But although we were not United Presbyterians, we children went regularly to this church because we had to go. The old bell that rang out so long on Sunday mornings always had a doleful sound to us, and altogether Sunday was a sore cross to our young lives.
There were many substantial reasons why we did not like the Sabbath day. Games of all kinds were prohibited; and although we managed sometimes to steal away to play, still we had no sooner begun a game than someone came along and made us stop. It made no difference who chanced to come,—anyone had the right to stop our playing on the Sabbath day. Then, too, on Sunday we must dress up. This was no small affair, for if we put on our best clothes and our stockings and boots when we first got up we were obliged to wear them nearly the whole day; whereas if we had on our comfortable everyday clothes in the morning, we must change them in an hour or less, so as to get ready for church. Even if we put on our best clothes and went barefoot until the first bell rang, then we were obliged to wash our feet,—for our mother would not let us put on our stockings except in the early morning unless we first washed our feet. Then, after church was out and we had eaten dinner, we either had to wear our best clothes the rest of the day, or change them all; and then it was only a little while until bedtime, and we could not play even if we did change our clothes. If we just pulled off our boots and went barefoot the rest of the day, then we must wash our feet at night. Childhood was not all joy: it had its special sorrows, which grew less as years crept on, and one of the chief of these burdens, as I recall them, was the frequency with which we had to wash our feet.
But more burdensome if possible than this was the general “cleaning” on Sunday mornings. On week-days we almost always washed our faces and our hands each day, but as a rule this duty was left largely to ourselves, with a scolding now and then as a safeguard to its performance. Often, of course, we passed such a poor inspection at mealtimes that we were sent from the table to wash again. Still, for the most part we knew how much was absolutely required, and we managed to keep just inside the line. But on Sundays all was changed. Then our words and good intentions went for naught. We were not even allowed to wash ourselves. Our mother always took us in hand, and the water must be warm, and she must use soap and a rag, and we had to keep our eyes shut tight while she was rubbing the soapy rag all over our faces,—and she never hurried in the least. We might have stood the washing of hands and faces, but it did not end here. Every Sunday morning our mother washed our necks and ears; and no boy could ever see the use of this. Nothing roused our righteous indignation quite so much as the forced washing of our necks. The occasion, too, was really less on Sunday than on any other day, because then we always wore some sort of stiff collar around our necks. Neither was it enough to wash our hands; our sleeves must be pushed up nearly to our elbows, and our arms scrubbed as carefully as if they too were going to show. Even if we had been in swimming on Saturday night, and had taken soap and towels to the creek, and had been laughed at by the other boys for our pains, still we must be washed just the same on Sunday morning before we went to church. In the matter of Sunday washing our mother seemed never to have the slightest confidence in anything we said or did. There were no bathtubs in Farmington,—at least none that I ever heard of; so we boys had something to be thankful for, although we did not know it then. To be sure, we were often put into a common washtub on Saturday night or Sunday morning, but sometimes swimming was accepted in lieu of this.
When we were thoroughly cleaned, and dressed in our newest and most uncomfortable clothes, with stiff heavy boots upon our captive feet, our mother took us to the church. We were led conspicuously up the aisle, between the rows of high pews, set down on a hard wooden seat, the door of the pew fastened with a little hook to keep us safely in, and then the real misery began. The smallest of us could not see over the high pew in front, but we scarcely dared to play, except perhaps to get a piece of string out of our pockets, or to exchange marbles or jack-knives or memory-buttons, or something of the sort, and then we generally managed to get into some trouble and run the risk of bringing our mother into disgrace. In the pew in front of us there usually sat the little girl with the golden curls,—or was it the one with the black hair? I am not sure which it was, but it was one of these, and I managed sometimes to whisper to her over the pew, until my mother or hers stopped the game. I somehow got along better with her on Sunday than at any other time,—perhaps because neither of us had then anything better to do than to watch each other.
I could not understand then, nor do I to-day, why we were made to go to church; surely our good parents did not know how we suffered, or they would not have been so cruel and unkind. I remember that the services began with singing by the choir in the gallery, and I sometimes used to turn around and look up to see the singers and the organ; and I remember especially a boy who used to sway back and forth, sideways, to pump the organ. I had an idea that he must be a remarkable lad, and endowed with some religious gifts, second only to the preacher. After the first song came the first prayer, which was not very short, but still nothing at all to the one yet in store. Then came more singing, and then the long prayer. My! what agony it was! I remember particularly the old preacher as he stood during those everlasting prayers. I can see him now,—tall and spare and straight, his white face encircled with a fringe of white whiskers. I always thought him very old, and supposed that he came there with the church, and was altogether different from other men. As he prayed, he clasped his hands on the great Bible that lay upon the altar, and kept his eyes closed and his face turned steadily toward the ceiling. He spoke slowly and in a moderate tone of voice, and in the most solemn way. I never could understand how he kept his eyes closed and his sad face turned upward for so long a time, excepting that he had a special superhuman power.
I could not have sat through that prayer, but for the fact that I learned to find landmarks as he went along. At a certain point I knew it was well under way; at another point it was about half done; and when he began asking for guidance and protection for the President of the United States, it was three-quarters over, and I felt like a shipwrecked mariner sighting land. But even the longest prayers have an end, and when this was through we were glad to stand up while they sang once more. Then came the sermon, which was longer yet; but we did not feel that we must sit quite so still as during the long prayer. First and last I must have heard an endless number of the good old parson’s sermons read in his solemn voice; but I cannot now remember a single word of anyone I heard. After the sermon came singing and a short prayer,—any prayer was short after what we had passed through,—then more singing, and the final benediction, which to us children was always a benediction of the most welcome kind.
CHAPTER X
THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL
When the church services were ended, we children stayed for Sunday-school. There was never anything especially alluring in Sunday-school; still it was far better than the church. At least ten or twelve of us boys could sit together in a great high pew, and no one could keep us from whispering and laughing and telling jokes. Even the teachers seemed to realize what we had been through, and were disposed to allow us a fair amount of liberty in Sunday-school.
The superintendent was a young man named Henry Pitkin. He was a few years older than the boys. I cannot now remember what he did on week-days; we never thought of him as working, or wearing old clothes, or doing anything except being superintendent of the Sunday-school. I presume he is dead, poor fellow, for I know he was always sickly,—at least, that is what we boys thought. I believe he was threatened with consumption, and I heard people speak of him with pity and say what a nice young man he was. I never knew him to take part in our games, or to go swimming or fishing, or anything of that kind. I cannot remember that he was cross or unkind, or what we boys called mean; but still I know we never talked so loud, and were always a little more particular, and sometimes stopped our games, when he came along the road. I am sure we felt sorry for him, and thought he never had any fun. He was always dressed up, even when it was not Sunday; and he never went barefooted, or shouted, or made any kind of jokes. I know that I often saw him go up to the church, to the Thursday evening prayer-meetings, in the summer-time. He would walk past us while we were playing ball on the square in the long twilight. None of us could understand why he went to prayer-meeting on Thursday night. None of us really knew what prayer-meeting was. We never had to go to church any day but Sunday, and although our curiosity was strong it never led us to go to the Thursday evening prayer-meeting. Everybody who went seemed awfully old, except Henry, and we never understood how he could go. Sometimes we met him going to the preacher’s for an evening visit, and this seemed still stranger. None of us boys ever went for an evening visit anywhere; and if we had gone we never would have thought of going to the preacher’s,—he was so old and solemn, and we were sure that if we ever went there he would talk to us about religion.
Our fathers and mothers and the grown-up people were always telling us what a good boy Henry was, and asking us why we didn’t do things the way he did. Of course, we couldn’t do as he did, no matter how hard we tried.