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THE COUNTRY SUNDAY. 51 
glove was stirring, the delicious atmosphere of summer, 
sun-laden and scented, filled the deep valleys ; a morning 
of the richest beauty and deepest repose. All things 
reposed but man, and man is so busy with his vulgar 
aims that it quite dawns upon many people as a won- 
derful surprise how still nature is on a Sunday morning. 
Nature is absolutely still every day of the week, and 
proceeds with the most absclute indifference to days 
and dates. 
The sharp metallic clangour of a bell went bang, 
bang, bang, from one roof; not far distant a harsher and 
deeper note—some Tartar-like bell of universal uproar 
-—-hammered away. At intervals came the distant 
chimes of three distinct village churches—ding dong, 
dong ding, pango, frango, jango—very much jango— 
bang, clatter, clash—a humming vibration and dreadful 
stir. The country world was up in arms, I was about 
to say—I mean in chimney-pot hat and pomade, ez rozte 
to its various creeds, some to one bell, some to another, 
some to ding dong, and some to dong ding; but the 
most of them directed their steps towards a silent chapel. 
This great building, plain beyond plainness, stood beside 
a fir copse, from which in the summer morning there 
floated an exquisite fragrance of pine. If all the angles 
of the architects could have been put together, nothing 
could have been designed more utterly opposite to the 
graceful curve of the fir tree than this red-bricked crass 
building. Bethel Chapel combined everything that could 
be imagined contrary to the spirit of nature, which 
undulates. The largest erection of the kind, it was 
evidently meant for a large congregation. 
Of all the people in this country there are none so 
devout as the cottagers in the lanes and hamiets. They 
are as uncompromising as the sectaries who smashed the 
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