 and in doing so had
severely indicated the cause of that isolation which he was condemned to suffer.
Yes, all his life he had desired to play games on Sunday; he had never been able
to understand why games on Sunday should be forbidden. And the angry laugh which
escaped him as he went by the guardian of public morals, declared the
impossibility of his ever being at one with communities which made this point
the prime test of worthiness.
    He walked on at a great speed, chafing, talking to himself. His way took him
through Heavitree (when Hooker saw the light here, how easy to believe that the
Anglican Church was the noblest outcome of human progress!) and on and on, until
by a lane with red banks of sandstone, thick with ferns, shadowed with noble
boughs, he came to a hamlet which had always been one of his favourite resorts,
so peacefully it lay amid the exquisite rural landscape. The cottages were all
closed and silent; hark for the reason! From the old church sounded an organ
prelude, then the voice of the congregation, joining in one of the familiar
hymns.
    A significant feature of Godwin's idiosyncrasy. Notwithstanding his profound
hatred and contempt of multitudes, he could never hear the union of many voices
in song but his breast heaved and a choking warmth rose in his throat. Even
where prejudice wrought most strongly with him, it had to give way before this
rush of emotion; he often hurried out of earshot when a group of Salvationists
were singing, lest the involuntary sympathy of his senses should agitate and
enrage him. At present he had no wish to draw away. He entered the churchyard,
and found the leafy nook with a tombstone where he had often rested. And as he
listened to the rude chanting of verse after verse, tears fell upon his cheeks.
    This sensibility was quite distinct from religious feeling. If the note of
devotion sounding in that simple strain had any effect upon him at all, it
merely intensified his consciousness of pathos as he thought of the many
generations that had worshipped here, living and dying in a faith which was at
best a helpful delusion. He could appreciate the beautiful aspects of
Christianity as a legend, its nobility as a humanising power, its rich results
in literature, its grandeur in historic retrospect. But at no moment in his life
had he felt it as a spiritual influence. So far from tending in that direction,
as he sat and brooded here in the churchyard, he owed to his fit of tearfulness
a courage which determined him to abandon all religious pretences, and
henceforth trust
