The clergyman now stopped, and the clerk then
said in a loud voice, "Let us sing to the praise and glory of God,
the forty-seventh psalm."
I cannot well express how affecting and edifying it seemed to me, to
hear this whole orderly and decent congregation, in this small
country church, joining together with vocal and instrumental music,
in the praise of their Maker. It was the more grateful, as having
been performed, not by mercenary musicians, but by the peaceful and
pious inhabitants of this sweet village. I can hardly figure to
myself any offering more likely to be grateful to God.
The congregation sang and prayed alternately several times, and the
tunes of the psalms were particularly lively and cheerful, though at
the same time sufficiently grave, and uncommonly interesting. I am
a warm admirer of all sacred music, and I cannot but add that that
of the Church of England is particularly calculated to raise the
heart to devotion; I own it often affected me even to tears.
The clergyman now stood up and made a short but very proper
discourse on this text: "Not all they who say, Lord, Lord! shall
enter the kingdom of heaven." His language was particularly plain,
though forcible; his arguments were no less plain, convincing, and
earnest, but contained nothing that was particularly striking. I do
not think the sermon lasted more than half an hour.
This clergyman had not perhaps a very prepossessing appearance; I
thought him also a little distant and reserved, and I did not quite
like his returning the bows of the farmers with a very formal nod.
I stayed till the service was quite over, and then went out of the
church with the congregation, and amused myself with reading the
inscriptions on the tombstones in the churchyard, which in general,
are simpler, more pathetic, and better written than ours.
There were some of them which, to be sure, were ludicrous and
laughable enough.
Among these is one on the tomb of a smith, which on account of its
singularity, I here copy and send you.
"My sledge and anvil he declined,
My bellows too have lost their wind;
My fire's extinct, my forge decayed,
My coals are spent, my iron's gone,
My nails are drove: my work is done."
Many of these epitaphs closed with the following quaint rhymes:
"Physicians were in vain;
God knew the best;
So here I rest."
In the body of the church I saw a marble monument of a son of the
celebrated Dr. Wallis, with the following simple and affecting
inscription:
