d. The unceiled roof shows the rafters whose arched
timbers remind one that ships' carpenters have built this house of God.

This, then, is the meeting-house of 1681. What of the services conducted
there?

In the first place, they are well attended. And why not, since in 1635
the General Court decreed that no dwelling should be placed more than
half a mile away from the meeting-house of any new "plantation"--thus
eliminating the excuse of too great distance? Every one is expected,
nay, commanded, to come to church. In fact, after the tolling of the
last bell, the houses may all be searched--each ten families is under an
inspector--if there is any question of delinquents hiding in them. And
so in twos and threes, often the man trudging ahead with his gun and the
woman carrying her baby while the smaller children cling to her skirts,
sometimes man and woman and a child or two on horseback, no matter how
wild the storm, how swollen the streams, how deep the whirling
snow--they all come to church: old folk and infants as well as adults
and children. The congregation either waits for the minister and his
wife outside the door, or stands until he has entered the pulpit. Once
inside they are seated with the most meticulous exactness, according to
rank, age, sex, and wealth. The small boys are separated from their
families and kept in order by tithing-men who allow no wandering eyes or
whispered words. The deacons are in the "fore" seats; the elderly
people are sometimes given chairs at the end of the "pues"; and the
slaves and Indians are in the rear. To seat one's self in the wrong
"pue" is an offense punishable by a fine.

"Here is the church, and here are the people," as the old rhyme has it.
What then of the services? That they are interminable we know. The
tithing-man or clerk may turn the brass-bound hourglass by the side of
the pulpit two and three times during the sermon, and once or twice
during the prayer. Interminable, and, also, to the modern Sunday
observer, unendurable. How many of us of this softer age can contemplate
without a shiver the vision of people sitting hour after hour in an
absolutely unheated building? (The Old Ship was not heated until 1822.)
The only relief from the chill and stiffness comes during the prayer
when the congregation stands: kneeling, of course, would savor too
strongly of idolatry and the Church of Rome. They stand, too, while the
psalms and hymns are lined out, and as they sing th