I cannot close these sketches without at least a passing notice of the venerable church, known as "Parson Walton's Meeting house," that in former years adjoined the widow's residence; the same structure that, afterwards remodelled, was finally torn down to give place to the new chapel of the Unitarian Society. It was one of the most antique of the old New England churches, now fast passing away, and of which not a vestige will remain, ere many years have elapsed, in the most sequestered country village. It stands before me now, both in its interior and exterior aspect, just as it looked when untouched by the hand of modern improvement. The plain and unpainted, but not ungraceful pulpit, and its faded velvet cushion whose tassels swayed to and fro in the summer breeze; the solemn-looking sounding-board, exciting childish wonder how it was ever raised to its seemingly lofty height, or what sustained it there; the square pews, nearly large enough for a small family to live in, city tenement-house fashion; the long galleries, that creaked at every footstep! the gayly colored chandelier, suspended by a painted rope from the ceiling; the queer looking poles, well filled with hooks and nails, rising above the pews, designed for coats and hats, but looking,

in more modern times, like some arrangement for the suspension of a clothes-line; the long pews, one on each side the centre aisle, where a choir had once been located, (the ladies occupying one, the gentlemen the other,) with seats that turned upward on a pivot while the occupants were standing, and elevated forms in the centre for singing-books; all are daguerreotyped in unfading hues upon my memory, mingled with remembrances of early childhood, when my home was almost within the shadow of the ancient bell-tower. Nor is the exterior--weather-beaten, black with age, and moss-covered--less familiar, or the belfry, with its spire and vane, that vibrated at every revolution of the ancient bell. On every Sabbath day, and on afternoons when "conference meetings" were held, hitched to the church-railing, might be seen a horse, of very "certain age," attached to an antique pattern of a gig or sleigh, the conveyance of a worthy pair from Long Lane.

When absent in the winter-time, it was an unerring indication that the snow had fallen very deep in the country, and that the roads must be badly blocked up. Accompanying them was a long hound-shaped dog, of iron-gray color, who was left in charge of the vehicle during church-hours. If a mischievous boy attempted to invade his castle, he was too well principled to bark, especially if it were Sunday, but he displayed a double row of ivory that never failed to send the offender away in terror, glad to escape at so cheap a rate. Others too, who came from far distances, seldom failed to be seen in their accustomed places.

How many prayers ascended to the throne of grace from that sacred edifice, and how often its walls echoed to the good old tunes of 'Lisbon,' 'Corinth,' 'St. Martin's,' 'Mear,' 'Coronation,' that most sublime of sacred lyrics 'Old Hundred,' and many others not less remembered, or less loved. But the old church is no more; those who offered up the prayers have had their "faith changed to sight," and the singers are numbered with the choir who sing the song of "Moses and the Lamb."

There probably never existed, since the apostolic age, a more devoted body of Christians than those who constituted the church of Rev. Joseph Walton; a people, truly, who were "good for goodness' sake," and whose daily life illustrated the truth and beauty of the faith they professed. Many of them long survived the good man who for so many years was their teacher in things spiritual, but all have passed away to those mansions where they have laid up much treasure for eternity. Some of their descendants yet have homes at Portsmouth--others are scattered far and wide abroad. Wherever they may be, it is to be hoped the good seed has not become extinct within them, but that it has yet a living principle, springing up and germinating, and bringing forth much good fruit.*

*One of the most distinguished divines of the American pulpit, Rev. Dr. Stow of Boston, in a brief eulogy at the time of the death of one of these good people, said, "His faith in God I never saw equalled, and I doubt if it has been surpassed in many instances, since the days of Abraham. He lived for God." Among the sacred spots in the North Burying ground, where the ashes of the righteous dead await the resurrection morning, there is none more so than that where rests the dust of this holy man. "That disciple whom Jesus loved" is inscribed upon the stone that marks his grave with a truthfulness equalled only by the pure taste that indited it.

Text scanned courtesy of The Brewster Family Network
Copy of Rambles courtesy Peter E. Randall
History Hypertext project by SeacoastNH.com
This digital transcript  © 1999 SeacoastNH.com