Then there was the village church, with its tower dark and rustling from
base to summit, with thick piled, bowering ivy. The royal arms cut in
bold relief in the broad stone over the porch--where, pray, is that
stone now, the memento of its old viceregal dignity? Where is the
elevated pew, where many a lord lieutenant, in point, and gold lace, and
thunder-cloud periwig, sate in awful isolation, and listened to orthodox
and loyal sermons, and took French rappee; whence too, he stepped forth
between the files of the guard of honour of the Royal Irish Artillery
from the barrack over the way, in their courtly uniform, white, scarlet,
and blue, cocked hats, and cues, and ruffles, presenting arms--into his
emblazoned coach and six, with hanging footmen, as wonderful as
Cinderella's, and out-riders out-blazing the liveries of the troops, and
rolling grandly away in sunshine and dust.
The 'Ecclesiastical Commissioners' have done their office here. The
tower, indeed, remains, with half its antique growth of ivy gone; but
the body of the church is new, and I, and perhaps an elderly fellow or
two more, miss the old-fashioned square pews, distributed by a
traditional tenure among the families and dignitaries of the town and
vicinage (who are they now?), and sigh for the queer, old, clumsy
reading-desk and pulpit, grown dearer from the long and hopeless
separation; and wonder where the tables of the Ten Commandments, in long
gold letters of Queen Anne's date, upon a vivid blue ground, arched
above, and flanking the communion-table, with its tall thin rails, and
fifty other things that appeared to me in my nonage, as stable as the
earth, and as sacred as the heavens, are gone to.
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