once in violating Mr. Gar

Amicone Tallie <[email protected]>
Newsgroups gmane.comp.fonts.gfontview
Message-ID <[email protected]>
 that should be the inheritance of this branch of Art, revived from
mediaeval times. I stepped over the graves, and peeped in at two or
three of the windows, and saw the snug interior of the church glimmering
through the many-colored panes, like a show of commonplace objects under
the fantastic influence of a dream: for the floor was covered with
modern pews, very like what we may see in a New-England meeting-house,
though, I think, a little more favorable than those would be to the
quiet slumbers of the Hatton farmers and their families. Those who slept
under Doctor Parr's preaching now prolong their nap, I suppose, in the
church-yard round about, and can scarcely have drawn much spiritual
benefit from any truths that he contrived to tell them in their
lifetime. It struck me as a rare example (even where examples are
numerous) of a man utterly misplaced, that this enormous scholar, great
in the classic tongues, and inevitably converting his own simplest
vernacular into a learned language, should have been set up in this
homely pulpit, and ordained to preach salvation to a rustic audience, to
whom it is difficult to imagine how he could ever have spoken one
available word. Almost always, in visiting such scenes as I have been
attempting to describe, I had a singular sense of having been there
before. The ivy-grown English churches (even that of Bebbington, the
first that I beheld) were quite as familiar to me, when fresh from home,
as the old wooden meeting-house in Salem, which used, on wintry
Sabbaths, to be the frozen purgatory of my childhood. This was a
bewildering, yet very delightful emotion, fluttering about me like a
faint summer-wind, and filling my imagination with a thousand
half-remembrances, which looked as vivid as sunshine, at a side-glance,
but faded quite away whenever I attempted to grasp and define them. Of
course, the explanation of the mystery was, that history, poetry, and
fiction, books of travel, and the talk of tourists, had given me pretty
accurate preconceptions of the common objects of English scenery, and
these, being long ago vivified by a youthful fancy, had insensibly taken
their places among the images of things actually seen. Yet the il

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