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Updated: June 20, 2025
Soon we reached the church, and I have seen nothing yet in England that so completely answered my idea of what such a thing was, as this old village church of Bebbington. It is quite a large edifice, built in the form of a cross, a low peaked porch in the side, over which, rudely cut in stone, is the date 1300 and something.
One room contains a library in black letter, but that we could only peep at through a great keyhole, because it was barred and padlocked. I think Mr. Hawthorne would like to examine that. The ladies said that, if we wished to go to church, we could tell the beadle of the old Bebbington church to guide us to their pew. We passed this venerable church on our way.
At the close of the case, the police officers and witnesses applied to me about their expenses. Yesterday I took a walk with my wife and two children to Bebbington Church. A beautifully sunny morning. My wife and U. attended church, J. and I continued our walk. When we were at a little distance from the church, the bells suddenly chimed out with a most cheerful sound, and sunny as the morning.
All these were wooden images; and the whole castellated, small, village-dwelling, with the inscriptions and the queer statuary, was probably the whim of some half-crazy person, who has now, no doubt, been long asleep in Bebbington churchyard. The bell of the old church was ringing as we went along, and many respectable-looking people and cleanly dressed children were moving towards the sound.
In the midst of it stood a venerable church of the common red freestone, with a most reverend air, considerably smaller than that of Bebbington, but more beautiful, and looking quite as old. There was ivy on its spire and elsewhere. It looked very quiet and peaceful, and as if it had received the people into its low arched door every Sabbath for many centuries.
He would occasionally make some half-playful, imaginative remark, calculated to help me realize the situation that was so vividly present to himself. His thoughts, however deep, were always ready to break into playfulness outwardly. We often walked through the village of Bebbington, whose church had a high stone steeple, nearly to the summit of which the ancient ivy had clambered.
And as it came in view he would always say, in a sort of recitative, perhaps reminiscent of Scott's narrative poems, which he was at that time reading aloud to us, "There is of Bebbington the holy peak!" To which I would as constantly rejoin, "'Of Bebbington the holy spire, father!" being offended by his use of a word so unmusical as peak. He would only smile and trudge onward.
Patricians and plebeians The discomforts of democracy Varieties of equality Social rights of beggars The coming peril Being dragged to the rich Frankness of vulgarity and hopelessness of destitution Villages rooted in the landscape Evanescence of the spiritual and survival of the material "Of Bebbington the holy peak" The Old Yew of Eastham Malice prepense interest History and afternoon tea An East-Indian Englishman The merchantman sticks in the mud A poetical man of the world Likeness to Longfellow Real breakfasts Heads and stomachs A poet- pugilist Clean-cut, cold, gentle, dry A respectable female atheist The tragedy of the red ants Voluptuous struggles A psalm of praise.
At the close of the case, the police officers and witnesses applied to me about their expenses. Yesterday I took a walk with my wife and two children to Bebbington Church. A beautifully sunny morning. My wife and U. attended church, J. and I continued our walk. When we were at a little distance from the church, the bells suddenly chimed out with a most cheerful sound, and sunny as the morning.
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