Grandma would not countenance a checkrein for Billy; she maintained that it was cruel. The normal center of Billy’s head, in consequence, was nearer the earth he feebly loved than the heaven Grandma hoped to reach with Billy’s material aid. There was a whip, in its socket, to be sure, but Grandma would not strike a dumb beast. When Grandma wished to start, or, on frequent occasions, to accelerate Billy’s pace—if such it might be called—she waved the lines with both hands and chirped encouragement—never becoming aggressive—and satisfied that she had a horse “safe for any lady to drive.” But just here appearances became deceptive; for Billy, soon after his transfer in exchange for legal tender, revealed a defect in character. He was given to unlooked-for fits of insanity. From a turbid dodder, he would suddenly break into a runaway. This was alarming; yet there seemed a method in the madness. Like a clock, with mainspring breaking, and the works rattling fiercely toward a silence soon reached, even so were Billy’s runaways. Their distance-limit seldom exceeded one hundred yards. So, after prudent observation of his antics, and with due allowance for the fact that he did not run away every time, Billy was reinstated as a family horse, safe for any lady to drive, provided she were familiar with his mannerisms. Such was now the case.
Of a Sunday morning, fair to look upon, in early summer, all prepared and ready, Billy and carryall connected into a material totality, the family set forth, following the dusty road to the village, without mishap. Upon arrival at the church, a white-painted wooden structure in imitation of stone, pretentious, and ugly—as if indoctrinated with sin—so much talked about within—Billy was hitched to the general railing and the family entered, after Louis had sufficiently patted Billy’s nose. Climbing a wide flight of stairs to the second floor, all entered a large, dim, barren room, and reached the family pew. Louis immediately felt a pang of disappointment. There was nothing here to recall an echo of the spring song he had shared in the open. He thought there should be. Looking about at the congregation, he was astonished at the array of solemn faces: Why solemn? And the whispering silence: Why whispering? What was to follow? What was to happen? He enquired, and was hushed. He awaited. The service began; he followed it eagerly to the end, noting every detail.
He greatly admired the way the minister shouted, waved his arms terrifically, pounded the big Bible magnificently, and then, with voice scarcely exceeding a whisper, pointed at the congregation in dire warning of what would surely befall them if they did not do so-and-so or believe such and such. He roared of Hell so horribly that the boy shivered and quaked. Of Heaven he spoke with hysterical sweetness—a mush of syrupy words. He had painted the same word-pictures year after year; worked himself to the same high pitches and depths. His listeners, now thrilled, relaxed, expanded, held these sermons, these prayers, these hymns as precious; for the man looming in the pulpit was of their world. He gave pith, point and skilled direction to those collective aspirations and fears, which otherwise would have lacked symmetry and power. The sermons invariably ended with a tirade against the Papists. This epilogue appealed to all as a most satisfying finale. After the closing words of benediction the congregation remained for a while outside the church, gathered in groups, the men swapping lies and horses, the women-folk exchanging idiosyncrasies. All declared their satisfaction with the sermon. This was the routine. Then they went home.
To the child, however, as a first violent experience, the total effect was one of confusion, perturbation, and perplexity. One particular point puzzled him most: Why did the minister, when he prayed, clasp his hands closely together and so continue to hold them? Why did he close his eyes? Why did he bow his head and at times turn sightless face upward toward the ceiling? Why did he speak in whining tones? Why was he now so familiar with God, and then so groveling? Why did he not shout his prayers as he had shouted and roared through his sermon? Why did he not stand erect with flashing eyes, wave his arms, clinch his fists and pound the big Bible, and walk first this way and then that way, and otherwise conduct himself like a man? He seemed afraid of something. What could it be? What was there to be afraid of? And then this matter of the Papists. Why so bitter, why so violent, why so cruel as to wish these people, whoever they were, to be burned throughout all eternity in the flames of awful hell? And the minister had said he was sure they would be. The boy asked at home what Papists were. Grandma said they were Catholics. Grandpa said they were imbeciles. Then he asked what were Catholics, and Grandma said, simply, they were not Protestants. And what were Protestants? And Grandma said, as simply, but with a touch of detail, that they were not Catholics, to which Grandpa added that they, also, were imbeciles. But at
