A Backward Glance at Eighty: Recollections & Comment

by Charles A. Murdock

Uncle Emerson generally sung psalm-tunes as he worked. Deacon Hills, as he was always called, was finisher, packer, and business manager. I was interested to notice that in doing up the dozen combs in a package he always happened to select the best one to tie on the outside as a sample. That was his nearest approach to dishonesty. He was a thoroughly good man, but burdened and grave. I do not know that I ever heard him laugh, and he seldom, if ever, smiled. He worked hard, was faithful to every duty, and no doubt loved his family; but soberness was inbred. He read the Cultivator, the Christian Register, and the almanac. After the manner of his time, he was kind and helpful; but life was hard and joyless. He was greatly respected and was honored by a period of service as representative in the General Court.

My grandmother was a gentle, patient soul, living for her family, wholly unselfish and incapable of complaint. She was placid and cheerful, courageous and trusting. I had four fine aunts, two of whom were then unmarried and devoted to the small boy. One was a veritable ray of sunshine; the other, gifted of mind and nearest my age, was most companionable. Only one son lived to manhood. He had gone from the home, but faithfully each year returned from the city to observe Thanksgiving, the great day of New England.

Holidays were somewhat infrequent. Fourth of July and muster, of course, were not forgotten, and while Christmas was almost unnoticed Thanksgiving we never failed to mark with all its social and religious significance. Almost everybody went to meeting, and the sermon, commonly reviewing the year, was regarded as an event. The home-coming of the absent family members and the reunion at a bountiful dinner became the universal custom. There were no distractions in the way of professional football or other games. The service, the family, and plenty of good things to eat engrossed the day. It was a time of rejoicing—and unlimited pie.

Sunday was strictly observed. Grandfather always blacked his boots before sundown of Saturday night, and on Sunday anything but going to meeting was regarded with suspicion, especially if it was associated with any form of enjoyment. In summer "Log Cabin" was hitched into the shafts of the chaise, and with gait slightly accelerated beyond the daily habit jogged to town and was deposited in the church shed during the service. At noon we rejoined him and ate our ginger-bread and cheese while he disposed of his luncheon of oats. Then we went back to Sunday-school, and he rested or fought flies. In winter he was decked with bells and hitched in the sleigh. Plenty of robes and a foot-stove, or at least a slab of heated soap-stone, provided for grandmother's comfort.

The church when it was formed was named "The First Congregational." When it became Unitarian, the word, in parentheses, was added. The Second Congregational was always called "The Orthodox." The church building was a fine example of early architecture. The steeple was high, the walls were white, the pews were square. On a tablet at the right of the pulpit the Ten Commandments were inscribed, and at the left the Beatitudes were found.

The first minister I remember was saintly Hiram Withington, who won my loyalty by his interest manifested by standing me up by the door-jamb and marking my growth from call to call. I remember Rufus P. Stebbins, the former minister, who married my father and mother and refused a fee because my father had always cut his hair in the barberless days of old. Amos A. Smith was later in succession. I loved him for his goodness. Sunday-school was always a matter of course, and was never dreaded.

I early enjoyed the Rollo books and later reveled in Mayne Reid. The haymow in the barn and a blessed knothole are associated with many happy hours.

Reading has dangers. I think one of the first books I ever read was a bound volume of Merry's Museum. There was a continued story recounting the adventures of one Dick Boldhero. It was illustrated with horrible woodcuts. One of them showed Dick bearing on a spirited charger the clasped form of the heroine, whom he had abducted. It impressed me deeply. I recognized no distinction of sex or attractiveness and lived in terror of suffering abduction. When I saw a stranger coming I would run into the shop and clasp my arms around some post until I felt the danger past. This must have been very early in my career. Indeed one of my aunts must have done the reading, leaving me to draw distress from the thrilling illustrations.

A very early trial was connected with a visit to a school. I was getting proud of my ability to spell small words. A primer-maker had attempted to help the association of letters with objects by placing them in juxtaposition, but through a mistake he led me to my undoing. I knew my letters and I knew some things. I plainly distinguished the letters P-A-N. Against them I was puzzled by a picture of a spoon, and with credulity, perhaps characteristic, I blurted out "P-a-n—spoon," whereat to my great discomfiture everybody laughed. I have never liked being laughed at from that day to this.

I am glad that I left New England early, but I am thankful that it was not before I realized the loveliness of the arbutus as it braved the snow and smiled at the returning sun, nor that I made forts or played morris in the snow at school.