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ornamented with rude carvings from the times
of Catholicism. The old church-door creaks in
the hinges. We stand within its walls, where
the vaulted roof was filled for centuries with the
fragrance of incense, with monks, and with the
song of the choristers. Now it is still and
mute here: the old men in their monastic
dresses have passed into their graves; the
blooming boys that swung the censer are in
their graves; the congregation – many
generations – all in their graves; but the church still
stands the same. The moth-eaten, dusty
cowls, and the bishops’ mantle, from the days
of the cloister, hang in the old oak presses; and
old manuscripts, half eaten up by the rats, lie
strewed about on the shelves in the sacristy.
In the left aisle of the church there still
stands, and has stood time out of mind, a carved
image of wood, painted in various colours which
are still strong: it is the Virgin Mary with the
child Jesus. Fresh flower wreaths are hung
around hers and the child’s head; fragrant
garlands are twined around the pedestal, as festive
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