Was he demented? Had he been
scarred by an accident? Were his eyes overly sensitive? One of these, his
parishioners reasoned, must be why the Rev. Dr. Joseph Moody of York, Maine
always appeared with a face covering. Finally, the secret was revealed . .
.
In the 18th century, most Yankee congregations
had inured themselves to the awesome sight of the ponderous powdered wigs that
framed the stem Sabbath visages of their clerics. But the good folk of the
Second Church of York, Maine, possessed a parson whose weird headgear caused him
to go reverberating down in the annals of New England history, folklore, and
legend as "Handkerchief Moody."
Joseph Moody had not
always worn the black crepe veil knotted above his forehead and hanging down
below his chin. For fourteen years
after his graduation at Harvard, he was
quite content with and competent in successive positions as Clerk of the Town of
York, Registrar of Deeds for the county, and Judge of the County Court. However,
his father thought he ought to preach, and he thought his father knew
best. Chiefly through his father's influence, a second parish was incorporated
in 1730. In 1732, Joseph hesitantly accepted the charge and was ordained its
pastor.
For six years he got
along tolerably well with the saving of souls, while his wife took charge of
temporal things. But when she died, the care of two worlds proved too much for
him, and he fell into a state of deep melancholy. In this clouded condition, his
once brilliant mind developed a pronounced phobia: no one must see his face. And
so he presented himself to his congregation with his features masked in a black
silk handkerchief. For weeks, wonder, speculation, and rumor churned with
whirlwind intensity through the village. Was he demented? His sermons
were too logical for that. Had he been scarred by an accident? If so, no
chirurgeon knew of it. Had his eyes been weakened by working far into the
night on his sermons? With no other plausible explanation, his parishioners
convinced themselves that this was the true one.
While he was as often besought for funerals as he had
previously been, the veiled parson's services became less in demand for
weddings, christenings, and socials. The timid people turned out of their way to
avoid him; the bolder were often flippant or impertinent on the road. So Joseph
Moody curtailed his daytime walks, limiting his strolls to the protecting
anonymity of night. Then, without the fear of embarrassing encounters, he
prowled peacefully through the seclusion of the churchyard or wandered unchallenged along the
deserted shore. Little by little he abandoned his public labors, refusing to
officiate at public gatherings except in cases of unusual urgency. More and more
often he sought the sheltering safety of his own chamber. Only on rare
occasions, when bounden duty demanded it, did he leave his sanctuary and partake
of a meal with others. He was soon relieved of even this obligation. For nothing
cast a quicker and more efficient pall over the gayest of village affairs than
the sight of a black-clad figure, crouched alone at a small side table with its
face turned to the wall.
The confused,
equivocal, and tortuous groping of his unsteady mind at this time may be
inferred by an extract from his diary: "This day, while engaged in prayer, I
thought of a way to fasten my study door, and after
wards found a better." Before long,
the Reverend Mr. Moody abandoned entirely his feeble attempts at preaching,
parceled his children out among relatives, and, relieved of all responsibility,
went to live with the family of Deacon Bragdon.
By 1745, he had so
well recovered from his mental depression that his 70-year-old father, old Sam
Moody, tore off with the younger lads of York to the siege of Louisburg. Into
the hands of his son, Samuel committed the care of his congregation and the
delivery of the Sabbath sermon.
Joseph supplied his
father's pulpit in his own peculiar way. Turning his back to the people, he
lifted his veil and read distinctly and audibly a written sermon. But when he
faced the congregation for prayer and the benediction, the black handkerchief,
fluttering with the rhythm of his breath, muffled and obscured his words. Along
with the genes of eccentricity, the Reverend Joseph inherited his father's
remarkable gift of oral supplication. His memorable "long prayer" from the
pulpit of York's First Church during the Louisburg campaign has been cited as
more than mere coincidence.
Frequent
communications from Cape Breton conveyed the disheartening news that the
fortress was still untaken. Therefore, June 17 was appointed as a day of fasting
and prayer in York, and the neighboring ministers invited to attend. In the
course of the service, Joseph Moody offered the prayer, and a very lengthy one
it was.
He first used all
manner of arguments, suggested several compromises, and uttered fervent pleas
that the Lord would give the place into the hands of the English Protestants,
thereby cutting off "this limb of Anti-Christ." Suddenly he ceased his
entreaties. Then, scarcely pausing for breath, he began to give thanks that the
citadel was at last ours and to praise God at great length for His unmerited
mercy. He closed his devotions with the words: "Lord, we are no better than
those that possessed the land before us; and it would be righteous if the land
should spew out its inhabitants a second time."
When the forces
returned from the expedition, and compared dates, it was found that the
capitulation was closed on the very day of the fast and, as near as could be
ascertained, at the very hour when Mr. Moody was presenting his petitions to
heaven. Two years later, when peace was settled between the two countries,
Louisburg was restored to France, and its inhabitants spewed out a second time
when the English troops with
drew from the garrison. Death called
unexpectedly for Mr. Moody in 1753. Joseph had pushed back from the deacon's
dinner table and repaired to his room in exceptionally good spirits. In his
exuberance, he began to hum, and then to sing aloud one of Watts' hymns in which
occurs the lines:
Oh for an overcoming
faith
To cheer my dying hours.
All afternoon long
he caroled lustily, refusing to take time from his songfest to join the family
at supper. The next morning he was found dead in his bed.
Years later, an old
friend said in retrospect, "It is my opinion that, if he had been let alone to
follow his own course in society, without preaching, he would have done more
good in the world. He could have brought up his children himself, instead of
leaving them to the care of others, would have had more real enjoyment, and
perhaps saved himself the trouble of wearing his handkerchief so long."
But by then, legend
had taken over and ascribed another reason for the minister's idiosyncrasies and
his doleful departure from the realities of this life.
Feeling that his
hour had come, Mr. Moody sent for a fellow clergyman to soothe his dying
moments, commend his soul to mercy, and hear his confession. "Brother," he said,
"the veil of eternal darkness is falling over my eyes. Men have asked me why I
wear this piece of crepe about my face, and I have borne the reason so long
within me that only now have I resolved to tell it."
Long ago, Joseph
revealed, he had inadvertently killed his best friend while on a hunting trip.
Dreading the blame of his townsmen, the anguish of the dead youth's parents, and
the scorn of his betrothed, the minister concealed his guilt. The town believed
that the killing was a murder, the act of some roving Indian. But for years the
face of his dead friend rose accusingly before him.
In desperation, and
determined to pay a penalty for concealing his sin, Joseph finally resolved that
never again would he look his fellowmen openly in the face. "Then it was," he
whispered, "that I put a veil between myself and the
world."
As he had requested,
"Handkerchief Moody's" black crepe hid his face in the coffin. But the clergyman
who had raised it for a moment to compose his features found there a serenity
and a beauty that were majestic.
Courtesy of Yankee Books. Originally published in Mysterious New England (1971).