Sedley examined the modern structure. The gate was closed, and the bolts
rusted in the wards. The long withered grass bore no marks of having
been recently trodden; every thing appeared in the state in which it
might be supposed to have been left, when the vain-glorious unfortunate
projector of this monumental trophy of his own greatness augmented the
heaps of dead who were interred without religious rite or distinction of
rank, after the fatal battle of Marston-Moor ended the efforts of the
Royalists in the north of England. The unoccupied tomb stood as a solemn
warning against the fond precautions of low cunning and versatile
policy. Sedley now proceeded to the church, which was a complete ruin.
The roof was broken, and the entrances were blocked up with large stones
that had fallen from the walls; yet not so totally, but that a slender
person might find admittance into the building from the south-porch. As
he looked in, he thought fancy might select this as the scene where the
Anglican church, prostrate on her own ruins, mourned her departed glory
and her present desolation in undisturbed silence, far from the sympathy
of her friends, and the insults of her enemies.
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