Amongst the many nooks and corners of this ancient Inn of Gray's, the little chapel must not be forgotten. Within its tranquil precincts all things speak of the past, for little has been changed therein for many generations.
Small and unpretentious as it is, few can enter this tiny place of worship without experiencing some emotion, without giving some thought to the many great and illustrious men—lawyers, Churchmen, and statesmen, now long numbered with the dead—who have knelt here for prayer and praise.
Centuries have elapsed since they have passed away, but their noble deeds and writings are still remembered and cherished.
Happily for England, this great race is not extinct. Some of those who now assemble within these walls have already made for themselves illustrious names—names that will be honoured and revered when they, in the fulness of time, depart; but others come here in sorrow, and perchance remorse, for many a promising but wasted life.
Poor, feeble mortals that we are! How many of us live but to exist; and often, indeed, that existence is but the puerile flutter of a day!
Truly, we are but as the sand upon the sea-shore. The tiny atoms shine, perhaps brilliantly, while the sun looks down upon them; but when clouds darken the sky, their brightness fades and soon is gone. Then a little later comes the rising tide—that overwhelming tide of Time, that sweeps them rapidly away. They are gone, and the place where they dwelt, and perchance glittered, knows them no more. No one asks for them; no one misses them. The sand is again as smooth as when they were there. The atoms around still quiver and shimmer in the sunshine as those now departed did of yore.
Not only from association with the past is the quiet little chapel attractive, but there is something soothing in its very aspect.
The fact that so little change has been made in the building or its arrangements for some hundred years is interesting, and it is touching to see the number of gray-headed men who usually attend the services. The memorials around also speak of those who are gone—the painted glass windows, the decorations, the richly-carved book of the Communion Service, are all gifts from those who dearly loved the old place.
In these days of greatly increased form, it is rare also to find a preacher who appears in the pulpit arrayed in the old black Geneva gown.
This quaintly-fashioned gown is precisely that to which our Puritan forefathers attached so much importance, deeming that it savoured less of Popery than any other raiment, inasmuch as its severe simplicity was as far removed as possible from the more imposing and, in their opinion, gaudy vestments of Rome.