Father Moody's Black Veil





In 1770 the Reverend Joseph Moody died at York, Maine, where he had long

held the pastorate of a church, and where in his later years his face was

never seen by friend or relative. At home, when any one was by, on the

street, and in the pulpit his visage was concealed by a double fold of

crape that was knotted above his forehead and fell to his chin, the lower

edge of it being shaken by his breath. When first he presented himself to

his congregation with features masked in black, great was the wonder and

long the talk about it. Was he demented? His sermons were too logical for

that. Had he been crossed in love? He could smile, though the smile was

sad. Had he been scarred by accident or illness? If so, no physician knew

of it.



After a time it was given out that his eyes were weakened by reading and

writing at night, and the wonder ceased, though the veiled parson was

less in demand for weddings, christenings, and social gatherings, and

more besought for funerals than he had been. If asked to take off his

crape he only replied, We all wear veils of one kind or another, and the

heaviest and darkest are those that hang about our hearts. This is but a

material veil. Let it stay until the hour strikes when all faces shall be

seen and all souls reveal their secrets.



Little by little the clergyman felt himself enforced to withdraw from the

public gaze. There were rough people who were impertinent and timid

people who turned out of their road to avoid him, so that he found his

out-door walks and meditations almost confined to the night, unless he

chose the grave-yard for its seclusion or strolled on the beach and

listened to the wallowing and grunting of the Black Boars--the rocks off

shore that had laughed on the night when the York witch went up the

chimney in a gale. But his life was long and kind and useful, and when at

last the veiled head lay on the pillow it was never to rise from

consciously, a fellow-clergyman came to soothe his dying moments and

commend his soul to mercy.



To him, one evening, Father Moody said, Brother, my hour is come and the

veil of eternal darkness is falling over my eyes. Men have asked me why I

wear this piece of crape about my face, as if it were not for them a

reminder and a symbol, and I have borne the reason so long within me that

only now have I resolved to tell it. Do you recall the finding of young

Clark beside the river, years ago? He had been shot through the head. The

man who killed him did so by accident, for he was a bosom friend; yet he

could never bring himself to confess the fact, for he dreaded the blame

of his townsmen, the anguish of the dead man's parents, the hate of his

betrothed. It was believed that the killing was a murder, and that some

roving Indian had done it. After years of conscience-darkened life, in

which the face of his dead friend often arose accusingly before him, the

unhappy wretch vowed that he would never again look his fellows openly in

the face: he would pay a penalty and conceal his shame. Then it was that

I put a veil between myself and the world.



Joseph Moody passed away and, as he wished, the veil still 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.





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