even the most piously fastidious parson or deacon, ever thought of being shocked at what in these degenerate times would seem like a gross desecration of the house of God. There were fewer Pharisees in Belfield a hundred years ago than now. To the Puritans, and to all their descendants, until of late, their places of worship were not churches, but meeting-houses merely; and by the stout-hearted men who used to dwell in New England it would have been deemed a heresy near akin to idolatry itself or at least savoring strongly of the damnable errors of the Romish Church, to hold that wood and stones, carved and fashioned by the hand of man, could be hallowed by an empty rite of consecration.
On these week-day occasions, therefore, no part of the house was kept sacred from the world. Even the pulpit itself would have been given up to secular uses, but that, being so lofty, it was found to be an inconvenient position for the moderator’s chair. So this important functionary was accustomed, from time immemorial, to take his place in the deacon’s seat, below, with the warning of the meeting, the statute-book, and the ballot-boxes arranged before him on the communion-table, which in course of time became so banged and battered, by dint of lusty gavel-strokes, that there was scarcely a place big enough to put one’s finger upon which was not bruised and dented. For, in the days of the fierce conflict between the Federalists and Democrats, the meetings were often noisy and disorderly; and once, even, at the memorable election of 1818, two hot-headed partisans from sharp words fell to blows, and others joining in the fray, the skirmish became at length a general engagement. The recurrence of a scene like this, upon the same stage, is never to be expected. The meeting-house has been set apart for religious uses exclusively, since its interior was thoroughly altered and remodelled, the tall pulpit replaced by one of modern style, the sounding-board removed, the aisles carpeted, and the square, old-fashioned pews changed for cushioned slips.
In the rear, a little way off, is a row of ugly sheds, yawning towards the street, where, on Sundays, the farmers who come from a distance tie their beasts, each in his separate stall. In hot days, in the summer time, when all the doors and windows of the meeting-house are set wide open, the hollow sound of horses’ stamping mingles with the preacher’s drowsy tones, and sometimes the congregation is startled from repose by the shrill squeal of some unlucky brute, complaining of the torture inflicted by the sharp teeth of its ill-natured mate or vicious neighbor; or, perhaps, the flutter of fans is suspended at the obstreperous neigh by which some anxious dam recalls the silly foal that has strayed from her side; or the dissonant creaking of a cramped wheel makes doleful interludes between the verses of the hymn. Here naughty boys, escaped from the confinement of the sanctuary, are wont to lounge in the wagons during prayer and sermon time, munching green pears and apples, devouring huge bunches of fennel, dill, and caraway, comparing and swapping jackknives, or striving, by means of cautious hems and whispers, and other sly signals, to attract the notice of their more decent fellows sitting near the open gallery-windows.
When the black doors of the little dingy building not far from the south end of the horse-sheds are seen standing open, it is a pretty sure sign that somebody lies dead in the parish. In this gloomy place the sexton keeps his dismal apparatus,—the hearse, with its curtains of rusty sable, the bier, the spades and shovels for digging graves; and in a corner lies a coil of soiled ropes, whose rasping sound, as they slipped through the coffin-handles, while the bearers lowered the corpse into the earth, has grated harshly on many a shuddering mourners ear. The leaves of the hearse-house door are fastened together by a hasp and pin, so that any one may enter at will. But there is no need of bolts and bars.
