(How odd, by the way, that all that family of epithets should have the same initial!) A wide stretch of moorland lies around and about the little village, which crouches in a hollow, like some poor dejected animal that seeks to shelter itself from the bitter blast.

On the edge of the moorland, and above the straggling cottages and the little inn, rises the massive square tower of an old church, so far out of proportion to the pitiful cluster of houses, that I imagine it must be the remnant of some monastic settlement.
Towards this church I made my way, under the dispiriting drip, drip of the rain, and accompanied by a feeble old man, who is sexton, clerk, gravedigger, and anything or everything of an official nature.
We went into the church after my ancient mariner No.

2 had fumbled a good deal with a bunch of ghostly-looking keys.

The door opened with a dismal scroop, and shut with an appalling bang.

Grim and dark as the church is without, it is grimmer and darker within, and damp and vault-like, _a faire fremir_.