I found my way to the church; for there is always something to see about a church, whether living worshippers or dead men’s tombs; you find there the deadliest earnest, and the hollowest deceit; and even where it is not a piece of history, it will be certain to leak out some contemporary gossip.  It was scarcely so cold in the church as it was without, but it looked colder.  The white nave was positively arctic to the eye; and the tawdriness of a continental altar looked more forlorn than usual in the solitude and the bleak air.  Two priests sat in the chancel, reading and waiting penitents; and out in the nave, one very old woman was engaged in her devotions.  It was a wonder how she was able to pass her beads when healthy young people were breathing in their palms and slapping their chest; but though this concerned me, I was yet more dispirited by the nature of her exercises.  She went from chair to chair, from altar to altar, circumnavigating the church.  To each shrine she dedicated an equal number of beads and an equal length of time.  Like a prudent capitalist with a somewhat cynical view of the commercial prospect, she desired to place her supplications in a great variety of heavenly securities.  She would risk nothing on the credit of any single intercessor.  Out of the whole company of saints and angels, not one but was to suppose himself her champion elect against the Great Assize!  I could only think of it as a dull, transparent jugglery, based upon unconscious unbelief.

She was as dead an old woman as ever I saw; no more than bone and parchment, curiously put together.  Her eyes, with which she interrogated mine, were vacant of sense.  It depends on what you call seeing, whether you might not call her blind.  Perhaps she had known love:  perhaps borne children, suckled them and given them pet names.  But now that was all gone by, and had left her neither happier nor wiser; and the best she could do with her mornings was to come up here into the cold church and juggle for a slice of heaven.  It was not without a gulp that I escaped into the streets and the keen morning air.  Morning? why, how tired of it she would be before night! and if she did not sleep, how then?  It is fortunate that not many of us are brought up publicly to justify our lives at the bar of threescore years and ten; fortunate that such a number are knocked opportunely on the head in what they call the flower of their years, and go away to suffer for their follies in private somewhere else.  Otherwise, between sick children and discontented old folk, we might be put out of all conceit of life.

I had need of all my cerebral hygiene during that day’s paddle:  the old devotee stuck in my throat sorely.  But I was soon in the seventh heaven of stupidity; and knew nothing but that somebody was paddling a canoe, while I was counting his strokes and forgetting the hundreds.  I used sometimes to be afraid I should remember the hundreds; which would have made a toil of a pleasure; but the terror was chimerical, they went out of my mind by enchantment, and I knew no more than the man in the moon about my only occupation.