"Middling Way and The Church..."

 

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

An Entry Concerning Middling Way and the Chapel of Port Dominion

Having passed directly across Dominion Square, and declining to turn either toward the harborside lanes or toward the governor’s fine road, I set my steps along a modest thoroughfare known as Middling Way. At its first stretch there are a handful of shops—simple places of necessity, the kind where one may purchase coarse bread, a length of rope, a clay jug of molasses, or a measure of homespun cloth. Their keepers, though not genteel, are of an industrious sort, hailing from that class neither poor nor grand, but the middling sort who hope to rise in station by diligence.

As one continues, the lane curves leftward, the cobbles giving way to crushed rock, shell, and hardened dirt, which in foul weather dissolves into mire. Small homes line the road, belonging to merchants of modest fortune, craftsmen, and families who till a patch of ground for their sustenance. Chickens wander freely, and one hears the sound of children at play, mingled with the bark of a dog or the creak of a cart. It is a place neither without comfort nor entirely without want.

Along this road stands the chapel, the Protestant house of worship lately built for the souls of Port Dominion. It is a simple edifice, white clapboard already faded and weather-worn, its roof of red tile dulled by the sun and salt air. Its plainness speaks to the sober spirit of our faith, unadorned by needless ornament, yet marked by a large wooden cross upon its front, that all who pass may be reminded of holy things.

(The Protestant Church of Port Dominion.)

Within, the chapel is sparse: some benches and chairs of local craft, a humble pulpit and small altar, and behind it, another great wooden cross upon the wall, so that the eyes of the congregation are ever fixed upon the symbol of our redemption. There is little in the way of comfort—the seats are hard, and the air within is stifling when the sun beats high—but there is earnestness, and the ring of zeal, for here Reverend Goodall and his newly arrived assistant, Reverend Solomon Task, thunder forth their sermons.

I am told the chapel is already well attended by tradesmen’s families and by women eager for spiritual reassurance. Yet there are whispers too: that Reverend Goodall, aged and frail, is too gentle with his words, and that Task, newly come from Massachusetts, is of a sterner fibre, and spares not to speak of Hell’s flames nor of the abominations he perceives lurking in every tavern, wharf, and household. Whatever the truth, Middling Way now holds not only the dwellings of men, but the declared house of God, plain and small, yet already heavy with the weight of doctrine and judgment.