The untidy condition of the church affected one of his curates, a man of a somewhat domineering character, to such an extent that one day he swept up all the rubbish he could find in the church, old decorations of the previous Christmas, decayed southernwood and roses of the foregoing midsummer festivity, pages of old Bibles, prayer-books and manuscript scraps of poetry, match-ends, candle-ends, etc.; and, having filled a barrow with all these sundries, he wheeled it down to the vicarage door, rang the bell, and asked for Mr. Hawker. The vicar came into the porch.
“This is the rubbish I have found in your church.”
“Not all,” said Mr. Hawker. “Complete the pile by seating yourself on the top, and I will see to the whole being shot speedily.”
In the chancel is a vine, carved in wood, which creeps thence all along the church—an emblem, according to him, of the Christian life.
Hearken! there is in old Morwenna’s shrine,—
A lonely sanctuary of the Saxon days,
Reared by the Severn Sea for prayer and praise—
Amid the carved work of the roof, a vine.
Its root is where the eastern sunbeams fall
First in the chancel; then along the wall