CHAPTER XVIII.

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.