A glare of unearthly light, invisible through the windows, as Martin assured me, to all without, filled the tabernacle, in an instant—exceedingly like gas light; and, at the same instant, I heard a rattling, resembling the down-sitting, after prayers, in a village meeting-house, where the seats are clappers, and go on hinges. Observing, that my jaws chattered, Martin pressed my hand in his icy fingers, and whispered, that it was nothing but Dr. Caner’s congregation, coming up, rather less silently, of course, than when they were in the flesh.
Being the first Sunday in the month, all the communion plate, that Caner carried off, was paraded, on the altar. I wish the twelve apostles could have seen it. It glittered, like Jones, Ball & Poor’s bow-window, viewed from the old, Donnison corner. The whole interior of the Chapel was marvellously changed. I was much struck, by a showy, gilt crown, over the organ, supported by a couple of gilt mitres. This was the famous organ, said to have been selected by Handel, and which came over in 1756.
At this moment, a brief and sudden darkness hid everything from view; succeeded, instantly, by a brighter light than before; and all was changed. The organ had vanished; the monuments of Shirley and Apthorp, and the tablet of Price, over the vestry door, were gone; I looked behind me, for the Vassal monument, against which I had been leaning; it was no longer there. Martin Smith perceived my astonishment, and whispered, that Dr. Caner was never so partial to the Stone Chapel, which was opened in 1754, as he was to the ancient King’s Chapel, in which he had been inducted in 1747, and in which we then were.
The pews were larger than any Hingham boxes I ever saw; but very small. The pulpit was on the north side. In front of it was the governor’s pew, highly ornamented, lined with China silk; the cushions and chairs therein were covered with crimson damask, and the window curtain was of the same material. Near to this, I saw an elevated pew, in which were half a dozen fine looking skeletons, with their heads up and their arms akimbo. This pew, Martin informed me, was reserved, for the officers of the army and navy. A small organ was in the western gallery, said to be the first, ever heard in our country. From the walls and pillars, hung several escutcheons and armorial bearings. I distinguished those of the royal family, and of Andros, Nicholson, Hamilton, Dudley, Shute, Belcher, and Shirley.
I had always associated the hour-glass with my ideas of a Presbyterian pulpit, in the olden time, when the very length of the discourse gave the hearer some little foretaste of eternity. I was rather surprised to see an hour-glass, of large proportions, perched upon the pulpit, in its highly ornamented stand of brass. The altar-piece was at the easterly end of the Church, with the Glory, the Ten Commandments, the Lord’s Prayer, the Creed, and some texts of Scripture.
The congregation had taken their seats; and a slender, sickly looking skeleton glided into the reading desk. “Dr. Caner?” said I. “Brockwell, the assistant,” replied Martin, in a whisper, “the very first wardens, of 1686, are in the pew, tonight, Bullivant and Banks. They all serve in rotation. Next Sabbath, we shall have Foxcroft and Ravenscroft. Clerke Hill, and Rutley are sextons, tonight.”
The services were very well conducted; and, taking all things into consideration, I was surprised, that I comprehended so well, as I did. The prayer, for the royal family, was very impressively delivered. The assistant made use, I observed, of the Athanasian creed, and every one seemed to understand it, at which I was greatly surprised. Dr. Caner seemed very feeble, and preached a very short discourse upon the loss of Esau’s birthright, making a pointed application, to the conversion of King’s Chapel, by the Unitarians. He made rather a poor case of it, I thought. Martin was so much offended, that he said, though being a ghost, he was obliged to be quiet, he wished I would call the watch, and break up the meeting. I told him, that I did not believe Dr. Caner’s arguments would have any very mischievous effect; and it seemed not more than fair, that these ancient worshippers should have the use of the church, at midnight, so long as they conducted themselves orderly—consumed no fuel—and furnished their own light.
One of the sextons, passing near me, accidentally dropped a small parcel. I was seized with a vehement desire of possessing it; and, watching my opportunity, conveyed it to my pocket. When Dr. Caner pronounced his final amen, light was instantly turned into darkness—a slight noise ensued—“the service is over!” said Martin, and all was still. I begged Martin to light his lamp; and, by its light, I examined the parcel the sexton had dropped. It was a small roll, containing some extracts from the records. They were not without interest. “Sept. 21, 1691.—It must not be forgot that Sir Robert Robertson gave a new silk damask cushion and cloth pulpit-cover.” “1697.—Whit Sunday. Paid Mr. Coneyball, for buying and carting Poses and hanging the Doares 8s.” “Dec. 20.—Paid for a stone Gug Clark Hill broak.” “March 29, 1698.—Paid Mr. Shelson for Loucking after the Boyes £1.” “1701, Aug. 4.—Paid for scouring the brass frame for the hour-glass 10s.” “1733, Oct. 11.—Voted that the Brass Stand for the hour-glass be lent to the church of Scituate, as also three Diaper napkins, provided Mr. Addington Davenport, their minister, gives his note to return the same to the Church wardens of the Church, &c.” “April 3, 1740.—Rec’d of Mr. Sylvester Gardner Sixteen Pounds Two Shills, in full for wine for the Chapple for the year past. John Hancock.”
I was about to put this fragment of the record into my pocket—“If,” said Martin, “you do not particularly covet a visit from Clark Hill, or whichever of the old sextons it was, that dropped that paper, leave it, as you found it.” I did so, most joyfully.
“If you have any questions to ask of me,” said the old man, “ask them now, and briefly, for we are about to part—to meet no more, until we meet, as I trust we shall, in a better world.” “As a mere matter of curiosity,” said I, “I should like to know, if you consider your venerable pastor, now dead and gone, Dr. Freeman, as the successor of Saint Peter?” “No more,” said Martin Smith, with an expression almost too comical for a ghost, “than I consider you and myself successors of the sexton, who, under the directions of Abraham, buried Sarah, in the cave of the field of Machpelah, before Mamre.” “Do you consider the Apostolical succession broken off, at the time of Dr. Freeman’s ordination?” “Short off, like a pipe stem,” he replied. “And so you do not consider the laying on of a Bishop’s hand necessary, to empower a man to preach the Gospel?” “No more,” said he, “than I consider the laying on of spades, necessary to empower a man, to dig a grave. We were a peculiar people, but quite as zealous for good works, as any of our neighbors. The Bishop of New York declined to ordain our pastor, because we were Unitarians; and we could not expect this service from our neighbors, had it been otherwise, on account of our adherence to the Liturgy, though modified, and to certain Episcopal forms—so we ordained him ourselves. The senior warden laid his hands upon the good man and true—said nothing of the thirty-nine articles—but gave him a Bible, as the sole compass for his voyage, in full confidence, that, while he steered thereby, we should be upon our course, to the haven, where we would be. We have never felt the want of the succession, for a moment, and, ever since, we have been a most happy and u——.”