There was not even that mild religious bustle which sometimes besets the
wealthy and moral recluse. My father had left the Church of England for
some odd sect, I forget its name, and ultimately became, I was told, a
Swedenborgian. But he did not care to trouble me upon the subject. So the
old carriage brought my governess, when I had one, the old housekeeper,
Mrs. Rusk, and myself to the parish church every Sunday. And my father, in
the view of the honest rector who shook his head over him--'a cloud without
water, carried about of winds, and a wandering star to whom is reserved the
blackness of darkness'--corresponded with the 'minister' of his church, and
was provokingly contented with his own fertility and illumination; and
Mrs. Rusk, who was a sound and bitter churchwoman, said he fancied he saw
visions and talked with angels like the rest of that 'rubbitch.'
I don't know that she had any better foundation than analogy and conjecture
for charging my father with supernatural pretensions; and in all points
when her orthodoxy was not concerned, she loved her master and was a loyal
housekeeper.
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