For a time the members of the First Congregational Society of North Penfield were noticeably and commendably prompt in their attendance upon all services. They were so afraid that they should be late that they arrived at the meeting-house a good while before the opening hymn. Dr. Manson was gratified, the village wits were put down, and the old bell hung peacefully in the belfry over the attentive worshipers, as silent as they. Snow and rain painted its surface with vivid tints, and the swallows learned that they could perch upon it without danger of its being jerked away from their slender feet.
There was no other meeting-house in the town, and as the nearest railroad was miles away, the sound of a clear-toned bell floating down from the summer sky, or sending its sweet echoes vibrating through a wintry twilight in an oft-repeated mellow call to prayers, was almost forgotten.
Gradually the congregation fell into the habit of dropping in of a Sunday morning while the choir were singing the voluntary, or remaining in the vestibule where, behind the closed doors, they had a bit of gossip while they waited for the rustle within which announced the completion of the pastor’s long opening prayer. It became a rare occurrence for all to be actually settled in their pews when the text was given out. The same tardiness was noticeable in the Friday evening meetings; and, odd to say, a certain spirit of indolence seemed to creep over the services themselves.
Whereas in former days the farmers and their wives were wont to come bustling briskly into the vestry while the bell was ringing, and the cheerful hum of voices arose in the informal handshaking “before meeting,” soon quieting and then blending joyously in the stirring strains of “How Firm a Foundation,” or “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” followed by one brief, earnest prayer or exhortation after another, in quick succession, in these later days it was quite different. It was difficult to carry the first hymn through, as there were rarely enough good singers present to sustain the air. Now it was the pianist who was late, now the broad-shouldered mill-owner, whose rich bass was indeed a “firm foundation” for all timid sopranos and altos; now the young man who could sing any part with perfect confidence, and often did wander over all four in the course of a single verse, lending a helping hand, so to speak, wherever it was needed.
The halting and dispirited hymn made the members self-distrustful and melancholy at the outset. There were long pauses during which all the sluggish or tired-out brothers and sisters nodded in the heated room, and the sensitive and nervous clutched shawl fringes and coat buttons in agonized fidgets. The meetings became so dull and heavy that slight excuses were sufficient to detain easy-going members at home, especially the young people. It was a rare sight now to see bright eyes and rosy cheeks in the room. The members discussed the dismal state of affairs, which was only too plain, and laid the blame on the poor old minister.
“His sermons haven’t the power they had once, Brother Stimpson,” remarked Deacon Fairweather, shaking his head sadly, as they trudged home from afternoon service one hot Sunday in August. “There’s somethin’ wantin’. I don’t jestly know what.”
“He ain’t pussonal enough. You want to be pussonal to do any good in a parish. There’s Squire Radbourne, now. Everybody knows he sets up Sunday evenin’s and works on his law papers. I say there ought to be a reg’lar downright discourse on Sabbath breakin’.”
“Thet’s so, thet’s so,” assented the deacon. “And Brother Langworth hasn’t been nigh evenin’ meetin’ for mor’n six weeks.”
