“Every eye shall now behold Him,
Robed in dreadful majesty;
Those who set at nought and sold Him,
Pierced and nailed Him to the tree,
Deeply wailing,
Shall the true Messiah see.”

Still following Mrs. Petulengro, we proceeded down the chancel and along the aisle; notwithstanding the singing, I could distinctly hear as we passed many a voice whispering, “Here come the gypsies! here come the gypsies!” I felt rather embarrassed, with a somewhat awkward doubt as to where we were to sit; none of the occupiers of the pews, who appeared to consist almost entirely of farmers, with their wives, sons, and daughters, opened a door to admit us.  Mrs. Petulengro, however, appeared to feel not the least embarrassment, but tripped along the aisle with the greatest nonchalance.  We passed under the pulpit, in which stood the clergyman in his white surplice, and reached the middle of the church, where we were confronted by the sexton, dressed in a long blue coat, and holding in his hand a wand.  This functionary motioned towards the lower end of the church, where were certain benches, partly occupied by poor people and boys.  Mrs. Petulengro, however, with a toss of her head, directed her course to a magnificent pew, which was unoccupied, which she opened and entered, followed closely by Tawno Chikno, Mr. Petulengro, and myself.  The sexton did not appear by any means to approve of the arrangement, and as I stood next the door laid his finger on my arm, as if to intimate that myself and companions must quit our aristocratical location.  I said nothing, but directed my eyes to the clergyman, who uttered a short and expressive cough; the sexton looked at him for a moment, and then, bowing his head, closed the door—­in a moment more the music ceased.  I took up a prayer-book, on which was engraved an earl’s coronet.  The clergyman uttered, “I will arise, and go to my father.”  England’s sublime liturgy had commenced.

Oh, what feelings came over me on finding myself again in an edifice devoted to the religion of my country!  I had not been in such a place I cannot tell how long—­certainly not for years; and now I had found my way there again, it appeared as if I had fallen asleep in the pew of the old church of pretty D[ereham].  I had occasionally done so when a child, and had suddenly woke up.  Yes, surely I had been asleep and had woken up; but, no! alas, no!  I had not been asleep—­at least not in the old church—­if I had been asleep I had been walking in my sleep, struggling, striving, learning, and unlearning in my sleep.  Years had rolled away whilst I had been asleep—­ripe fruit had fallen, green fruit had come on whilst I had been asleep—­how circumstances had altered, and above all myself, whilst I had been asleep.  No, I had not been asleep in the old church!  I was in a pew it is true, but not the pew of black leather, in which I sometimes fell asleep in days of yore, but in a strange pew; and then my companions,