enough to go to meeting. That
eventful Sunday I was up long before day, and even took my Sabbath suit
to the window to ascertain by the first light that it actually was
there, just as it looked the night before. With what complacency did I
view myself completely dressed! How did I count over the rows of yellow
gilt buttons on my coat! how my good mother, grandmother, and aunts
fussed, and twitched, and pulled, to make every thing set up and set
down, just in the proper place! how my clean, starched white collar was
turned over and smoothed again and again, and my golden curls twisted
and arranged to make the most of me! and, last of all, how I was
cautioned not to be thinking of my clothes! In truth, I was in those
days a very handsome youngster, and it really is no more than justice to
let the fact be known, as there is nothing in my present appearance from
which it could ever be inferred. Every body in the house successively
asked me if I should be a good boy, and sit still, and not talk, nor
laugh; and my mother informed me, _in terrorem_, that there was a
tithing man, who carried off naughty children, and shut them up in a
dark place behind the pulpit; and that this tithing man, Mr. Zephaniah
Scranton, sat just where he could see me. This fact impressed my mind
with more solemnity than all the exhortations which had preceded it--a
proof of the efficacy of facts above reason. Under shadow and power of
this weighty truth, I demurely took hold of my mother's forefinger to
walk to meeting.
The traveller in New England, as he stands on some eminence, and looks
down on its rich landscape of golden grain and waving cornfield, sees no
feature more beautiful than its simple churches, whose white taper
fingers point upward, amid the greenness and bloom of the distant
prospects, as if to remind one of the overshadowing providence whence
all this luxuriant beauty flows; and year by year, as new ones are added
to the number, or succeed in the place of old ones, there is discernible
an evident improvement in their taste and architecture. Those modest
Doric little buildings, with their white pillars, green blinds, and neat
enclosures, are very different affairs from those great, uncouth
mountains of windows and doors that stood in the same place years
before. To my childish eye, however, our old meeting house was an
awe-inspiring thing. To me it seemed fashioned very nearly on the model
of Noah's ark and Solomon's temple, as set forth in the pictures in my
Scripture Catechism--pictures which I did not doubt were authentic
copies; and what more respectable and venerable architectural precedent
could any one desire? Its double rows of windows, of which I knew the
number by heart, its doors with great wooden quirls over them, its
belfry projecting out at the east end, its steeple and bell, all
inspired as much sense of the sublime in me as Strasbourg Cathedral
itself; and the inside was not a whit less imposing.
How magnificent, to my eye, seemed the turnip-like canopy that hung over
the minister's head, hooked by a long iron rod to the wall above! and
how apprehensively did I consider the question, what would become of him
if it should fall! How did I wonder at the panels on either side of the
pulpit, in each of which was carved and painted a flaming red tulip,
bolt upright, with its leaves projecting out at right angles! and then
at the grape vine, bass relieved on the front, with its exactly
triangular bunches of grapes, alternating at exact intervals with
exactly triangular leaves. To me it was an indisputable representation
of how grape vines ought to look, if they would only be straight and
regular, instead of curling and scrambling, and twisting themselves into
all sorts of slovenly shapes. The area of the house was divided into
large square pews, boxed up with stout boards, and surmounted with a
kind of baluster work, which I supposed to be provided for the special
accommodation of us youngsters, being the "loopholes of retreat" through
which we gazed on the "remarkabilia" of the scene. It was especially
interesting to me to notice the coming in to meeting of the
congregation. The doors were so contrived that on entering you stepped
_down_ instead of _up_--a construction that has more than once led to
unlucky results in the case of strangers. I remember once when an
unlucky Frenchman, entirely unsuspicious of the danger that awaited him,
made entrance by pitching devoutly upon his nose in the middle of the
broad aisle; that it took three bunches of my grandmother's fennel to
bring my risibles into any thing like composure. Such exhibitions,
fortunately for me, were very rare; but still I found great amusement in
watching the distinctive and marked outlines of the various people that
filled up the seats around me. A Yankee village presents a picture of
the curiosities of every generation: there, from year to year, they live
on, preserved by hard labor and regular habits, exhibiting every
peculiarity of manner and appearance, as distinctly marked as when they
first came from the mint of nature. And as every body goes punctually to
meeting, the meeting house becomes a sort of museum of antiquities--a
general muster ground for past and present.
I remember still with what wondering admiration I used to look around on
the people that surrounded our pew. On one side there was an old Captain
McLean, and Major McDill, a couple whom the mischievous wits of the
village designated as Captain McLean and Captain McFat; and, in truth,
they were a perfect antithesis, a living exemplification of flesh and
spirit. Captain McLean was a mournful, lengthy, considerate-looking old
gentleman, with a long face, digressing into a long, thin, horny nose,
which, when he applied his pocket handkerchief, gave forth a melancholy,
minor-keyed sound, such as a ghost might make, using a pocket
handkerchief in the long gallery of some old castle.
Close at his side was the doughty, puffing Captain McDill, whose
full-orbed, jolly visage was illuminated by a most valiant red nose,
shaped something like an overgrown doughnut, and looking as if it had
been thrown _at_ his face, and happened to hit in the middle. Then there
was old Israel Peters, with a wooden leg, which tramped into meeting,
with undeviating regularity, ten minutes before meeting time; and there
was Jedediah Stebbins, a thin, wistful, moonshiny-looking old gentleman,
whose mouth appeared as if it had been gathered up with a needle and
thread, and whose eyes seemed as if they had been bound with red tape;
and there was old Benaiah Stephens, who used regularly to get up and
stand when the minister was about half through his sermon, exhibiting
his tall figure, long, single-breasted coat, with buttons nearly as
large as a tea plate; his large, black, horn spectacles stretched down
on the extreme end of a very long nose, and vigorously chewing,
meanwhile, on the bunch of caraway which he always carried in one hand.
Then there was Aunt Sally Stimpson, and old Widow Smith, and a whole
bevy of little, dried old ladies, with small, straight, black bonnets,
tight sleeves to the elbow, long silk gloves, and great fans, big enough
for a windmill; and of a hot day it was a great amusement to me to watch
the bobbing of the little black bonnets, which showed that sleep had got
the better of their owners' attention, and the sputter and rustling of
the fans, when a more profound nod than common would suddenly waken
them, and set them to fanning and listening with redoubled devotion.
There was Deacon Dundas, a great wagon load of an old gentleman, whose
ample pockets looked as if they might have held half the congregation,
who used to establish himself just on one side of me, and seemed to feel
such entire confidence in the soundness and capacity of his pastor that
he could sleep very comfortably from one end of the sermon to the other.
Occasionally, to be sure, one of your officious blue flies, who, as
every body knows, are amazingly particular about such matters, would
buzz into his mouth, or flirt into his ears a passing admonition as to
the impropriety of sleeping in meeting, when the good old gentleman
would start, open his eyes very wide, and look about with a resolute
air, as much as to say, "I wasn't asleep, I can tell you;" and then
setting himself in an edifying posture of attention, you might perceive
his head gradually settling back, his mouth slowly opening wider and
wider, till the good man would go off again soundly asleep, as if
nothing had happened.
It was a good orthodox custom of old times to take every part of the
domestic establishment to meeting, even down to the faithful dog, who,
as he had supervised the labors of the week, also came with due
particularity to supervise the worship of Sunday. I think I can see now
the fitting out on a Sunday morning--the one wagon, or two, as the case
might be, tackled up with an "old gray" or an "old bay," with a buffalo
skin over the seat by way of cushion, and all the family, in their
Sunday best, packed in for meeting; while Master Bose, Watch, or Towser
stood prepared to be an outguard and went meekly trotting up hill and
down dale in the rear. Arrived at meeting, the canine part of the
establishment generally conducted themselves with great decorum, lying
down and going to sleep as decently as any body present, except when
some of the business-loving bluebottles aforesaid would make a sortie
upon them, when you might hear the snap of their jaws as they vainly
sought to lay hold of the offender. Now and then, between some of the
sixthlies, seventhlies, and eighthlies, you might hear some old
patriarch giving himself a rousing shake, and pitpatting soberly up the
aisles, as if to see that every thing was going on properly, after which
he would lie down and compose himself to sleep again; and certainly this
was as improving a way of spending Sunday as a good Christian dog could
desire.
But the glory of our meeting house was its singers' seat--that empyrean
of those who rejoiced in the divine, mysterious art of fa-sol-la-ing,
who, by a distinguishing grace and privilege, could "raise and fall" the
cabalistical eight notes, and move serene through the enchanted region
of flats, sharps, thirds, fifths, and octaves.
There they sat in the gallery that lined three sides of the house,
treble, counter, tenor, and bass, each with its appropriate leaders and
supporters; there were generally seated the bloom of our young people;
sparkling, modest, and blushing girls on one side, with their ribbons
and finery, making the place where they sat as blooming and lively as a
flower garden, and fiery, forward, confident young men on the other. In
spite of its being a meeting house, we could not swear that glances were
never given and returned, and that there was not often as much of an
approach to flirtation as the distance and the sobriety of the place
would admit. Certain it was, that there was no place where our village
coquettes attracted half so many eyes or led astray half so many hearts.
But I have been talking of singers all this time, and neglected to
mention the Magnus Apollo of the whole concern, the redoubtable
chorister, who occupied the seat of honor in the midst of the middle
gallery, and exactly opposite to the minister. Certain it is that the
good man, if he were alive, would never believe it; for no person ever
more magnified his office, or had a more thorough belief in his own
greatness and supremacy, than Zedekiah Morse. Methinks I can see him now
as he appeared to my eyes on that first Sunday, when he shot up from
behind the gallery, as if he had been sent up by a spring. He was a
little man, whose fiery-red hair, brushed straight up on the top of his
head, had an appearance as vigorous and lively as real flame; and this,
added to the ardor and determination of all his motions, had obtained
for him the surname of the "Burning Bush." He seemed possessed with the
very soul of song; and from the moment he began to sing, looked alive
all over, till it seemed to me that his whole body would follow his hair
upwards, fairly rapt away by the power of harmony. With what an air did
he sound the important _fa-sol-la_ in the ears of the waiting gallery,
who stood with open mouths ready to seize their pitch, preparatory to
their general _set to_! How did his ascending and descending arm
astonish the zephyrs when once he laid himself out to the important work
of beating time! How did his little head whisk from side to side, as now
he beat and roared towards the ladies on his right, and now towards the
gentlemen on his left! It used to seem to my astonished vision as if his
form grew taller, his arm longer, his hair redder, and his little green
eyes brighter, with every stave; and particularly when he perceived any
falling off of time or discrepancy in pitch; with what redoubled vigor
would he thump the gallery and roar at the delinquent quarter, till
every mother's son and daughter of them skipped and scrambled into the
right place again!
O, it was a fine thing to see the vigor and discipline with which he
managed the business; so that if, on a hot, drowsy Sunday, any part of
the choir hung back or sung sleepily on the first part of a verse, they
were obliged to bestir themselves in good earnest, and sing three times
as fast, in order to get through with the others. 'Kiah Morse was no
advocate for your dozy, drawling singing, that one may do at leisure,
between sleeping and waking, I assure you; indeed, he got entirely out
of the graces of Deacon Dundas and one or two other portly, leisurely
old gentlemen below, who had been used to throw back their heads, shut
up their eyes, and take the comfort of the psalm, by prolonging
indefinitely all the notes. The first Sunday after 'Kiah took the music
in hand, the old deacon really rubbed his eyes and looked about him; for
the psalm was sung off before he was ready to get his mouth opened, and
he really looked upon it as a most irreverent piece of business.
But the glory of 'Kiah's art consisted in the execution of those good
old billowy compositions called fuguing tunes, where the four parts that
compose the choir take up the song, and go racing around one after
another, each singing a different set of words, till, at length, by some
inexplicable magic, they all come together again, and sail smoothly out
into a rolling sea of song. I remember the wonder with which I used to
look from side to side when treble, tenor, counter, and bass were thus
roaring and foaming,--and it verily seemed to me as if the psalm was
going to pieces among the breakers,--and the delighted astonishment with
which I found that each particular verse did emerge whole and uninjured
from the storm.
But alas for the wonders of that old meeting house, how they are passed
away! Even the venerable building itself has been pulled down, and its
fragments scattered; yet still I retain enough of my childish feelings
to wonder whether any little boy was gratified by the possession of
those painted tulips and grape vines, which my childish eye used to
covet, and about the obtaining of which, in case the house should ever
be pulled down, I devised so many schemes during the long sermons and
services of summer days. I have visited the spot where it stood, but the
modern, fair-looking building that stands in its room bears no trace of
it; and of the various familiar faces that used to be seen inside, not
one remains. Verily, I must be growing old; and as old people are apt to
spin long stories, I check myself, and lay down my pen.
THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
The sparkling ice and snow covered hill and valley--tree and bush were
glittering with diamonds--the broad, coarse rails of the fence shone
like bars of solid silver, while little fringes of icicles glittered
between each bar.
In the yard of yonder dwelling the scarlet berries of the mountain ash
shine through a transparent casing of crystal, and the sable spruces and
white pines, powdered and glittering with the frost, have assumed an icy
brilliancy. The eaves of the house, the door knocker, the pickets of the
fence, the honeysuckles and seringas, once the boast of summer, are all
alike polished, varnished, and resplendent with their winter trappings,
now gleaming in the last rays of the early sunset.
Within that large, old-fashioned dwelling might you see an ample parlor,
all whose adjustments and arrangements speak of security, warmth, and
home enjoyment; of money spent not for show, but for comfort. Thick
crimson curtains descend in heavy folds over the embrasures of the
windows, and the ample hearth and wide fireplace speak of the customs of
the good old times, ere that gloomy, unpoetic, unsocial gnome--the
air-tight--had monopolized the place of the blazing fireside.
No dark air-tight, however, filled our ancient chimney; but there was a
genuine old-fashioned fire of the most approved architecture, with a
gallant backlog and forestick, supporting and keeping in order a
crackling pile of dry wood, that was whirring and blazing warm welcome
for all whom it might concern, occasionally bursting forth into most
portentous and earnest snaps, which rung through the room with a
genuine, hospitable emphasis, as if the fire was enjoying himself, and
having a good time, and wanted all hands to draw up and make themselves
at home with him.
So looked that parlor to me, when, tired with a long day's ride, I found
my way into it, just at evening, and was greeted with a hearty welcome
from my old friend, Colonel Winthrop.
In addition to all that I have already described, let the reader add, if
he pleases, the vision of a wide and ample tea table, covered with a
snowy cloth, on which the servants are depositing the evening meal.
I had not seen Winthrop for years; but we were old college friends, and
I had gladly accepted an invitation to renew our ancient intimacy by
passing the New Year's season in his family. I found him still the same
hale, kindly, cheery fellow as in days of old, though time had taken the
same liberty with his handsome head that Jack Frost had with the cedars
and spruces out of doors, in giving to it a graceful and becoming
sprinkle of silver.
"Here you are, my dear fellow," said he, shaking me by both hands--"just
in season for the ham and chickens--coffee all smoking. My dear," he
added to a motherly-looking woman who now entered, "here's John! I beg
pardon, Mr. Stuart." As he spoke, two bold, handsome boys broke into the
room, accompanied by a huge Newfoundland dog--all as full of hilarity
and abundant animation as an afternoon of glorious skating could have
generated.
"Ha, Tom and Ned!--you rogues--you don't want any supper to-night, I
suppose," said the father, gayly; "come up here and be introduced to my
old friend. Here they come!" said he, as one by one the opening doors
admitted the various children to the summons of the evening meal.
"Here," presenting a tall young girl, "is our eldest, beginning to think
herself a young lady, on the strength of being fifteen years old, and
wearing her hair tucked up. And here is Eliza," said he, giving a pull
to a blooming, roguish girl of ten, with large, saucy black eyes. "And
here is Willie!" a bashful, blushing little fellow in a checked apron.
"And now, where's the little queen?--where's her majesty?--where's
Ally?"
A golden head of curls was, at this instant, thrust timidly in at the
door, and I caught a passing glimpse of a pair of great blue eyes; but
the head, curls, eyes, and all, instantly vanished, though a little fat
dimpled hand was seen holding on to the door, and swinging it back and
forward. "Ally, dear, come in!" said the mother, in a tone of
encouragement. "Come in, Ally! come in," was repeated in various tones,
by each child; but brother Tom pushed open the door, and taking the
little recusant in his arms, brought her fairly in, and deposited her on
her father's knee. She took firm hold of his coat, and then turned and
gazed shyly upon me--her large splendid blue eyes gleaming through her
golden curls. It was evident that this was the pet lamb of the fold, and
she was just at that age when babyhood is verging into childhood--an age
often indefinitely prolonged in a large family, where the universal
admiration that waits on every look, and motion, and word of _the baby_,
and the multiplied monopolies and privileges of the baby estate, seem,
by universal consent, to extend as long and as far as possible. And why
not thus delay the little bark of the child among the flowery shores of
its first Eden?--defer them as we may, the hard, the real, the cold
commonplace of life comes on all too soon!
"This is our New Year's gift," said Winthrop, fondly caressing the curly
head. "Ally, tell the gentleman how old you are."
"I s'all be four next New 'Ear's," said the little one, while all the
circle looked applause.
"Ally, tell the gentleman what you are," said brother Ned.
Ally looked coquettishly at me, as if she did not know whether she
should favor me to that extent, and the young princess was further
solicited.
"Tell him what Ally is," said the oldest sister, with a patronizing air.
"Papa's New 'Ear's pesent," said my little lady, at last.
"And mamma's, too!" said the mother gently, amid the applauses of the
admiring circle.
Winthrop looked apologetically at me, and said, "We all spoil
her--that's a fact--every one of us down to Rover, there, who lets her
tie tippets round his neck, and put bonnets on his head, and hug and
kiss him, to a degree that would disconcert any other dog in the world."
If ever beauty and poetic grace was an apology for spoiling, it was in
this case. Every turn of the bright head, every change of the dimpled
face and round and chubby limbs, was a picture; and within the little
form was shrined a heart full of love, and running over with compassion
and good will for every breathing thing; with feelings so sensitive,
that it was papa's delight to make her laugh and cry with stories, and
to watch in the blue, earnest mirror of her eye every change and turn of
his narration, as he took her through long fairy tales, and
old-fashioned giant and ghost legends, purely for his own amusement, and
much reprimanded all the way by mamma, for filling the child's head with
nonsense.
It was now, however, time to turn from the beauty to the substantial
realities of the supper table. I observed that Ally's high chair was
stationed close by her father's side; and ever and anon, while gayly
talking, he would slip into her rosy little mouth some choice bit from
his plate, these notices and attentions seeming so instinctive and
habitual, that they did not for a moment interrupt the thread of the
conversation. Once or twice I caught a glimpse of Rover's great rough
nose, turned anxiously up to the little chair; whereat the small white
hand forthwith slid something into his mouth, though by what dexterity
it ever came out from the great black jaws undevoured was a mystery.
When the supply of meat on the small lady's plate was exhausted, I
observed the little hand slyly slipping into her father's provision
grounds, and with infinite address abstracting small morsels, whereat
there was much mysterious winking between the father and the other
children, and considerable tittering among the younger ones, though all
in marvellous silence, as it was deemed best policy not to appear to
notice Ally's tricks, lest they should become too obstreperous.
In the course of the next day I found myself, to all intents and
purposes, as much part and parcel of the family as if I had been born
and bred among them. I found that I had come in a critical time, when
secrets were plenty as blackberries. It being New Year's week, all the
little hoarded resources of the children, both of money and of
ingenuity, were in brisk requisition, getting up New Year's presents for
each other, and for father and mother. The boys had their little tin
savings banks, where all the stray pennies of the year had been
carefully hoarded--all that had been got by blacking papa's boots, or by
piling wood, or weeding in the garden--mingled with some fortunate
additions which had come as windfalls from some liberal guest or friend.
All now were poured out daily, on tables, on chairs, on stools, and
counted over with wonderful earnestness.