As may be imagined, at first and for years afterwards, they remained but “a 118 feeble folk,” regarded with suspicion and dislike by the more narrow-minded of their contemporaries, though the days were long gone by, when an Episcopalian, especially if suspected of a leaning towards Popery, was set in the pillory or the stocks. The Church, however, had been long flourishing, in my youth, and I was always particularly impressed when I attended service there, as I always did on Christmas Day, with the organ, an instrument utterly unknown in our other places of public worship, and with the comfort diffused by the large Russian stove which projected from a corner of the building; while we, for long years afterwards, shivered in our meeting-houses of a cold Sunday. To be sure, the younger children carried their mothers’ hand-stoves, constructed of tin in a frame of wood and pierced with holes in the top, to let out such heat as could be communicated by a small pan of coals covered with ashes. But for the male part of the congregation, 119 who despised such a luxury, it was almost impossible to avoid occasionally striking the benumbed feet together, and sometimes the clatter was almost as considerable, as in letting down the seats after the long prayer, especially if that proved to be a very protracted exercise. But I have known young ladies so indifferent to the severity of the weather, as to attend meeting, on very cold days of winter, with bare arms. What would delicate ladies, who, wrapped in warm furs, listen to service in a heated church, think of such exposure now? On one particular occasion, however, our minister announced the text,—“Who can stand before His cold?” and closed the services with the usual blessing, a little to the dissatisfaction, I think, of the more staid members of the congregation, who having come through cold and snow, or a furious wintry storm, it might be, to hear a sermon, were not altogether contented to miss the expected edification, or 120 perhaps the opportunity of criticising the discourse. Indeed, I know not what my respected great grandsire, an elder of the church in his day, would have said to such defection from spiritual needs towards indulgence in carnal comfort. For it is said, that when some less searching and thorough-going preacher of the word exchanged with our minister, or casually officiated for him, the old gentleman tottered out of the meeting-house, leaning on his staff, and with elevated eyebrows muttered pretty audibly to those near him,—“Peas in a bladder—thorns under a pot—no food to-day!” And however it might be with many of his neighbors, not the minutest particle of the quality of original Puritanism had been shaken out of his system by the changes of the times. The family tradition is, that before the sunset of Saturday everything necessary for the support of nature upon the Sabbath was cooked and in readiness. Whether he allowed the accustomed 121 beans and rye and Indian bread to remain in the oven subject to the working heat, over Saturday night, I am not able to certify. But in the intervals of public worship on Sunday,—a term, by the way, which he would have scorned to employ,—the family was assembled and ranged around the walls of the room, and the reading of Scripture, or of some well-worn book of devotion, was proceeded with, while the head of the family sat in the centre, with a stick in his hand long enough to reach the head and shoulders of any inattentive or unquiet child.
When a trader failed, as was rarely the case at that primitive period, his sign was taken down at night, to the wonder of the public in the morning, and he remained fast locked from the sheriff, or too inquisitive callers, in his house, until the disposition of his creditors became known,—dependent upon their confidence in his good intentions, or their sympathy with his unexpected misfortunes.
An anecdote quite parallel to this is to be found in the now late lamented Dean Ramsay’s “Reminiscences.” He relates, as a specimen of the cool Scottish matter-of-fact view of things, the following communication of a correspondent:—
“The back windows of the house where he was brought up looked upon the Greyfriars’ Church that was burned down. On the Sunday morning in which that event took place, as they were all preparing to go to church, the flames began to burst forth; the young people screamed from the back part of the house, ‘A fire! a fire!’ and all was in a state of confusion and alarm. The housemaid was not at home, it being her turn for the Sunday ‘out.’ Kitty, the cook, was taking her place, and performing her duties. The old woman was always very particular on the subject of her responsibility on such occasions, and came panting and hobbling upstairs from the lower regions, and exclaimed, ‘Oh what is’t, what is’t?’ ‘O, Kitty, look here, the Greyfriars’ Church is on fire!’ ‘Is that a’, Miss? What a fright ye geed me! I thought ye said the parlor fire was out.’”
It was, I believe, the oldest Episcopal Church in Massachusetts, with the exception of King’s Chapel, in Boston, a small wooden structure, which stood upon the place where the stone edifice of that name is now situated.