'It is not necessary,' he began, 'that I should read to you, my brethren, the contents of this paper. With what is here written, you are no doubt familiar. This paper has brought before us all a matter of the supremest importance. I have given it the most earnest and careful consideration. In regard to you, my brethren, as to the course you should pursue in this great and lamentable crisis that is now facing our beautiful but unhappy country—concerning you, I have neither suggestions to offer, nor advice to give; but for myself, I feel now constrained, in the presence of God and of this congregation, to say that in the past my sympathies have been, at the present they are, and in the future they shall be, always and only with my true and rightful sovereign, the King of England.'
He said no more. The people before him sat stunned and dumb. Many had known his mind before; many were aware that when he spoke he would speak as he had spoken; and yet, to even these, the declaration came with a shock. Hitherto, he had proclaimed only the gospel; he had stood apart from politics; he had considered himself the pastor of all, not of part, of his people. But there is a time when to be silent is to be false—when to be true one must speak. Doctor Canfield had evidently felt that such a time had come in the New England Colonies of King George, and he had spoken in words that could not be misunderstood.
Slowly the people recovered from the shock. Those who had leaned forward leaned back. All through the church there was a swaying movement as when a harvest field is wind swept. I noticed evidences of relief and joy steal into the faces of many; but on the countenances of others there were unmistakable signs of disappointment and anger. I saw at a glance that a majority—but not all—were for the King.
Doctor Canfield stood as still as a statue. His face had gone very white. Soon through the sound of swaying people, there came to my ears the noise of footsteps. Then a moment later, all over the church, men and women rose and pressed toward the door. A few of the leaders of the church went, old and true Episcopalians, some also of the non-Episcopalians. The faces of many who remained showed signs of struggle and indecision. A few rose and sat down again. Some looked questions at those beside them. In the seat directly in front of us a husband was leaving the seat when his wife drew him back. Not a few in the church wept audibly.
And thus it was throughout all New England, during that Sunday and the days following, that men, many of them in the house of God, silently, suddenly, prayerfully committed themselves to the cause of King or people. They saw themselves under two masters, and painful though the decision was, they felt that they must, for the future, hold to the one, even though it was difficult for them to find it in their hearts to despise the other.
When all had gone who had resolved to go, when quiet had fallen again in the church, the minister, without a word of further comment, announced the National Anthem. The pent-up feelings of the people—and there was yet a large congregation, for fully three-fourths of the worshippers had remained—found freedom and relief in the old familiar words.
Shortly after we reached home that day, through the green of the trees, waving high in front of the rectory, I caught a glimpse of the Union Jack.