"Beneath this antique roof, this hallow'd shade,
Where wearied rustics holy Sabbath keep,
Compos'd as if on downy pillows laid,
The sons and daughters of the hamlet sleep."
[Illustration: THE SLEEPING CONGREGATION.]
The shepherd is not much more awake than his sleeping flock, whose
appearance convinces us that, though there is no organ, there is much
melody. The nasal music of the congregation, joined to the languid
monotony of the preacher,[120] which sounds like the drowsy hum of
a drone bee, must form such a concert as neither Tubal Cain nor Sir
John Hawkins ever dreamed of. The text is perfectly applicable to the
audience, "Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and
I will give you rest." His parishioners have not troubled themselves
much about the Greek version; good, easy men, they take these words
in their literal sense, and, after the toil of six days, find the
church a comfortable and convenient dormitory. By the preacher's
aspect and attitude, we are convinced that he would lull to soft
repose the most lively assembly that ever congregated in the
capital. How, then, must his manner operate here? As an opiate more
powerful than poppies. It is as composing as are the very descriptive
lines that conclude the second book of Pope's _Dunciad_; which are so
perfectly an echo to the sense, that they ought to be inscribed on
the front of the first temple which is dedicated to Somnus. He
"In one lazy tone,
Through the long, heavy, painful page, drawls on.
Soft creeping words on words the sense compose;
At every line they stretch, they yawn, they doze.
As to soft gales top-heavy pines bow low
Their heads, and lift them as they cease to blow,
Thus oft they rear, and oft the head decline,
As breathe or pause by fits the airs divine:
And now to this side, now to that they nod," etc.
The clerk,[121] infinitely more important than the divine, is kept
awake by contemplating the charms of a voluptuously blooming damsel,
who, in studying the Service of Matrimony, has sighed her soul to
rest. The eyes of this pronouncer of Amen are visibly directed to her.
In the pew opposite are five swains of the village;
"Each mouth distended, and each head reclin'd,
They soundly sleep."
To render this rural scene more pastoral, they are accompanied by
two women who have once been shepherdesses, and perhaps celebrated
by some neighbouring Theocritus as the Chloe and Daphne of their
day. Being now in the wane of their charms, poetical justice will
not allow us to give them any other appellation than old women. They
are awake. Whether the artist intended by this to show that they are
actuated by the spirit of contradiction, for the preacher entreats
them to go to rest, or meant it as a compliment to the softer sex,
as being more attentive than men, I cannot tell; let those who have
studied their characters more than I have, determine as seemeth best
in their eyes.
In the gallery are two men joining in chorus with the band below. One
of them has the decency to hide his face; but the other is evidently
in _full song_.
The heavy architecture and grotesque decorations lead us to
conjecture that this now venerable edifice was once the cottage of
Baucis and Philemon, so exquisitely described by Swift:
"_Grown to a church by just degrees_--
---- The ballads pasted on the wall,
Of _Joan of France_, and _English Moll_,
_Fair Rosamond_, and _Robin Hood_,
_The little Children in the Wood_,
Now seem to look abundance better,
Improv'd in picture, size, and letter,
And, high in order plac'd, describe
The heraldry of every tribe."
The "Children in the Wood" are now exalted above the Gothic windows.
One of them we see transformed to an angel; which, to prove its being
of a more exalted species, and no longer a mere mortal, has four
thighs.
"The pretty Robin Redbreasts, which
Did cover them with leaves,"
have undergone a transmigration much to their advantage. It has
somewhat sullied their plumage, but they have assumed a more
important appearance, and the loss of beauty is compensated by an
abundant increase in bulk and dignity. Exalted to the upper part of a
fluted pillar, and seated in heraldic state, they seem to mortal eyes
the emblems of wisdom, the symbols of Minerva.[122]
A lion and companion unicorn, concealed by the pillar, was originally
an headpiece to that excellent old ballad, beginning with
"The fierce lyon of faire Englonde
Didde swallowe the lillie of France."
With jaws extended wide enough to swallow a bed of lilies, he is one
of the supporters to the king's arms.
The pews carry evident marks of having been once a Gothic bedstead.
The cumbrous load of oak with which it was canopied, still supported
by large square posts, is become a gallery. The lower part retains
much of its original form, and answers its original purpose; but why
should I attempt to describe that which is already described by the
Dean?
"A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load;
Such as our ancestors did use,
Is metamorphos'd into pews,
Which still their ancient nature keep,
Of lodging folks dispos'd to sleep."
The pulpit in which our dozing divine is groaning out the gospel, was
once a groaning-chair for the good wife of the cottage. The cushion
on which she sat for many a winter's eve is now ornamented with
tassels. The arm still retains its original form, though somewhat
more upright than when it served for a rest to the old dame's elbow.
Swift describes the exact manner of the metamorphosis:
"The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like an huge snail against the wall;
There stuck aloft, in public view,
And with small change a pulpit grew."
The crutches, which erst supported Dame Baucis, now prop the clerk's
reading-desk.
The triangle, environed by a glory, was placed in the church by
old Philemon. In his youth he had been a very good carpenter, and,
when become a divine, retained so much of his original disposition
as to suppose he could explain an awful mystery by a mechanical
representation. The only misfortune which attended this curious
delineation was, that not one of his parishioners could understand
it: they however, were silent; they thought it too serious an affair
to dispute or call names about. It would perhaps have been as well if
many of our learned and right grave divines had been silent upon this
subject on the same principle.
Swift says that the jack was turned to a clock; in this circumstance
he must have been mistaken, for the hour-glass, which was the
constant companion of Dame Baucis at her wheel, retains its old form,
and is placed at the parson's left hand.[123] Underneath it is the
following applicable inscription from St. Paul's Epistle to the
Galatians: "I am afraid of you, lest I have bestowed upon you labour
in vain."
The windows are evidently intended for companions, but there is a
considerable difference in their proportions, panes of glass, etc.
At the time this massy temple was erected, our countrymen neither
studied Vitruvius, nor considered uniformity as a requisite in
architecture.
This print was published on the 26th of October 1736; but we learn,
by an inscription on the sinister side of the plate, that on the 21st
April 1762 it was retouched and improved by the author.
There is a printed copy, tolerably executed, but not quite so large,
nor has it any price affixed beneath.
The original picture was in Sir Edward Walpole's collection; who is
the present proprietor I do not know. There are some variations in
it; the face of the clerk is different from the print, and he does
not appear leering at the girl, but, to keep in unison with the rest
of the congregation, is half asleep.