Old James Winslow had been a mere fox-hunting squire till
he became a valetudinarian; nor had he ever cared for the church or
for the poor, so that the village was in a frightful state of
neglect. There was a dissenting chapel, old enough to be overgrown
with ivy and not too hideous, erected by the Nonconformists in the
reign of the Great Deliverer, but this partook of the general
decadence of the parish, and, as we found, the chapel's principal
use was to serve as an excuse for not going to church.
My father always went to church twice, so he and Clarence walked to
Wattlesea, where appearances were more respectable; but they heard
the same sermon over again, and, as my father drily remarked, it was
not a composition that would bear repetition.
He was much distressed at the state of things, and intended to write
to the incumbent, though, as he said, whatever was done would end by
being at his own expense, and the move and other calls left him so
little in hand that he sighed over the difficulties, and declared
that he was better off in London, except for the honour of the
thing. Perhaps my mother was of the same opinion after a dreary
afternoon, when Griff and Martyn had been wandering about aimlessly,
and were at length betrayed by the barking of a little terrier,
purchased the day before from Tom Petty, besieging the stable cat,
who stood with swollen tail, glaring eyes, and thunderous growls, on
the top of the tallest pillar of the ruins.
Pages:
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89