the uncommercial traveller- 第22部分

any　of　the　names。　　No　question　did　I　ever　ask　of　living　creature

concerning　these　churches；　and　no　answer　to　any　antiquarian

question　on　the　subject　that　I　ever　put　to　books；　shall　harass　the

reader's　soul。　　A　full　half　of　my　pleasure　in　them　arose　out　of

their　mystery；　mysterious　I　found　them；　mysterious　they　shall

remain　for　me。



Where　shall　I　begin　my　round　of　hidden　and　forgotten　old　churches

in　the　City　of　London？



It　is　twenty　minutes　short　of　eleven　on　a　Sunday　morning；　when　I

stroll　down　one　of　the　many　narrow　hilly　streets　in　the　City　that

tend　due　south　to　the　Thames。　　It　is　my　first　experiment；　and　I

have　come　to　the　region　of　Whittington　in　an　omnibus；　and　we　have

put　down　a　fierce…eyed；　spare　old　woman；　whose　slate…coloured　gown

smells　of　herbs；　and　who　walked　up　Aldersgate…street　to　some　chapel

where　she　comforts　herself　with　brimstone　doctrine；　I　warrant。　　We

have　also　put　down　a　stouter　and　sweeter　old　lady；　with　a　pretty

large　prayer…book　in　an　unfolded　pocket…handkerchief；　who　got　out

at　a　corner　of　a　court　near　Stationers'　Hall；　and　who　I　think　must

go　to　church　there；　because　she　is　the　widow　of　some　deceased　old

Company's　Beadle。　　The　rest　of　our　freight　were　mere　chance

pleasure…seekers　and　rural　walkers；　and　went　on　to　the　Blackwall

railway。　　So　many　bells　are　ringing；　when　I　stand　undecided　at　a

street　corner；　that　every　sheep　in　the　ecclesiastical　fold　might　be

a　bell…wether。　　The　discordance　is　fearful。　　My　state　of　indecision

is　referable　to；　and　about　equally　divisible　among；　four　great

churches；　which　are　all　within　sight　and　sound；　all　within　the

space　of　a　few　square　yards。



As　I　stand　at　the　street　corner；　I　don't　see　as　many　as　four　people

at　once　going　to　church；　though　I　see　as　many　as　four　churches　with

their　steeples　clamouring　for　people。　　I　choose　my　church；　and　go

up　the　flight　of　steps　to　the　great　entrance　in　the　tower。　　A

mouldy　tower　within；　and　like　a　neglected　washhouse。　　A　rope　comes

through　the　beamed　roof；　and　a　man　in　the　corner　pulls　it　and

clashes　the　bell　…　a　whity…brown　man；　whose　clothes　were　once　black

…　a　man　with　flue　on　him；　and　cobweb。　　He　stares　at　me；　wondering

how　I　come　there；　and　I　stare　at　him；　wondering　how　he　comes　there。

Through　a　screen　of　wood　and　glass；　I　peep　into　the　dim　church。

About　twenty　people　are　discernible；　waiting　to　begin。　　Christening

would　seem　to　have　faded　out　of　this　church　long　ago；　for　the　font

has　the　dust　of　desuetude　thick　upon　it；　and　its　wooden　cover

（shaped　like　an　old…fashioned　tureen…cover）　looks　as　if　it　wouldn't

come　off；　upon　requirement。　　I　perceive　the　altar　to　be　rickety　and

the　Commandments　damp。　　Entering　after　this　survey；　I　jostle　the

clergyman　in　his　canonicals；　who　is　entering　too　from　a　dark　lane

behind　a　pew　of　state　with　curtains；　where　nobody　sits。　　The　pew　is

ornamented　with　four　blue　wands；　once　carried　by　four　somebodys；　I

suppose；　before　somebody　else；　but　which　there　is　nobody　now　to

hold　or　receive　honour　from。　　I　open　the　door　of　a　family　pew；　and

shut　myself　in；　if　I　could　occupy　twenty　family　pews　at　once　I

might　have　them。　　The　clerk；　a　brisk　young　man　（how　does　HE　come

here？）；　glances　at　me　knowingly；　as　who　should　say；　'You　have　done

it　now；　you　must　stop。'　　Organ　plays。　　Organ…loft　is　in　a　small

gallery　across　the　church；　gallery　congregation；　two　girls。　　I

wonder　within　myself　what　will　happen　when　we　are　required　to　sing。



There　is　a　pale　heap　of　books　in　the　corner　of　my　pew；　and　while

the　organ；　which　is　hoarse　and　sleepy；　plays　in　such　fashion　that　I

can　hear　more　of　the　rusty　working　of　the　stops　than　of　any　music；

I　look　at　the　books；　which　are　mostly　bound　in　faded　baize　and

stuff。　　They　belonged　in　1754；　to　the　Dowgate　family；　and　who　were

they？　　Jane　Comport　must　have　married　Young　Dowgate；　and　come　into

the　family　that　way；　Young　Dowgate　was　courting　Jane　Comport　when

he　gave　her　her　prayer…book；　and　recorded　the　presentation　in　the

fly…leaf；　if　Jane　were　fond　of　Young　Dowgate；　why　did　she　die　and

leave　the　book　here？　　Perhaps　at　the　rickety　altar；　and　before　the

damp　Commandments；　she；　Comport；　had　taken　him；　Dowgate；　in　a　flush

of　youthful　hope　and　joy；　and　perhaps　it　had　not　turned　out　in　the

long　run　as　great　a　success　as　was　expected？



The　opening　of　the　service　recalls　my　wandering　thoughts。　　I　then

find；　to　my　astonishment；　that　I　have　been；　and　still　am；　taking　a

strong　kind　of　invisible　snuff；　up　my　nose；　into　my　eyes；　and　down

my　throat。　　I　wink；　sneeze；　and　cough。　　The　clerk　sneezes；　the

clergyman　winks；　the　unseen　organist　sneezes　and　coughs　（and

probably　winks）；　all　our　little　party　wink；　sneeze；　and　cough。　　The

snuff　seems　to　be　made　of　the　decay　of　matting；　wood；　cloth；　stone；

iron；　earth；　and　something　else。　　Is　the　something　else；　the　decay

of　dead　citizens　in　the　vaults　below？　　As　sure　as　Death　it　is！　　Not

only　in　the　cold；　damp　February　day；　do　we　cough　and　sneeze　dead

citizens；　all　through　the　service；　but　dead　citizens　have　got　into

the　very　bellows　of　the　organ；　and　half　choked　the　same。　　We　stamp

our　feet　to　warm　them；　and　dead　citizens　arise　in　heavy　clouds。

Dead　citizens　stick　upon　the　walls；　and　lie　pulverised　on　the

sounding…board　over　the　clergyman's　head；　and；　when　a　gust　of　air

comes；　tumble　down　upon　him。



In　this　first　experience　I　was　so　nauseated　by　too　much　snuff；　made

of　the　Dowgate　family；　the　Comport　branch；　and　other　families　and

branches；　that　I　gave　but　little　heed　to　our　dull　manner　of　ambling

through　the　service；　to　the　brisk　clerk's　manner　of　encouraging　us

to　try　a　note　or　two　at　psalm　time；　to　the　gallery…congregation's

manner　of　enjoying　a　shrill　duet；　without　a　notion　of　time　or　tune；

to　the　whity…brown　man's　manner　of　shutting　the　minister　into　the

pulpit；　and　being　very　particular　with　the　lock　of　the　door；　as　if

he　were　a　dangerous　animal。　　But；　I　tried　again　next　Sunday；　and

soon　accustomed　myself　to　the　dead　citizens　when　I　found　that　I

could　not　possibly　get　on　without　them　among　the　City　churches。



Another　Sunday。



After　being　again　rung　for　by　conflicting　bells；　like　a　leg　of

mutton　or　a　laced　hat　a　hundred　years　ago；　I　make　selection　of　a

church　oddly　put　away　in　a　corner　among　a　number　of　lanes　…　a

smaller　church　than　the　last；　and　an　ugly：　　of　about　the　date　of

Queen　Anne。　　As　a　congregation；　we　are　fourteen　strong：　　not

counting　an　exhausted　charity　school　in　a　gallery；　which　has

dwindled　away　to　four　boys；　and　two　girls。　　In　the　porch；　is　a

benefaction　of　loaves　of　bread；　which　there　would　seem　to　be　nobody

left　in　the　exhausted　congregation　to　claim；　and　which　I　saw　an

exhausted　beadle；　long　faded　out　of　uniform；　eating　with　his　eyes

for　self　and　family　when　I　passed　in。　　There　is　also　an　exhausted

clerk　in　a　brown　wig；　and　two　or　three　exhausted　doors　and　windows

have　been　bricked　up；　and　the　service　books　are　musty；　and　the

pulpit　cushions　are　threadbare；　and　the　whole　of　the　church

furniture　is　in　a　very　advanced　stage　of　exhaustion。　　We　are　three

old　women　（habitual）；　two　young　lovers　（accidental）；　two　tradesmen；

one　with　a　wife　and　one　alone；　an　aunt　and　nephew；　again　two　girls

（these　two　girls　dressed　out　for　church　with　everything　about　them

limp　that　should　be　stiff；　and　VICE　VERSA；　are　an　invariable

experience）；　and　three　sniggering　boys。　　The　clergyman　is；　perhaps；

the　chaplain　of　a　civic　company；　he　has　the　moist　and　vinous　look；

and　eke　the　bulbous　boots；　of　one　acquainted　with　'Twenty　port；　and

comet　vintages。



We　are　so　quiet　in　our　dulness　that　the　three　sniggering　boys；　who

have　got　away　into　a　corner　by　the　altar…railing；　give　us　a　start；

like　crackers；　whenever　they　laugh。　　And　this　reminds　me　of　my　own

village　church　where；　during　sermon…time　on　bright　Sundays　when　the

birds　are　very　musical　indeed；　farmers'　boys　patter　out　over　the

stone　pavement；　and　the　clerk　steps　out　from　his　desk　after　them；

and　is　distinctly　heard　in　the　summer　repose　to　pursue　and　punch

them　in　the　churchyard；　and　is　seen　to　return　with　a　meditative

countenance；　making　believe　that　nothing　of　the　sort　has　happened。

The　aunt　and　nephew　in　this　City　church　are　much　disturbed　by　the

sniggering　boys。　　The　nephew　is　himself　a　boy；　and　the　sniggerers

tempt　him　to　secular　thoughts　of　marbles　and　string；　by　secretly

offering　such　commodities　to　his　distant　contemplation。　　This　young

Saint　Anthony　for　a　while　resists；　but　presently　becomes　a

backslider；　and　in　dumb　show　defies　the　sniggerers　to　'heave'　a

marble　or　two　in　his　direction。　　Here　in　he　is　detected　by　the　aunt

（a　rigorous　reduced　gentlewoman　who　has　the　charge　of　offices）；　and

I　perceive　that　worthy　relative　to　poke　him　in　the　side；　with　the

corrugated　hooked　handle　of　an　ancient　umbrella。　　The　nephew

revenges　himself　for　this；　by　holding　his　breath　and　terrifying　his

kinswoman　with　the　dread　belief　that　he　has　made　up　his　mind　to

burst。　　Regardless　of　whispe