'
We had great reason to doubt how far the second line could justly be
applied to the parish! but there was no judging of the sermon, for
only detached sentences reached us in a sort of mumble. Griff
afterwards declared churchgoing to be as good as a comedy, and we
all had to learn to avoid meeting each other's eyes, whatever we
might hear. When the scuffle and tramp of the departing
congregation had ceased, we came forth from our sable box, and
beheld the remnants of a once handsome church, mauled in every
possible way, green stains on the walls, windows bricked up, and a
huge singing gallery. Good bits of carved stall work were nailed
anyhow into the pews; the floor was uneven; no font was visible;
there was a mouldy uncared-for look about everything. The curate in
riding-boots came out of the vestry,--a pale, weary-looking man,
painfully meek and civil, with gray hair sleeked round his face. He
'louted low,' and seemed hardly to venture on taking the hand my
father held out to him. There was some attempt to enter into
conversation with him, but he begged to be excused, for he had to
hurry back to Wattlesea to a funeral. Poor man! he was as great a
pluralist as his vicar, for he kept a boys' school, partially day,
partially boarding, and his eyes looked hungrily at Martyn.
If the 'sweet cottage bonnet' had been at church there would have
been little chance of discovering her, but we found that we were the
only 'quality,' as Chapman called it, or things might not have been
so bad.
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