Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet by Charles Kingsley

The next afternoon was the last but one of my stay at D * * *. We were to dine late, after sunset, and, before dinner, we went into the cathedral. The choir had just finished practising. Certain exceedingly ill-looking men, whose faces bespoke principally sensuality and self-conceit, and whose function was that of praising God, on the sole qualification of good bass and tenor voices, were coming chattering through the choir gates; and behind them a group of small boys were suddenly transforming themselves from angels into sinners, by tearing off their white surplices, and pinching and poking each other noisily as they passed us, with as little reverence as Voltaire himself could have desired.

I had often been in the cathedral before -- indeed, we attended the service daily, and I had been appalled, rather than astonished, by what I saw and heard: the unintelligible service -- the irreverent gabble of the choristers and readers -- the scanty congregation -- the meagre portion of the vast building which seemed to be turned to any use: but never more than that evening, did I feel the desolateness, the doleful inutility, of that vast desert nave, with its aisles and transepts -- built for some purpose or other now extinct. The whole place seemed to crush and sadden me; and I could not re-echo Lillian's remark: