The Legend of Handkerchief Moody
By Gail M. Potter
From Mysterious New England, Yankee Books, 1971
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 afterwards 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
withdrew 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.
Note: I include the illustration above only because it accompanied the original Yankee Magazine text. Moody died in 1753; the man in the image is wearing mid-to-late 19th century clothing... - Wes