When two days had passed, Sunday came; I breakfasted by myself in the solitary dingle; and then, having set things a little to rights, I ascended to Mr. Petulengro’s encampment.  I could hear church-bells ringing around in the distance, appearing to say, “Come to church, come to church,” as clearly as it was possible for church-bells to say.  I found Mr. Petulengro seated by the door of his tent, smoking his pipe, in rather an ungenteel undress.  “Well, Jasper,” said I, “are you ready to go to church? for if you are, I am ready to accompany you.”  “I am not ready, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “nor is my wife; the church, too, to which we shall go is three miles off; so it is of no use to think of going there this morning, as the service would be three-quarters over before we got there; if, however, you are disposed to go in the afternoon, we are your people.”  Thereupon I returned to my dingle, where I passed several hours in conning the Welsh Bible, which the preacher, Peter Williams, had given me.

At last I gave over reading, took a slight refreshment, and was about to emerge from the dingle, when I heard the voice of Mr. Petulengro calling me.  I went up again to the encampment, where I found Mr. Petulengro, his wife, and Tawno Chikno, ready to proceed to church.  Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro were dressed in Roman fashion, though not in the full-blown manner in which they had paid their visit to Isopel and myself.  Tawno had on a clean white slop, with a nearly new black beaver, with very broad rims, and the nap exceedingly long.  As for myself, I was dressed in much the same manner as that in which I departed from London, having on, in honour of the day, a shirt perfectly clean, having washed one on purpose for the occasion, with my own hands, the day before, in the pond of tepid water in which the newts and defts were in the habit of taking their pleasure.  We proceeded for upwards of a mile, by footpaths through meadows and corn-fields; we crossed various stiles; at last, passing over one, we found ourselves in a road, wending along which for a considerable distance, we at last came in sight of a church, the bells of which had been tolling distinctly in our ears for some time; before, however, we reached the church-yard, the bells had ceased their melody.  It was surrounded by lofty beech-trees of brilliant green foliage.  We entered the gate, Mrs. Petulengro leading the way, and proceeded to a small door near the east end of the church.  As we advanced, the sound of singing within the church rose upon our ears.  Arrived at the small door, Mrs. Petulengro opened it and entered, followed by Tawno Chikno.  I myself went last of all, following Mr. Petulengro, who, before I entered, turned round, and, with a significant nod, advised me to take care how I behaved.  The part of the church which we had entered was the chancel; on one side stood a number of venerable old men—­probably the neighbouring poor—­and on the other a number of poor girls belonging to the village school, dressed in white gowns and straw bonnets, whom two elegant but simply dressed young women were superintending.  Every voice seemed to be united in singing a certain anthem, which, notwithstanding it was written neither by Tate nor Brady, contains some of the sublimest words which were ever put together, not the worst of which are those which burst on our ears as we entered: