Church Reveries

GRANDMOTHER USUALLY took Cecil and me to church with her and well do I remember the prim tidiness of the interior of the old Congregational Church. Grandmother dressed in a lace-trimmed silk gown of a somber color suited to New England Sabbath days. Townspeople, men, women and children alike, walked softly down the broad aisles, slipping unobtrusively into their pews and settling themselves on the drab cushioned seats for whatsoever the minister and choir might have in store for them, or, for a long period of reflection, and, in some instances, sleep.

Whatever else the members did they could not have been guilty of certain of the improprieties of the present day. They would not, for instance, have turned around in their seats and nodded to friends or neighbors. They had to bear ever in mind that they were in the house of God.

Saturday nights we were given scrubbings in the wash tub in the kitchen and on Sundays we had to dress up and go to church and Sunday school. Upon our return, we could throw off unnecessary impediments, put on fresh, clean waists and enjoy ourselves within prescribed limits. We could walk in the orchard and eat apples, currants, black raspberries or such fruits as were in season. We could read books but we could not run and play unless we did so in remote parts of our premises beyond the reach of grand mother’s eyes. We could not leave home nor were our friends permitted to come to see us. The latter provision was hardly necessary because our usual playmates were also prohibited from going beyond the confines of their yards.

When our cousins from Rutland were visiting us we could, of course, enjoy each other’s company. All New England children were expected to be little grown-ups on the Sabbath Day; the ecstatic joys were for other days. I cannot, however, remember having been bored by New England Sabbaths; they afforded me an opportunity to plan my campaign for the coming six days.

The Reverend Aldace Walker was the minister of our church and his long white beard seemed to qualify him for his saintly role. To this day when one speaks of “the prophets of old,” there comes to me a vision of Reverend Aldace Walker in flowing dressing gown, pitcher in hand, going to the village pump for his supply of cold spring water. He was loved and revered by the members of his congregation.

Reverend Aldace Walker was eventually succeeded by Reverend Elija Huntoon and he by the Reverend Gamaliel Dillingham, who must have been a very holy man if one were to judge by the length of his prayers and sermons and his solemn appearance. It was the Reverend Gamaliel’s custom to begin his Sunday morning prayer by asking blessings on all those occupying positions of authority. Beginning with the President of the United States and continuing down through the entire directory of federal and state officials; he even threw in a few kings and queens for good measure. I used to be surprised at the number of notables on his list and at his lavish prodigality in the bestowal of the Lord’s blessings. If anyone was overlooked it was no fault of the Reverend Gamaliel, and maybe the Lord would make up for it somehow.

An apostate by the name of Dannie Foley, manservant of Mrs. Ranney and her son, Willie, of New York, who summered in Wallingford, put it in his own way when he said, “Why in the name of Heaven don’t the Reverend Gamaliel say, ‘God bless them all, black, white, green and yellow’ and let it go at that?” If left to his own initiative, Dannie would seldom, if ever, have found his way to the Ranney pew, but attendance at church being part of his job, he had to sit and take it with as good grace as possible. He would gladly have collaborated with the Reverend Gamaliel in the abbreviation of his sermons had he been called upon to do so. I know from what I heard Dannie say that he thought long sermons threatened to wreck the country we all hold dear and that they were more devastating by far than storm or flood.

My own position as I remember it, was a compromise between the Reverend Gamaliel’s and Dannie’s views, with a gentle leaning toward Dannie’s. I cannot say that I remember very much that was said by the ministers of our church during my childhood days. I think their sermons were “over my head,” but I did enjoy the singing of our mixed quartette who did far better than might have been expected, and, in the quiet and refined atmosphere of that old New England Church, my thoughts may have been raised to a higher plane than would have been the case had I spent my time elsewhere. There was something peaceful about it all and a sense of propriety and well-being.

At times my thoughts rose to exalted heights as I pondered the heroic battles of Frank Nelson, as related in “Frank on a Gun Boat,” and my heart went out to the good old slave, Cudjoe, in the hair-raising predicaments in which he found himself as related in the thrilling story, “Cudjoe’s Cave.” My only regret was that Providence had, for some inexplicable reason, cast me upon unromantic shores. However, I would make the best of matters for the time being; perhaps someday I would become either a soldier, sailor or a locomotive engineer. I might some day enjoy the privilege of fighting battles and sailing tempestuous seas and then returning to Wallingford all dressed up in clothes with brass buttons to dazzle the eyes of Wallingford’s pretty girls, while I appeared to be supremely indifferent and confined myself strictly to the business of being a hero. Indulgence in such mental journeys was in no respect interfered with by the Reverend Gamaliel’s sermons; in tact, my flights of fancy seemed stimulated by them, and at times the Reverend Gamaliel played his part in my world of dreamland. In the twinkling of an eye, I could convert our solemn parson into a wild man of Borneo, or into whomsoever else I chose. On the whole the church was a very helpful influence.

Possibly at infrequent times something in the nature of a spirit of reverence possessed me as I sat in the family pew between grandfather and grandmother, although my thoughts more frequently flew away to the hills and my eyes were more frequently fixed on a tree just outside the window than upon the face of the preacher. Sometimes birds came and sat upon the branches of the tree and there made love to each other or quarreled, as their moods might be. They seemed entirely oblivious of the fact that it was the Sabbath day and that the Reverend Gamaliel was turning the searchlight of the spirit into the dark recesses of the souls of the members of the Congregational Church of Wallingford; little pagans were they.

There was something distinctly New England in the crisp rustle of the clean, prim dresses of the women, and a fragrance of perfume, sparingly used, was in the air. If cleanliness is next to Godliness, then New England women must be among the elect.

Grandmother’s dress was always suitable for the day. Her black silk gown and the few simple ornaments that went with it, seemed especially appropriate on Sunday mornings. It served many years as did grandfather’s Sunday suit and overcoat, his “Sunday-go-to meetings,” so to speak. Did grandmother have a Paisley shawl? She certainly did. So did Aunt Mel and all other women whose husbands could afford them. Paisley shawls were badges of gentility. Aunt Mel also had a sealskin coat; it was given to her by grandfather. I think Aunt Lib also had a sealskin coat which was later given by her to Cousin Mary. That made two sealskin coats in one family. How is that for high?

Grandfather’s every day clothes were well sponged and mended though they bore evidences of wear and were faded. His every day overcoat was a familiar sight about town. An older and bigger boy once sneeringly remarked, “Here comes old Harris with his mouse colored overcoat.” Had I been big enough to do so, I would have smitten him down. No one knew better than I why grand father made his clothes last so long. No one knew better than I that the frugality that characterized his life had a purpose back of it—the purpose of serving them whom he loved. 

Grandmother made herself responsible for the tidy appearance of both grandfather and myself on Sunday mornings. One of the familiar and homely sights early in the morning in those days was grandmother giving grandfather’s ears and neck a scrubbing with a well soaped cloth and greasing his boots with chicken fat to make them clean, soft and pliable. One of her wrists was permanently lame due to an injury in former years and such tasks must have been difficult, but never once did I hear her complain and grandmother’s lame wrist came in time to mean to me a badge of honor.

When I happened to cough during church service, grandmother would hand me a slice of sweet flagroot prepared by her own hand. The sugar coating was a bit too sweet and the root itself a bit too bitter but her kindness left its impression. I have never gotten over my habit of coughing. Spells continue to come at inopportune times, especially in church, and now it is another kind hand that plunges into a reticule and emerges with a soothing lozenge, the hand of my Scotch wife, “Bonnie Jean,” fourth in order of the balms of John and Annie Thomson of Edinburgh, Scotland.

Toward the latter part of grandfather’s life, he frequently fell asleep during the sermon and the droning voice of the minister seemed to aggravate his infirmity. It therefore became my self- imposed task to keep him awake during the service. I could best accomplish this purpose best by folding my legs in such a manner as to bring my toe into proximity to his foot which also was ex tended. My toe frequently touched his a score of times during the course of the long-drawn out sermons and it seems to me now that my toe must have acted from force of habit rather than from any deep-seated conviction that grandfather could find more stimulation in the sermon than in the lovely little catnaps from which I so frequently awoke him.

There were two semi-sacred days, if that term can be used, Thanksgiving Day and Fast Day. Church services were held in the morning on both days at the customary hour. We were told at the Thanksgiving Day service how thankful we should be and why; no mention being made however, of the prospective turkey dinner, the very heart’s core of Thanksgiving Day. I thought that at least a passing mention should have been made of the “Turkey and Chicken Shoot” going on almost within hearing distance.

For the benefit of those who have never seen a New England “turkey and chicken shoot,” I will say that in my day, it cost ten cents for a shot at a chicken and twenty-five cents for a shot at a turkey; the birds going to those who succeeded in drawing blood. Certain thrifty Vermont farmers, not hampered by church-going habits, made it a business to market their flocks in this manner and they saw to it that it required exceptional marksmanship to bag a bird. The birds were tied to stakes on a hill side which seemed to me to be miles away. Exceptional marksmen were sure of their birds but they were not permitted to repeat. Others seldom drew blood and it was their dimes and quarters that made turkey and chicken shoots profitable to their sponsors.

Fast Day had slipped considerably from the rigors of Colonial times; in fact, the feasts of Fast Day had become their distinguishing feature. Owing to the fact that Fast Day dinners were served after church service, they were usually good. I heartily believed in Fast Days and thought that their observance should be kept up. Church going on Fast Day was elective in our household and I did not elect to attend.