- end_line
- 5435
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:26.981Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 5390
- text
- TEMPLE FIRST
‘This is too bad,’ said I, ‘here have I tramped this blessed Sunday
morning, all the way from the Battery, three long miles, for this
express purpose, prayer-book under arm; here I am, I say, and, after
all, I can’t get in.
‘Too bad. And how disdainful the great, fat-paunched, beadle-faced man
looked, when in answer to my humble petition, he said they had no
galleries. Just the same as if he’d said, they didn’t entertain poor
folks. But I’ll wager something that had my new coat been done last
night, as the false tailor promised, and had I, arrayed therein this
bright morning, tickled the fat-paunched, beadle-faced man’s palm with a
bank-note, then, gallery or no gallery, I would have had a fine seat in
this marble-buttressed, stained-glass, spick-and-span new temple.
‘Well, here I am in the porch, very politely bowed out of the nave. I
suppose I’m excommunicated; excluded, anyway. That’s a noble string of
flashing carriages drawn up along the curb; those champing horses, too,
have a haughty curve to their floam-flecked necks. Property of those
“miserable sinners” inside, I presume. I don’t a bit wonder they
unreservedly confess to such misery as _that_. See the gold hat-bands
too, and other gorgeous trimmings, on those glossy groups of low-voiced
gossipers near by. If I were in England now, I should think those chaps
a company of royal dukes, right honourable barons, etc. As it is,
though, I guess they are only lackeys. By the way, here I dodge about,
as if I wanted to get into their aristocratic circle. In fact, it looks
a sort of lackeyish to be idly standing outside a fine temple, cooling
your heels, during service. I had best move back to the Battery again,
peeping into my prayer-book as I go. But hold; don’t I see a small door?
Just in there, to one side, if I don’t mistake, is a very low and very
narrow vaulted door. None seem to go that way. Ten to one, that
identical door leads up into the tower. And now that I think of it,
there is usually in these splendid, new-fashioned Gothic temples, a
curious little window high over the orchestra and everything else, away
up among the gilded clouds of the ceiling’s frescoes; and that little
window, seems to me, if one could but get there, ought to command a
glorious bird’s-eye view of the entire field of operations below. I
guess I’ll try it. No one in the porch now. The beadle-faced man is
smoothing down some ladies’ cushions, far up the broad aisle, I dare
say. Softly now. If the small door ain’t locked, I shall have stolen a
march upon the beadle-faced man, and secured a humble seat in the
sanctuary, in spite of him. Good! Thanks for this! The door is not
locked. Bell-ringer forgot to lock it, no doubt. Now, like any
felt-footed grimalkin, up I steal among the leads.’
- title
- Chunk 1