She and I | Page 2

themselves and mudlarks play.
Along this fosse, the path continued. Further on, it widened into a
broader way, which led you direct to the churchyard of Saint Canon's.
So studded is it with weatherworn tombstones, inclining at all angles
like so many miniature leaning towers of Pisa, ivy-wreathed obelisks
and quaintly-fashioned, railed-in monuments, that you can scarcely
make out the lower buttresses of the ancient church that stands up from
amongst their midst.
With its whitish-grey walls, time-stained and rain-eaten, its severe-
looking, square Norman tower, and its generally-formal style of
architecture, that edifice does not present a very imposing appearance
from without; but, within, the case is different.
Lofty, pointed, stained-glass windows light it. The chancel bears the
stamp of the Restoration. Oaken beams; carved galleries, curiously
contrived to fit into every available space; high, upright box pews--of
the sort instituted, in the reign of Anne, by the renowned Bishop
Burnett to restrain the roving eyes of the congregation and make
gallants better attend to their devotions; all these, in addition to the

memorial slabs and tablets, and weeping angels over cinereal urns, tend
to give the church that air of ugliness and comfort which the modern
churchman detests.
Dear old church!
I love its old walls, its old chancel, its old pews, its form of worship,
and all; for it was there that I first saw her,--my own, my darling!
O, Min, Min! can I ever forget that time?
Can I!
One Sunday--it is not so long ago that my hair is grey, nor so recently
as to prevent my having a story to tell--I was in Saint Canon's church,
sitting in one of its old, square box pews, where one was, as it were,
shut up in a small, private house, away from all connection with the
outer world; for you could not see anything when the door was closed,
with the exception of the roof overhead, and, mayhap, the walls around.
I was listening to the varied fugue introitus that the organist was
playing from the gallery beyond the pulpit,--playing with the full wind
power of the venerable reed instrument he skilfully manipulated,
having all the stops out,--diapasons, trumpet, vox humana, and the rest.
The music was from Handel, a composer of whom the maestro was
especially fond; so fond, indeed, that any of the congregation who
might have the like musical proclivities need seldom fear
disappointment. They could reckon upon hearing the Hallelujah Chorus
at least once a fortnight, and the lesser morceaux of Israel in Egypt at
intervals in between.
Presently, just before the vicar and curate made their customary
processional entry, ere the service began, two ladies were ushered into
the large pew which I occupied alone in solitary state. There was room
enough, in all conscience. It could have accommodated a round dozen,
and that without any squeezing.
Both the ladies were dressed in half-mourning, which attracted my
attention and made me observe them more closely than I might

otherwise have done. My mind was soon engaged wondering, as one is
apt to do-- when in church, more particularly--who and what they were.
One, I saw, was middle-aged: the other had not, probably, as yet
reached her eighteenth year; and what a charming face she had,--what
an expression!
I could not take my eyes off her.
How shall I describe her? I had ample opportunity of taking a study, as
she faced me on the opposite side of the pew, seated beside the other
and elder lady, who, I could see at a glance, was her mother, from the
striking likeness between them--although, there was a wonderful
difference the while.
Have you never observed the slight, yet unmistakable traits of family
resemblance, and the various points in which they are displayed? They
may sometimes be only traceable in a single feature, a smile, a look, or
in some peculiar mannerism of speech, or action, or even thought; but
there they are; and, however indistinct they may be, however faint on
casual inspection, a practised eye can seldom fail to perceive them and
distinguish the relationship betwixt father and son, or mother and
daughter:--the kinship of brothers and sisters is not so evident to
strangers. In the present case no one could doubt: the younger lady
must certainly be the daughter of the other.
But, what was she like, you ask?
Well, she was not beautiful. She was not even what empty-headed
people, unaware of the real signification of the term, call "pretty." She
was interesting--will that word suit?
No. The description would not give you the least idea of what her face
really was like--much less of her expression, in which consisted its
great charm.
Shall I endeavour to picture her to you as I saw her for that first time in
church, before