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Updated: June 26, 2025
But the awkward thing for Bligh, as it turned out, was that Mrs. Polwhele didn't understand his insolence. Being a woman that wouldn't hurt a fly if she could help it, and coming from a parish where every man, her husband included, took pleasure in treating her respectfully, she never dreamed that an affront was meant.
Polwhele was taking a look about her to make sure the country hadn't altered while she was away at Plymouth. And by and by she cries out: "Why, my love, whatever are these dabs o' white stuck up and down the foreshore?" The Parson takes a look at my grandfather before answering: "My angel, to tell you the truth, that's more than we know." "Richard, you're concealing something from me," said Mrs.
Polwhele concludes that it derived its origin from the Persian magi. Dr. Borlasse has drawn a long and elaborate parallel between the Druids and Persians, where he has plainly proved that they resembled each other, as strictly as possible, in every particular of religion.
There is a fig-tree of great antiquity growing out of the tower wall. Chancel and south transept are Early English, and the south doorway very excellent Norman. About a century since the Cornish historian and versifier, Polwhele, was Rector at Manaccan, also having charge of the neighbouring parish of St.
And from here to Falmouth what is it but a step?" "Let them that be in Judaea flee to the mountains," said Arch'laus Spry solemn-like. "And me just home from Plymouth with a fine new roasting-jack!" chimed in Mrs. Polwhele. "As though the day of wrath weren't bad enough without that waste o' money! Run, Calvin run and tell the Vicar this instant no, no, don't leave me behind!
"Then, that's what these men were, you may be sure," said Mrs. Polwhele. "Tut-tut-tut! You've just told me that they came across the ferry, like any ordinary passengers." "Did I? Then I told more than I know; for I never saw them cross." "A couple of escaped prisoners wouldn't travel by coach in broad daylight, and talk French in everyone's hearing." "We live in the midst of mysteries," said Mrs.
Polwhele. "If the French have landed and I'm going home to be burnt in my bed, it shall be with my eyes open." "My dear Mary," the Parson argued, "you've a-got the French on your brain. If the French landed they wouldn't begin by sticking dabs of whitewash all over the parish; now, would they?" "How in the world should I know what a lot of Papists would do or not do?" she answered.
"Pitch a lady's luggage into the road, would you?" for this, you must know, was the reason of Bligh's sulkiness at starting. He had come up soaking from Torpoint Ferry, walked straight to the coach, and pulled the door open to jump inside, when down on his head came rolling a couple of Dutch cheeses that Mrs. Polwhele had crammed on the top of her belongings.
The evening was dusking down by this time, and Parson Polwhele, though a good bit puzzled, called to mind that his wife would be getting anxious to cross the ferry and reach home before dark: so he determined that nothing could be done before morning, when he promised Arch'laus Spry to look into the matter.
Parliament granted a million for the erection of new churches, and large subscriptions were raised by the societies. But Polwhele, writing in 1819, said there were two large London parishes, with a joint population of above 120,000, which kept their village churches with room for not more than 200; and that in 1812, Dr. Middleton tried in vain to build a new church for St.
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