CHAPTER VI. VILLAGE POLITICIANS.
WE have traced our little Dolly's fortunes, haps and havings through Christmas day, but we should not do CHAPTER VI. VILLAGE POLITICIANS.
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justice to the situation did we not throw some light on the views and opinions of the Poganuc people upon this occasion.
The Episcopal church had been newly finished. There was held on this day, for the first time in open daylight, the full Christmas Service. The illumination and services of the evening before had been skillfully designed to make an impression on the popular mind, and to draw in children and young people with all that floating populace who might be desirous of seeing or hearing some new things.
It had been a success. Such an audience had been drawn and such a sensation produced that on Christmas day everybody in the village was talking of the church; and those who did not go ran to the windows to see who did go. A week−day church service other than a fast, and thanksgiving, and "preparatory lecture" was a striking novelty; and when the little bell rang out its peal and the congregation began to assemble it was watched with curious eyes from many a house.
The day was a glorious one. The bright, cold sun made the icicles that adorned the fronts of all the houses glitter like the gems of Aladdin's palace, and a well−dressed company were seen coming up from various points of the village and thronging the portals of the church.
The little choir and their new organ rang out the Te Deum with hearty good−will, and many ears for the first time heard that glorious old heroic poem of the early church. The waves of sound rolled across the green and smote on the unresponsive double row of windows of the old meeting−house, which seemed to stare back with a gaze of blank astonishment. The sound even floated into the store of Deacon Dickenson, and caused some of the hard−handed old farmers who were doing their trading there, with their sleds and loads of wood, to stop their discourse on turnips, eggs and apple−sauce, and listen. To them it bore the sound as of a challenge, the battle−cry of an opposing host that was rising up to dispute the ground with them; and so they listened with combative ears.
"Seem to be a hevin' it all their own way over there, them 'Piscopals. Carryin' all before 'em," said one.
"How they are a gettin' on!" said another.
"Yes," said Deacon Dickenson; "all the Democrats are j'inin' them, and goin' to make a gen'l push next
'lection. They're goin' clean agin everything Sunday laws and tiding−man and all."
"Wal," said Deacon Peasley, a meek, mournful little man, with a bald top to his head, "the Democrats are goin' to carry the state. I feel sure on't."
"Good reason," said Tim Hawkins, a stout two−fisted farmer from one of the outlying farms. "The Democrats beat 'cause they're allers up and dressed, and we Fed'lists ain't. Why, look at 'em to town meetin'! Democrats allers on time, every soul on 'em rag, tag and bobtail rain or shine don't make no difference with them; but it takes a yoke of oxen to get a Fed'list out, and when you've got him you've got to set down on him to keep him. That's just the diff'rence."
"Wal," said Deacon Peasley in a thin, querulous voice, "all this 'ere comes of extending the suffrage. Why, Father says that when he was a young man there couldn't nobody vote but good church members in regular standin', and couldn't nobody but them be elected to office. Now it's just as you say, 'rag, tag and bobtail' can vote, and you'll see they'll break up all our institutions. They've got it so now that folks can sign off and go to meetin' anywhere, and next they'll get it so they needn't go nowhere that's what'll come next. There's a lot of our young folks ben a goin' to this 'ere 'lumination."
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"Wal, I told Parson Cushing about that air 'lumination last night," said Deacon Dickenson, "and he didn't seem to mind it. But I tell you he'll hev to mind. Both his boys there, and little Dolly, too, runnin' over there after she was put to bed; he'll hev to do somethin' to head this 'ere off."
"He'll do it, too," said Tim Hawkins. "Parson Cushing knows what he's about, and he'll come out with a sarmon next Sunday, you see if he don't. There's more in Parson Cushing's little finger than there is in that Sim Coan's hull body, if he did come right straight down from the 'Postles."
"I've heard," said Deacon Peasley, "that Mis' Cushing's folks in Boston was 'Piscopal, and some thought mebbe she influenced the children."
"Oh, wal, Mis' Cushing, she did come from a 'Piscopal family," said Deacon Dickenson. "She was a Kittery, and her gran'ther, Israel Kittery, was a tory in the war. Her folks used to go to the old North in Boston, and they didn't like her marryin' Parson Cushing a grain; but when she married him, why, she did marry him. She married his work, and married all his pinions. And nobody can say she hain't been a good yoke−fellow; she's kept up her end, Mis' Cushing has. No, there's nobody ought to say nothin' agin Mis' Cushing."
"Wal, I s'pose we shall hear from the doctor next Sunday," said Hawkins. "He'll speak out; his trumpet won't give an unsartin sound."
"I reely want ter know," said Deacon Peasley, "ef Zeph Higgins has reely come down with his folks to−day, givin' up a hull day's work! I shouldn't 'a' thought Zeph'd 'a' done that for any meetin'."
"Oh, laws, yis; Zeph'll do anything he sets his will on, particular if it's suthin' Mis' Higgins don't want to do then Zeph'll do it, sartin. I kind o' pity that air woman," said Hawkins.
"Oh, yis," said the deacon; "poor Mis' Higgins, she come to my wife reely mournin' when Zeph cut up so about them water−pipes, and says she, 'Mis' Dickenson, I'd rather 'a' worked my fingers to the bone than this
'ere should 'a' happened; but I can't do nothin',' says she; 'he's that sort that the more you say the more sot he gets,' says she. Wal, I don't wish the 'Piscopals no worse luck than to get Zeph Higgins, that's all I've got to say."
"Wal," said Tim Hawkins, "let 'em alone. Guess they'll find out what he is when they come to pass the hat
'round. I expect keepin' up that air meetin''ll be drefful hard sleddin' yit and they won't get nothin' out o'
Zeph. Zeph's as tight as the bark of a tree."
"Wonder if that air buildin's paid fer? Hiel Jones says there's a consid'able debt on't yit," said Deacon Peasley,
"and Hiel gen'ally knows."
"Don't doubt on't," said Deacon Dickenson. "Squire Lewis he's in for the biggest part on't, and he's got money through his wife. She was one of them rich Winthrops up to Boston. The squire has gone off now to Lucius Jenks's store, and so has Colonel Danforth and a lot more of the biggest on 'em. I told Hiel I didn't mind, so long as I kep' Colonel Davenport and Judge Belcher and Judge Peters and Sheriff Dennie. I have a good many more aristocracy than he hez."
"For my part I don't care so very much for these 'ere town−hill aristocracy," said Tim Hawkins. "They live here in their gret houses and are so proud they think it's a favor to speak to a farmer in his blue linsey shirt a drivin' his team. I don't want none on 'em lookin' down on me. I am as good as they be; and I guess you make as much in your trade by the farmers out on the hills as you do by the rich folks here in town."
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"Oh, yis, sartin," said Deacon Dickenson, making haste to propitiate. "I don't want no better trade than I get out your way, Mr. Hawkins. I'd rather see your sled a standin' front o' my door than the finest carriage any of
'em drives. I haint forgot Parson Cushing's sarmon to the farmers, 'The king himself is sarved by the field.'"
"I tell you that was a sarmon!" said Hawkins. "We folks in our neighborhood all subscribed to get it printed, and I read it over once a month, Sundays. Parson Cushing's a good farmer himself. He can turn in and plow or hoe or mow, and do as good a day's work as I can, if he does know Latin and Greek; and he and Mis'
Cushing they come over and visit 'round 'mong
us quite as sociable as with them town−hill folks. I'm jest a waitin' to hear him give it to them air 'Piscopals next Sunday. He'll sarve out the Democrats the doctor will."
"Wal," said Deacon Dickenson, "I don't think the doctor hed reely got waked up when I spoke to him 'bout that 'lumination, but I guess his eyes are open now, and the doctor's one o' that sort that's wide awake when he is awake. He'll do suthin' o' Sunday."
CHAPTER VII. THE DOCTOR'S SERMON.
POGANUC was a pretty mountain town in Connecticut. It was a county seat, and therefore of some considerable importance in the vicinity. It boasted its share of public buildings the great meeting−house that occupied the central position of the village green, the tavern where the weekly stage put up, a court−house, a jail, and other defenses of public morals, besides the recently added Episcopal church.
It was also the residence of some stately and dignified families of comfortable means and traditions of ancestral importance. Of these, as before stated, a few had availed themselves of the loosening of old bonds and founded an Episcopal church; but it must not be supposed that there was any lack of dignified and wealthy old families in the primitive historic church of Poganuc, which had so long borne undisputed sway in the vicinity. There were the fine old residences of Judge Gridley and Judge Belcher adorning the principal streets. Conspicuous in one of the front pews of the meeting−house might be seen every Sunday the stately form of Col. Davenport, who had been a confidential friend of General Washington and an active commander during the revolutionary war, and who inspired awe among the townspeople by his military antecedents.
There might be seen, too, the Governor of the State and the High Sheriff of Poganuc County, with one Mr.
Israel Deyter, a retired New York merchant, gifted, in popular belief, with great riches. In short, the meeting−house, for a country town, had no small amount of wealth, importance and gentility. Besides these residents, who encamped about the green and on the main street, was an outlying farming population extending for miles around, whose wagons conveying their well−dressed wives, stalwart sons and blooming daughters poured in from all quarters, punctual as a clock to the ringing of the second bell every Sunday morning.
Not the least attentive listeners or shrewd critics were to be found in these hardy yeomanry who scanned severely all that they paid for, whether temporal or spiritual. As may have been noticed from the conversation at Deacon Dickenson's store, Dr. Cushing had rather a delicate r™le to maintain in holding in unity the aristocracy and the democracy of his parish; for in those days people of well−born, well−bred families had a certain traditional stateliness and punctiliousness which were apt to be considered as pride by the laboring democracy, and the doctor, as might be expected, found it often more difficult to combat pride in homespun than pride in velvet perhaps having no very brilliant success in either case.
The next Sunday was one of high expectation. Everybody was on tiptoe to hear what "our minister" would have to say.
The meeting−house of Poganuc was one of those square, bald, unsentimental structures of which but few CHAPTER VII. THE DOCTOR'S SERMON.
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specimens have come down to us from old times. The pattern of those ancient edifices was said to be derived from Holland, where the Puritans were sheltered before they came to these shores. At all events, they were a marked departure in every respect from all particulars which might remind one of the graceful ecclesiastical architecture and customs of the Church of England. They were wide, roomy, and of a desolate plainness; hot and sunny in summer, with their staring rows of windows, and in winter cold enough in some cases even to freeze the eucharistic wine at the communion.
It was with great conflict of opinion and much difficulty that the people of Poganuc had advanced so far in the ways of modern improvement as to be willing to have a large box stove set up in the middle of the broad aisle, with a length of black pipe extending through the house, whereby the severity of winter sanctuary performances should be somewhat abated. It is on record that, when the proposal was made in town meeting to introduce this luxurious indulgence, the zeal of old Zeph Higgins was aroused, and he rose and gave vent to his feelings in a protest:
"Fire? Fire? A fire in the house o' God? I never heard on't. I never heard o' hevin' fire in a meetin'−house."
Sheriff Dennie here rose, and inquired whether Mrs. Higgins did not bring a foot−stove with fire in it into the house of God every Sunday.
It was an undeniable fact not only that Mrs. Higgins but every respectable matron and mother of a family brought her foot−stove to church well filled with good, solid, hickory coals, and that the passing of this little ark of mercy from one frozen pair of feet to another was among the silent motherly ministries which varied the hours of service.
So the precedent of the foot−stove carried the box−stove into the broad aisle of the meeting−house, whereby the air was so moderated that the minister's breath did not freeze into visible clouds of vapor while speaking, and the beards and whiskers of the brethren were no longer coated with frost during service time.
Yet Poganuc was a place where winter stood for something. The hill, like all hills in our dear New England, though beautiful for situation in summer was a howling desolation for about six months of the year, sealed down under snow and drifted over by winds that pierced like knives and seemed to search every fiber of one's garments, so that the thickest clothing was no protection.
The Sunday in question was one of those many when the thermometer stood any number of degrees below zero; the air clear, keen and cutting; and the bright, blooming faces of the girls in the singers' seat bore token of the frosty wind they had encountered. All was animation through the church, and Mr. Benjamin Davis, the leader of the singing, had selected old "Denmark" as a proper tune for opening the parallels between them and the opposing forces of ritualism. Ben had a high conceit of his own vocal powers, and had been heard to express himself contemptuously of the new Episcopal organ. He had been to Doctor Cushing with suggestions as to the tunes that the singers wanted, to keep up the reputation of their "meetin'−house." So after "Denmark" came old "Majesty," and Ben so bestirred himself beating time and roaring, first to treble and then to counter and then to bass, and all the singers poured forth their voices with such ringing good−will, that everybody felt sure they were better than any Episcopal organ in the world.
And as there is a place for all things in this great world of ours, so there was in its time and day a place and a style for Puritan music. If there were pathos and power and solemn splendor in the rhythmic movement of the churchly chants, there was a grand wild freedom, an energy of motion, in the old "fuguing" tunes of that day that well expressed the heart of a people courageous in combat and unshaken in endurance. The church chant is like the measured motion of the mighty sea in calm weather, but those old fuguing tunes were like that same ocean aroused by stormy winds, when deep calleth unto deep in tempestuous confusion, out of which at last is evolved union and harmony. It was a music suggestive of the strife, the commotion, the battle cries of a CHAPTER VII. THE DOCTOR'S SERMON.
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transition period of society, struggling onward toward dimly−seen ideals of peace and order. Whatever the trained musician might say of such a tune as old "Majesty," no person of imagination and sensibility could ever hear it well rendered by a large choir without deep emotion. And when back and forth from every side of the church came the different parts shouting,
"On cherubim and seraphim Full royally he rode, And on the wings of mighty winds Came flying all abroad"
there went a stir and a thrill through many a stern and hard nature, until the tempest cleared off in the words,
"He sat serene upon the floods, Their fury to restrain, And he, as sovereign Lord and King, Forever more shall reign."
And when the doctor rose to his sermon the music had do
ne its work on his audience, in exalting their mood to listen with sympathetic ears to whatever he might have to say.
When he spread out his sermon before him there was a rustle all over the house, as of people composing themselves to give the strictest attention.
He announced his text from Galatians iv., 9, 10, 11.
"But now, after that ye have known God, or rather are known of God, how turn ye again to the weak and beggarly elements, whereunto ye desire again to be in bondage? Ye observe days, and months, and times, and years. I am afraid of you, lest I have bestowed on you labor in vain."
The very announcement of the text seemed to bring out upon the listening faces of the audience a sympathetic gleam. Hard, weather−beaten countenances showed it, as when a sunbeam passes over points of rocks.
What was to come of such a text was plain to be seen. The yoke of bondage from which Puritan New England had escaped across the waters of a stormy sea, the liberty in Christ which they had won in this new untrodden land, made theirs by prayers and toils and tears and sacrifice, for which they had just fought through a tedious and bloody war there was enough in all these remembrances to evoke a strain of heartfelt eloquence which would awaken a response in every heart.
Then the doctor began his investigations of Christmas; and here his sermon bristled with quotations in good Greek and Latin, which he could not deny himself the pleasure of quoting in the original as well as in the translation. But the triumphant point in his argument was founded on a passage in Clemens Alexandrinus, who, writing at the close of the second century, speaks of the date of Christ's birth as an unimportant and unsettled point. "There are some," says the Father, "who over−curiously assign not only the year but the day of our Saviour's birth, which they say was the 25th of Pachon, or the 20th of May."
The doctor had exulted in the finding of this passage as one that findeth much spoil, and he proceeded to make the most of it in showing that the modern keeping of Christmas was so far unknown in the earliest ages of the church that even the day was a matter of uncertainty. Now it is true that his audience, more than half of them, did not know who Clement was. Even the judges, men of culture and learning, and the teacher at the Academy, professionally familiar with Greek, had only the vaguest recollection of a Christian Father who had lived some time in the primitive ages; the rest of the congregation, men and women, only knew that their minister was a learned man and were triumphant at this new proof of it.
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