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 through a pompous ceremonial with the aid of priestly intercession, all of which

Seems to remove the Lord so far away; The "Father" was so near in Jesus' day.

Ceremonial belongs properly to paganism, not to Christianity!

The ancient tower of Somersby church is squat and square, it boasts no uprising spire pointing to the sky. The soft sandstone of which it is built has crumbled away in places, and has been patched here and there with red bricks and redder tiles. Its weather-worn walls are now moss-encrusted and lichen-laden; tiny weeds and grasses—bird or wind sown—find a home in many a crevice of the time-rent masonry. The tower is a study of colour, its rugged surface shows plainly the stress and stains of countless winter storms. Yellow and gray stones, green grasses and vegetation, ruddy bricks and broken tiles, form a blending of tints that go to make a harmonious whole, mellowed as they are by the magic hand of Time. The tower stands there silently eloquent of the past, beautiful with a beauty it had not at first, and that is the dower of ages; it looks so pathetic in its patched and crumbling state, yet in spite of all it is strong still. Generations will come and wither away faster than its stones will crumble down.

The most permanent feature of the English landscape is its ancient churches. Kingdoms have waxed and waned, new empires and mighty republics across the seas have been founded, since they first arose,