THE COUNTRY CHURCH
You raised these hallowed walls; the desert smil’d,
And Paradise was opened in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father’s stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze our floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers given,
Here bribe the rage of ill-requited Heaven;
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker’s praise. —Pope.
The bustle of the arrivals had reached its climax at this moment. For
nearly half an hour the congregation had been collecting, some on foot,
others on horseback, and still others in antiquated, worn out carriages.
The last, however, were very few. Generally the conveyance was nothing
better than a common hay wagon, with temporary seats placed for the good
dame and her children; while the harness was of the most primitive
description. The horses were tied about, under the shade of the trees,
and were busy whisking the flies off with their tails, and occasionally
glancing around with a knowing look at the groups of people. The women
generally entered the church as soon as they arrived, but the men stood
talking about the crops, the war, or other matters of interest. Now and
then a rustic beauty would create a buzz of remarks, as she tripped
coquettishly by the young bachelors, glancing askance at them; and now
some elderly person would step out from the throng to assist a poor,
ancient dame, who came hobbling along on crutches.
A murmur of voices without, and of rustling fans within, filled the air.
Suddenly a handsome carriage dashed up from the direction of Sweetwater,
drawn by two spirited horses, and was checked in front of the church. In
the driver Major Gordon recognized his rival, who, throwing the lines to
a servant that rode beside him, leaped out, and hastened to assist the
ladies to alight. But Kate was too quick for him, for already she had
opened the door and stepped nimbly to the ground, much to her cousin’s
discomfiture, as Major Gordon thought.
When Kate turned, after her aunt had descended, to enter the church, her
eye met that of Major Gordon. The latter bowed with all his old
cordiality. Her recognition was instantaneous and frank, and was
accompanied with a bright blush, and a sudden lighting up of the whole
countenance, as if with gratified surprise. This little incident was
not, however, observed by her cousin, who had preceded Kate, Mrs. Warren
leaning heavily on his arm, with more than her usual assumption of
dignity.
“I declare,” said Uncle Lawrence, “if that ain’t Charles
Aylesford come back. I thought he’d gone to Philadelphy for a month or
two.” And, shaking his head, he added, “Strange, that two such near
relations as Miss Katie and he should be so different. But their fathers
were so before them, and there’s a good deal, Major, in blood.”
In what this difference consisted, Major Gordon had not time to inquire,
even if he felt so disposed, for as he finished speaking, Uncle Lawrence
led the way into the church.
It was, as we have stated, a small edifice. A single block of benches,
with an aisle on each side, afforded room for a few score of people
only; but these were quite as many as the neighborhood supplied, even in
better times. The pulpit was high, approached by a staircase, and
surmounted by a sounding-board. On each side it had a window, half
obscured outside by waving oaks; and through this casement the summer
air stole in, laden with sweet fragrance from the cedars that overhung
the stream. In either corner of the edifice, to the right and left of
the pulpit, was a deep square pew, reserved for the proprietors of
Sweetwater and Waldo, who together had built the church. One of these
young Mr. Aylesford now occupied, in solitary state; while the other was
tenanted by Kate and her aunt. The sexes, throughout the congregation,
sat apart, in like manner, the women to the right of the preacher, and
the men to the left. Uncle Lawrence, advancing to the head of the
church, took his seat, evidently an accustomed one, on the front bench,
dragging with him the Major, who would have shrank, if alone, from such
a conspicuous position. The old man evidently expected Mr. Aylesford to
rise and invite Major Gordon to enter the pew, a civility usually
tendered to strangers in the Major’s rank of life; but as Kate’s
cousin sat still, and only noticed the officer by a civil stare, Mr.
Herman signed to his companion to occupy the bench at his side.
Our hero could not avoid, after a while, glancing in the direction of
Kate. She sat, with eyes downcast, and her hands folded meekly before
her, looking, in her spotless white, like some virgin saint. The deep
love for her, which already filled the heart of Major Gordon, welled up
warmer and more gushing than ever at this sight. For true manhood
reverences woman all the more for those religious instincts which,
implanted in her by her Maker, can never be obliterated without defacing
her fair image. Her lover thought as he looked, that Raphael, when
painting his Madonna, must have had a vision of such a face.
The preacher ascended the pulpit, and at once the shuffling of feet
subsided, the preparatory coughs ceased, and a profound silence fell on
the audience. For a few moments, with his head leaning on the Bible, the
man of God engaged in silent prayer. The hum of insects without, and the
light rustle of leaves, gave audible meaning to this deep stillness. In
at the east windows, the sunshine, glimmering through the grave-yard
oaks, slanted downwards into the church, and dappled the white, sanded
floor with shifting light and shade. The murmur of the stream, like the
solemn undertone of a distant organ, swelled softly on the ear, filling
the whole atmosphere with sacred quiet.
The hymn was given out. It was that one of Charles Wesley’s,
beginning, “Lo! on a narrow neck of land.” After a slight pause, a
manly tenor struck up. The solitary voice was soon joined by a treble; a
deep bass followed; and directly the whole congregation, women and men,
adults and children, had joined in the singing. Rude as the music was,
it had an earnestness, which placed it, in Major Gordon’s opinion, far
ahead of the meretricious vocalization he had often heard in fashionable
churches. At the end of every stanza, the preacher read the next, when
the singing commenced again. It seemed to our hero that he could
distinguish Kate’s voice, rising melodiously above all the rest, like
that of some fair seraph, soaring high up over the choirs of Heaven.
The text was suited to the hymn. At first the preacher labored
perceptibly, and the attention of the audience slackened. The
disappointment was great. Near Major Gordon sat a pompous,
self-satisfied looking man, occupying a corner of the bench, who was
notorious for his noise in meeting, his sharp bargains out of it, and
his opposition to all new preachers. He had publicly declared he would
not like this one, and now, after listening awhile, he quietly leaned
his head back, covered his shining bald pate and face with a bandanna
handkerchief to keep off the flies, and surrendered himself to sleep.
But as the preacher warmed in his discourse, the opinion of the
congregation began to change. The orator, though what is called
illiterate, was evidently deeply read in the Bible; and no man can be
that, yet remain really ignorant; for he will know the human heart, if
he knows nothing else, and will have at his command the most sublime
imagery in all ancient or modern poetry. The preacher soon showed that
he was also terribly in earnest. Heaven and hell, God and Satan, were
awful realities in his eyes; and he labored to impress them as such on
his hearers. He described a conscience-struck sinner, seeking to flee
from the wrath to come; and described him with a glow of language and a
fervor of eloquence which went directly to the heart. Cries of
“Amen!” became frequent in the congregation. Even the comfortable
old sleeper, disturbed in his slumbers, began to respond occasionally
also, though still retaining the bandanna over his face, and making a
vigorous effort to doze on. But now the warnings of the orator became
more earnest than ever. The conflagration of the preceding day was
introduced. “Where will the sinner be,” he cried, “when, at the
last judgment, the whole world will be wrapt in flame? No providential
rain will then put out the fire of an angry God.” The effect was
electric. The women sobbed aloud, and some even shrieked. “If
eloquence means the adaptation of style to an audience,” reasoned
Major Gordon, “this man is a Christian Demosthenes.” Even the
captious sleeper could endure it no longer, but, half starting to his
feet, he snatched the handkerchief from his face, and shouted
stentoriously, “Amen!”
Towards the close, the sermon became a fervid appeal, in which the most
majestic Bible imagery was employed with startling power. Tears rolled
down the speaker’s face, while emotion often choked his utterance. The
effect, when the preacher sat down, was evidently deep. For some minutes
not a listener stirred. Even the noisy critic was now melted into
heartfelt and silent emotion. Indeed, it was only when the minister,
apparently too exhausted to conclude the services, leaned over the
pulpit, requesting the well-known patriarch of the neighborhood to
conclude with prayer, that the spell seemed even partially dissolved.
Then, for an instant or two, there were deep drawn breaths, as of
relief, and a slight movement through the audience, as of persons
shifting from uncomfortable postures.
The prayer of Uncle Lawrence was simple, but fervent, and while Major
Gordon listened to it, he could not help saying to himself, “this is
the religion of the primitive Christians.”
A doxology and benediction concluded the services, after which the
congregation streamed out, the boys snatching their hats before the
blessing was over, and rushing from the church, pell-mell.
Major Gordon lingered behind, not wishing to be jostled in the crowd, so
that, when he reached the door-way, the Aylesfords were just driving off
with the preacher, whom they were entertaining as was the patriarchal
custom of Sweetwater. He remained a few moments, watching the
congregation disperse. Here a good dame was climbing into a rude
vehicle, there a small farmer was untying his plough-horse from a tree;
here a group of damsels were glancing aside at the young men, and there
the young men were sheepishly returning the glances. Finally, Major
Gordon, mounting his horse, and bowing to the crowd, rode off.