Six or seven hale
old gaffers (not too stiff to walk, with the help of a staff, a little
further than the rest) were coming to hear parson by the path below the
warren, where a smack of salt would season them for doctrine. They knew
from long experience, the grandmother of science, that the mist of the
sea, coming on at breakfast-time, in the month of August (with the wind
where it was and the tides as they were), would be sure to hold fast
until dinner-time. Else, good as they were, and preparing punctually
once a week for a better world, the hind buttons of their Sunday coats
would have been towards the church, and the front ones to the headland.
For the bodies of their sons were dearer to them, substantially dearer,
than their own old souls.
They were all beginning to be deaf, or rather going on with it very
agreeably, losing thereby a great deal of disturbance, and gaining great
room for reflection. And now when the sound of a gun from the sea hung
shaking in the web of vapour, each of these wise men gazed steadfastly
at the rest, to see his own conclusion reflected, or concluded. A gun
it was indeed--a big well-shotted gun, and no deafness could throw any
doubt on it. There might not be anything to see, but still there would
be plenty to hear at the headland--a sound more arousing than the
parson's voice, a roar beyond that of all the gallery. "'Tis a battle!"
said one, and his neighbour cried, "A rare one!" They turned to the
parish church the quarters of farewell, and those of salutation to the
battle out at sea.
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