Household words, no. 307, February 9, 1856 : $b A weekly journal
General
Household words, no. 307, February 9, 1856 : $b A weekly journal
English literature -- Periodicals
The interruption--nay, the paralysis--of commerce occasioned by the
present war is another source of exhaustion. Except for ordinary
necessaries of life, Russia draws her supplies from foreign countries
in exchange for raw material produced from the estates of the nobles.
She has such endless supplies of timber that to give an idea of some
of her forests, it is said, as a specimen, that a squirrel might hop
from Saint Petersburg to Moscow from tree to tree without touching the
ground, and that she could, under a rational system, afford illimitable
tallow, hemp, and oil; but these sources of wealth are impeded and
crippled very naturally when nearly every port she possesses along her
limited sea-board is blockaded.
A SMALL MONKISH RELIC.
No more than a few months have elapsed since the greatest Greek scholar
of the day, the Reverend Doctor Gaisford, late Dean of Christchurch,
Oxford, was carried to his last resting-place within the walls of
the ancient cathedral over which he had presided so many years. The
students of the house, clad in white surplices, preceded the remains
of their venerated Dean as the procession passed along the east side
of the quadrangle, from the deanery to the cathedral. Great Tom had,
by tolling every minute (a thing never done except at the death of
the sovereign or the dean), announced the decease; and now a small
land-bell, carried in front of the procession by the dean’s verger, and
tolled every half-minute, announced that the last rites were about to
take place.
The cathedral clock struck four; the usual merry peal of bells for
evening prayers was silent. We strolled towards the cathedral, and
finding a side-door open, walked in. The dull, harsh, and grating
sound of the workmen filling up the grave struck heavily on our ears,
as it resounded through the body of the church. The mourners were all
gone; and alone, at the head of the grave, watching vacantly the busy
labourers, stood the white-headed old verger; another hour, the ground
would be all levelled, and the stones replaced over the master he had
served faithfully so many years.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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