DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.61904#0121
CONWAY AND ITS CASTLE. IO9
quies we are intending to be prefent, (he invites us to join her
upftairs, and we follow her into her large old-falhioned bed-
room. Here, fpread out upon the large bed, lie her decent
mourning bonnet, fhawl, and gown, and whilft fhe is affuming
the latter, we aik if the deceafed be a relative of hers.
“ No, indeed,” replies file ; “ but it is right for neighbours
to go to each other’s funerals.”
“ And who, then, is going to be buried ?”
Mrs. Owen’s bright countenance becomes very folemn,
and fhe replies :—
“ A bachelor of forty ; an orphan, without father or mother,
and nobody left behind but a After, poor thing ! So it is quite
right to go to the funeral ! And there will be many there,”
added fhe in an emphatic tone.
This is a convincing argument; and therefore, leaving Mrs.
Owen to complete her toilet, we wend our way to the quiet
old church, which ftands in the middle of the churchyard, and
in the very centre of the town ; gates from the various ftreets
opening into the churchyard ; this churchyard being, of courfe,
interefting to us from Wordfworth’s poem of “ We are Seven.”
Reaching the church, we find the large door unlocked, and
enter. We are the firft of the funeral attendants; but two
grey-coated tourifts, evidently father and fon, are infpedling the
church ; whilft arefpedtable woman, in black, who is arranging
and dulling the pews, anfwers any queftions which may be put
to her : We too wander round, admire the fine carving on
the ancient oak fcreen as we pafs into the chancel, and read the
infcription on the flat grey ftone placed over the remains of
“ Nicholas Hookes, gentleman, who was the forty-firft child
of his parents,” which the younger tourift carefully copies
into his note-book; and, leaving him to add that “ the faid
Nicholas himfelf died the father of twenty-feven children, on
quies we are intending to be prefent, (he invites us to join her
upftairs, and we follow her into her large old-falhioned bed-
room. Here, fpread out upon the large bed, lie her decent
mourning bonnet, fhawl, and gown, and whilft fhe is affuming
the latter, we aik if the deceafed be a relative of hers.
“ No, indeed,” replies file ; “ but it is right for neighbours
to go to each other’s funerals.”
“ And who, then, is going to be buried ?”
Mrs. Owen’s bright countenance becomes very folemn,
and fhe replies :—
“ A bachelor of forty ; an orphan, without father or mother,
and nobody left behind but a After, poor thing ! So it is quite
right to go to the funeral ! And there will be many there,”
added fhe in an emphatic tone.
This is a convincing argument; and therefore, leaving Mrs.
Owen to complete her toilet, we wend our way to the quiet
old church, which ftands in the middle of the churchyard, and
in the very centre of the town ; gates from the various ftreets
opening into the churchyard ; this churchyard being, of courfe,
interefting to us from Wordfworth’s poem of “ We are Seven.”
Reaching the church, we find the large door unlocked, and
enter. We are the firft of the funeral attendants; but two
grey-coated tourifts, evidently father and fon, are infpedling the
church ; whilft arefpedtable woman, in black, who is arranging
and dulling the pews, anfwers any queftions which may be put
to her : We too wander round, admire the fine carving on
the ancient oak fcreen as we pafs into the chancel, and read the
infcription on the flat grey ftone placed over the remains of
“ Nicholas Hookes, gentleman, who was the forty-firft child
of his parents,” which the younger tourift carefully copies
into his note-book; and, leaving him to add that “ the faid
Nicholas himfelf died the father of twenty-feven children, on