Now it so
happened that the lesson was a short one, and, moreover, Russell took
more time, making a farther excursion into the churchyard than before,
in order if possible to be rid entirely of the noisy intruders. Just as
he returned to the church door, this time completely breathless, the
first verse of the canticle which followed was being read, but Russell
was equal to the occasion. All breathless as he was, without a moment's
hesitation, he opened his book at the place and bellowed forth the
responses as he proceeded up the church to his seat. The scene may be
imagined, but scarcely described: Russell's quaint little figure, the
broad-rimmed spectacles on his nose, the ponderous book in his hands,
the clatter of his heels, the choking gasps with which he bellowed out
the words as he laboured for breath, and finally the sudden
disappearance of the congregation beneath the shelter of their high pews
with a view to giving vent to their feelings unobserved--all this
requires to have been witnessed to be fully appreciated.
It chanced one Sunday that a parishioner coming into church after the
service had begun omitted to close the door, causing thereby an
unseemly draught. My father directed Russell to shut it. Accordingly,
book in hand and with a thumb between the leaves to keep the place, he
sallied forth.
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