He seemed satisfied with the correction. I found that there were several persons waiting to be conducted, and that our guide was a “character.” He was deaf, his speech was indistinct from the loss of teeth, and he in every respect came up to the requisite qualification of being decayed.
The original foundation was for the board and lodging of thirteen men, poor and infirm, and for receiving daily at dinner a hundred men[99]—the most indigent that could be found—who were to be allowed to carry away the remains of their food and beer.
“Walk this way,” said our guide, hobbling on in front of us. “Oh! I won’t go too fast for you.”
He led us into the church, where we gazed up at rows of Norman zig-zag until we felt quite giddy. Some think the painting here a little overdone, but it gives some idea of how the severity of the Norman style was softened by colours. A few traces of the old designs are still visible in some places on the walls, and in À Becket’s Chapel there are remains of a series depicting the scenes in his life. There is also a large fresco, even more faded, representing the Descent from the Cross.
“We have heard,” said an inquiring lady, who seemed to take a great interest in everything, “that there is a beautiful triple arch here. Can we see it?”
“No, ma’am, you cannot,” replied our scrupulous guide; “but you will be able to do so when we come to it. This is Major Lowth’s seat,” he added, pointing to one comfortably cushioned.
“Who is he?” inquired the lady. “Where do you say he sits?”
“Nowhere, ma’am. He does not sit anywhere now. He is gone to heaven, ma’am—at least, I hope so. He was one of the trustees.”
We found the triple arch outside at the back of the church. It was very pretty—one arch bisecting another.