The internal arrangement of this building is characteristic. A dark, gloomy hall—an enormous fireplace, extending across the whole end of a room—a quaint pair of andirons, which run up very high and prim, and turn back like a hook, with a dog's head growling on each tip. There are strange pictures on the walls, which have been preserved in memory of the past—Moses leading the Children of Israel through the Wilderness—Samson slaying the Lion—David cutting off the head of Goliath—stern shadows of the men who used to study them—not very remarkable works of art, but vivid outlines of the scenes themselves.
This house has been occupied by an illustrious line of men, distinguished as divines, lawyers, and reformers; and it seems to glow with the fires they kindled in it—in fact, I believe it is inhabited by them yet. I believe that Parson ——, who lived under its roof for more than half a century, and preached during that time in the church near by, occasionally mounts his low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, round-cornered coat, short breeches, knee-buckles, and heavy shoes, ties on his white neckcloth, and takes his cane, and, in a spiritual way, wanders back to his mansion, sits down again before the capacious fireplace, and meditates an hour or two as he used to do in life. He is one of those who keep the house company and give to it its sober air of determination and defiance.
The old Puritan church stands near by. Time has thrown a mantle of moss over it. When erected, it was shingled from foundation to steeple—and a quaint little pepper-box steeple it was. Square, high, solemn-looking pews may be yet seen inside. The pulpit is perched away up under the eaves, like a swallow's nest. It is reached by a flight of steps almost as long as Jacob's ladder. It is covered with names, inscriptions written by men and women who were dust long ago. It looks like the place where "Old Hundred" was born, lived, and died—sombre, earnest, immovable.
A burying-ground, ancient as the church, closes in on its three sides, and partly encircles it in its arms. There is preaching there yet. The dust of the living and dead congregations are one:
"Part of the host have crossed the flood,
And part are crossing now."
Rough tombstones—mere ragged slugs, torn from some quarry—rounded and smoothed a little by a pious hand—stand half buried in the earth, pointing to the silent sleeper below. And then there are marble slabs, of a more modern date—yet very old—leaning this way and that, and nodding at each other. Preachers and congregations lie side by side, and it is one eternal Sabbath now. There are quaint pictures, and holy pictures, and horrible pictures chiselled out on these slabs. Skeleton Death, triumphantly marching with his scythe! Skulls, angels—and occasionally a figure that looks like his Satanic Majesty! Epitaphs full of theology, wit, and practical wisdom, are strewn around with an unsparing hand.
There are a few genuine specimens of the Puritan stock lingering in this village—great boulders that lie around in society, like granite blocks on the earth, dropped by Time in his flight, and overlooked or forgotten. Deacon Smith is one of them. He and his father, and his father's father, were born and lived in the house he now occupies. He has almost reached fourscore and ten years. He wears the costume of 'seventy-six, inside and out. His habits are as uniform and regular as the swing of the pendulum. He retires at nine, rises at four, breakfasts at six, and dines at twelve; and this is done to a fraction—no allowance is made for circumstances—what are circumstances in the way of one of his rules? He marches to bed at the time, and would, if he left the President of the Republic behind him—he sits down to his table at the time, whether there is a dish on it or not. Law is law with him.
The Deacon hates royalty and the British—he never overlooked the blood they shed in the Revolution. He seldom speaks to an Englishman. He hates interlopers, innovations, modern improvements; and I recollect well how he poured out his vials of wrath upon the first buggy wagon that he saw. He said it was a "very nice thing to sleep in." He left the church for some months when stoves were first put up, and declared that it was "as great a sacrilege as was ever committed, and enough to overthrow the piety of a saint. Religion would keep a man warm anywhere." He says he "thinks the Puritan blood is running down into slops! folks are rushing headlong to perdition! that there hasn't been a man in the village for twenty years who ought to be intrusted with himself"—and it seems to him that the world is winding up business.
When the Deacon rises, he goes around his house, hawking, spitting, slamming doors, tumbling down wood, just to cast a slur on the lazy habits of modern days. Sometimes he tramps up and down the village, two hours before day, a-hemming, hawing, and sneezing, for the purpose of letting the sluggards understand he is stirring. He has been known, on more than one occasion, to give vent to his feelings, at this early hour, by blowing the family dinner-horn, and declaring, as the blast echoed away, "that no Christian man could sleep, after such a call."
The Deacon has a few helpers about him, who think as he thinks—but they are very few. When they meet, the world takes a most inhuman raking—they spare neither "age, sex, nor condition."