OUR VILLAGE CHURCH. 41 



that air of snug, peaceful rusticity, usually belonging to suck 

 edifices. True, it had its venerable yew-trees, and its ivy- 

 mantled tower ; the latter composing, in fact, nearly the entire 

 building ; for the original body of the church having fallen to 

 decay, its place had been supplied by a very small, barn-like 

 erection, so low, and so disproportioned to the massive frag- 

 ment it adjoined, as to be almost lost amidst the high and 

 numerous surrounding monuments. 



Such was the spiritual watch-tower of our parish; but, 

 truth to tell, it was only rarely that the voice of our spiritual 

 watchman was heard resounding from its walls; for once a 

 fortnight only was his cry uplifted, and that in no very 

 awakening strain, in the ears of the few souls which then 

 gathered together, serving to animate (but only by halves) the 

 little cold body of our neglected church. 



The churchyard w r as in keeping with such an edifice ; in 

 other words, nothing could be worse kept. The cutting blast 

 of winter was the only scythe that ever mowed its graves, or 

 swept its moss-grown pathways ; but, in truth, from yellow 

 leaves they hardly wanted clearing, for one solitary stunted 

 elm was the only deciduous thing which told in autumn of de- 

 parted springs and summers, except the graves of children 

 and of those who had been gathered in their prime. 



No wonder that our village churchyard was no favourite 

 resort, and that its odour of sanctity was not inviting. No 

 wonder that few by choice would pass through it after dusk, 



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