Oldfield: A Kentucky Tale of the Last Century

by Nancy Huston Banks

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RELIGION IN OLDFIELD

It is in the quiet village, remote, as this was, from the rushing change of city life, that the fervor of religion always appears warmest and seems to linger longest.

In Oldfield everybody went to church twice a day on Sunday, in winter and in summer, and through the rain as well as through the sunshine. That is to say, everybody except old lady Gordon and Miss Judy Bramwell, neither of whom ever went at all.

There was nothing strange or inconsistent in old lady Gordon's staying away. She was generally held by everybody to be as an out-and-out heathen, whereas in reality she was merely a good deal of a pagan. And she was not in the habit of accounting to anybody for what she did or did not do, being equally indifferent to private and public opinion.

But Miss Judy's never going was a much harder thing to understand. For the little lady was not only the model for the whole community in week-day matters, but she was also known to be a most devout Episcopalian, so that, taken altogether, the fact that she never went to church remained always an impenetrable mystery, notwithstanding that the Oldfield church-goers discussed it untiringly on almost every Sunday of their lives. Nor did Miss Judy, who was the soul of guileless frankness in everything else, ever offer any sort of an explanation for this unaccountable remissness. She could not make any untrue excuses, and she would not give the real reason; her gentle heart being much too tender of her neighbors' feelings to admit of her mentioning the truth, so long as she was able to hide what she was bound in conscience to feel.

"They are doing the best they can, you know, sister Sophia," she would say, almost in a whisper, as the neighbors passed on Sundays; and she would steal on tiptoe to close the door, so that Merica might not overhear. "They are not to blame, poor things; it is their misfortune and not their fault, that they don't know the difference between a meeting-house and the Church, and between a lecture and the Service."

"Just so, sister Judy," Miss Sophia would respond, more befogged if possible over consecration and apostolic succession than she was over most things. When, however, after a time, she came gradually to comprehend that this stand, taken privately by Miss Judy, would spare herself the exertion of walking to the meeting-houses, both of which were at the other end of town, she became so decided in her support of Miss Judy's position as to remove the last shade of doubt from that mild little lady's mind. Nothing of all this was ever suspected by any third person, but in the absence of any actual knowledge, it ultimately came to be taken for granted that Miss Judy stayed at home on Sundays and read the prayer-book to her sister because Miss Sophia was not equal to the long walk to church and back, especially in bad weather. Miss Judy of course said not a word either to confirm or to contradict this impression, which strengthened as the years went by. But she always gave the neighbors so sweet a smile when they passed on the way to meeting that everything seemed to everybody just as it should be.

One of the churches belonged to the Methodists and the other to the denomination known as The Disciples of Christ. The town was not large enough to supply two congregations or to support two preachers; and it was consequently necessary to hold services in each of the churches on alternate Sundays in order to insure a sizable congregation and a moderate support for the circuit rider and the Christian elder, when they came from their farms in another part of the county to preach on their appointed days; thus giving freedom to all and favor to none.

A single contribution box served for the two churches. This, which was in reality a contribution bag, was a sort of inverted liberty cap made of ecclesiastical black cloth, and lined with churchly purple satin. When not in use it usually stood on the end of its long staff in what was called the Amen corner of the Methodist church. The office of taking it down from its accustomed resting-place, and of carrying it over to the Christian church when needed there, had belonged from time immemorial to Uncle Watty. It is not certain to which of the two denominations Uncle Watty himself belonged. It was, indeed, never a very clearly established fact that he was a member of any denomination, but this uncertainty had nothing whatever to do with the lifelong holding of his office. It seemed to everybody to be the right and proper thing for Uncle Watty to take up the collection, mainly for the reason that he always had done it, which is accepted as a good and sufficient reason for many rather singular things in that region. Miss Judy, who knew about it, as she knew about everything, although she never saw him do it,—since she never went to meeting,—always considered it a particularly kind and delicate arrangement, devised by some thoughtful, feeling person expressly to save Uncle Watty the embarrassment of having nothing to put in the bag himself. But Uncle Watty apparently took another view of it; and, like a good many people who do little themselves and exact much from others, he was extremely rigorous and almost relentless in his handing of the contribution bag. Its tough, hickory handle was equal to the full length of the benches, and no man, woman, or child might hope to evade its deliberate presentation under the very nose, and its being steadily held there, too, until Uncle Watty thought everybody's duty was fully done.