%images;]> lchtml-003602 Two churches. ...: a machine readable transcription. Lewis Carroll Scrapbook, Library of Congress Selected and converted. American Memory, Library of Congress.

Washington, DC, 2003.

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 2004/05/18
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THE TWO CHURCHES.

THE NEW.

Tis Sunday at our watering-place by the broad blue German Ocean; The streets are still, the sands are bare, the cliffs forlorn and bleak; The fly-boys and fly-horses have a pause in their devotion, For if to labour be to pray, they've been praying all the week. A Sabbath stillness reigneth over earth and sea and sky, All Nature round has gone to Church, so wherefore should not I?

The crack Church at our watering-place is very fine and new; Pure Gothic down to reredos, and sedilia, and piscina; With poppy-heads on open seats—we scorn the cushioned pew And our curate he intoneth, so that nothing can be finer; And we've candles on the altar, and occasionally flowers In short, a small St. Barnabas is this new Church of ours.

“So primitive!” our Curate says—“so truly Apostolic! No Protestant distinctions of private seats and free! Each portion of the building has significance symbolic:” Though, save the poppy-heads, nought's significant to me. Their soporific meaning is clearly to be seen, Thanks to the comment furished by the sleeping heads between.

But finer than our fine new Church—tiles, altar-cloth, and all,— The gules, and or, and azure on nave and chancel-pane,— And early-English lettering emblazoned on the wall,— Are the “miserable sinners” whom these open seats contain: Oh! the cloud of summer-muslins—oh! the flowered and beaded show Of tiny summer bonnets, in gorgeous row on row!

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October 3, 1857.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 137

[Illustration]

Oh! cherry lips, and rosy cheeks, and glossy braided hair, Crowned with dancing, dancing bugles, and flowers of myriad dyes! The Curate he intoneth, but what thought have I for prayer, 'Mid the rustle of the crinolines, the flashing of the eyes? Are these miserable sinners, come for prayer, and praise, and psalm, Or an animated series from Le Courrier des Dames?

And the Rector takes his text, and is eloquent upon it— How that “all things here are vanity, and swiftly pass away;” And each lady scans the pattern of her neighbour's gown or bonnet, And each gentleman's a critic of toilettes for the day. And out I come, much edified, 'mid the organ's solemn swells, With a lively sense how much I owe to these “church-going belles.”

THE OLD.

'Tis Sunday at the village that lies three miles away; A pleasant morning's walk from our watering-place 'twill be: So I'll leave our bran-new Gothic Church, and service for the day, Our hotels and lodging-houses, with their fine views of the sea; And for watering-place gay toilettes, and watering-place church belles, Content myself with field-flowers—coy beauties of the dells.

The Old Church at the village is very damp and small: And the house-leek and the moss clothe its low-pitched roof with green; And the inside has no primitive symbolism at all— Nor reredos, nor sedilia, nor piscina's to be seen; And 'tis blocked up with a gallery, and desecrate with pews, And it shrinks back, grey and shabby, behind its churchyard yews.

No painted window casteth a dim religious light: No encaustic Minton-tiling hides the damp and broken floor: The Creed and Ten Commandments are in modern letters quite: On hard and narrow free-seats, sit the humble village poor: But the “miserable sinners” those narrow seats within, Show more misery than our watering-place M.S., if not more sin.

But through the open porch comes the sweet, sweet summer air, And the rustle of the churchyard trees blends sweetly with the psalm, And their ever-moving shadow chequers each pavement-square, And all about the humble place there broods a holy calm; And crinolines and flounces, beads and bugles are unknown: So I sit and stilly worship, as if I were alone.

Till I hear a sigh beside me and a smothered sound of prayer— And turning, with bowed head and clasped fingers, at my side, Of a miserable sinner I am suddenly aware— An old dame in poke bonnet, and scanty cloak new-dyed: And I thought how such a spectacle, in that New Church of ours, Would jar with bran new symbols, and bugles, beads, and flowers!

And I felt how these two Churches, and their worshippers agree; Tiles, glass, and chanting curate, flowery altar, painted stone, With rustling crinolines, beads and bugles flashing free, And this poor old village church with that still and stooping crone: And in spite of pews and gallery, low roof, and windows bare, I was somehow nearer Heaven in that lowly house of prayer.