After Dinner We Rode Out To See The Old Church, In Whose Enclosure The
Remains Of Clarkson Repose.
It was just such a still, quiet, mossy old
church as you have read of in story books, with the graveyard spread
all around it, like a thoughtful mother, who watches the resting of
her children.
The grass in the yard was long and green, and the daisy, which, in
other places, lies like a little button on the ground, here had a
richer fringe of crimson, and a stalk about six inches high. It is, I
well know, the vital influence from the slumbering dust beneath which
gives the richness to this grass and these flowers; but let not that
be a painful thought; let it rather cheer us, that beauty should
spring from ashes, and life smile brighter from the near presence of
death. The grave of Clarkson is near the church, enclosed by a
railing, and marked by a simple white marble slab; it is carefully
tended, and planted with flowers. In the church was an old book of
records, and among other curious inscriptions was one recording how a
pious committee of old Noll's army had been there, knocking off
saints' noses, and otherwise purging the church from the relics of
idolatry.
Near by the church was the parsonage, the home of my friends, a neat,
pleasant, sequestered dwelling, of about the style of a New England
country parsonage.
The effect of the whole together was inexpressibly beautiful to me.
For a wonder, it was a pleasant day, and this is a thing always to be
thankfully acknowledged in England.
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