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turned. "Silence gives consent," quoth Bernard. When he came back he found himself suspended from preaching. Soon after Barnes summarily ordered him to preach before the Clergy at Chester. Gilpin knew his danger, and pleaded want of notice and his suspension. "I charge you," said the Bishop, "go up and preach." His enemies were taking notes, yet that brave man inveighed against the disorders of the northern diocese, and solemnly concluded thus:-"Most reverend Father, GOD hath exalted you to be Bishop of this diocese, and requireth an account of your government thereof. Behold, I bring these things to your knowledge this day. Therefore, in the presence of GOD, angels, and men, I pronounce you to be the author of all these evils: yea,. in that strict day of the general account I shall be a witness against you; and all these shall bear witness, who have heard me speaking unto you."

A loud murmuring filled the Church; his enemies thought his doom sealed; his friends in tears assured him that he had put a sword in the hands of his foes to slay him. "Be the truth propagated, be God glorified, and His will done concerning me," replied Gilpin. After the usual visitation dinner of the Clergy, he came to bid farewell to the Bishop.

"I will bring you," said the prelate visibly touched, "to your own house;" and as he stood before the porch, took the honest pastor's hand, adding, "Father, I confess it were more meet for you to be Bishop of Durham, than for me to be Rector of the Church of Houghton. Forgive me as long as I continue in this See, no man shall harm you; live in peace." The Bishop was his coexecutor with Mr. Heath whom we have before mentioned: they were bequeathed silver spoons with the Gilpin crest, the acorn, as a remembrance.

We have drawn towards the close of the life of one who has justly earned the high title of the Apostle of the North-it is the life that is an existence beyond its account in days, and is spent but for a better world to come, already almost within the veil, by conformity with it, and close apprehension of Him, Who makes its glory. Gilpin was eminently a practical man; his theology was

no mysticism. He did the work of a missionary, when the harvest was ripe and the labourers were few. The pious founder of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, printed his life as a model to the priest in the wild; and at this moment two of his descendants àre earnest clergymen in one of the North American colonies of England. His labours wore down his naturally strong frame, tall and powerful; and an attack from an infuriated ox in Durham market-place, completely shattered the remains of his broken constitution. So weak did he grow, that he felt beforehand the time of his dissolution drew nigh; but for years had he toiled in anticipation of Heaven; the world in a manner had been passed, and earth was in ashes to him. He had neither wife nor child; but he gathered the poor about his dying bed, the servants and his scholars, and took his sad leave of them. He disposed of his goods in a will singularly simple, which is a striking evidence of his own frugality and tender care for all connected with him. "Weak in body, yet of good remembrance," (so it begins) "GOD be praised, knowing the frailty and uncertainty of man's life, seeing even now before mine eyes in this time of GOD's visitation many and daily examples of death, 1 bequeath and commend my soul into the hands of Almighty God, my Creator, not trusting in mine own merits, which am of myself a most wretched sinner, but only in the merits of JESUS CHRIST, my Redeemer and SAVIOUR." His books, with a few exceptions, he left to Kepyer School and Queen's College.

Winter was passing swiftly away, amid the lingering snow-drifts of February, the golden crocus shot up its blossoms; in the wood side the star-like celandine, the blue periwinkle and the aconite clustered on the bank; the fieldfare and redwing were ready to seek a colder air; and all the fair promise of spring was calling forth the early song of the birds; but no more should the pale form of Bernard feel the enlivening of the pleasant sunlight, or go out to do his Master's work. Lent had scarce come, when the hour of his rest drew nigh; and the blessed hope of keeping an eternal Easter in a glorious Presence enlightened his enfeebled eyes; he

was almost in sight of the better country; and so he who taught men before how to live, was to teach them no less virtuously how to die.

In the south transept of Houghton Church may be seen a solid altar-tomb of massy freestone, with a simple enrichment of chain work, his coat of arms, and a legend telling how below it sleeps Bernard Gilpin, who at the age of sixty-six, on March 4, 1583, heard the cry "the Master is come and calleth for thee!" There he lies, while others are imitating his zeal with throbbing hearts among the miners of the north, at rest for ever; others with aching brain devising fresh schemes of good, with toiling hand and weary feet, while he has ceased from his labours, and finished his course with joy. Death laid his hand on him, healing all earthly sorrow, all anguish and fear, all the deep pain and longing of the mortal; for the King of terrors to the just is God's last consoler upon earth.

M. E. C. W.


WE were kneeling in Batalha, about the dawn of day,

When the aisles were dim and shadowy, and the roofs were wan and grey;

Hard by our own Philippa's1 tomb, where 'neath that royal pile
Upon the cold and marble lips still sits a heavenly smile;
And by her victor husband's side, through Him That died to save,
She testifies that earthly love is mightier than the grave;
And we thought of our dear land and hers, that lies beyond the sea,
And we prayed for swift and safe return, if God's good pleasure be;
Then, once more gazing on the scene, we turned and went our way,
For o'er the mountains, many a league, our weary journey lay:
But ne'er to gaze on pile like this, so thought we as we pass'd,-
Till we enter New Jerusalem, which GOD us grant at last!

But wherefore for our country sigh?

For us,

where'er we roam,

All Europe is an heritage, and all the Church a home:

There's not a lordly spire, that cuts against the pure blue sky,There's not a little village shrine, where the clear stream glideth by,

1 Philippa of Lancaster, Queen of Dom João I. founder of Batalha.

There's not an ancient hermitage, by the forest lakelet's edge, Where the winds and waters sing all day to the willows and the sedge,―

There's not a minster on the cliff, with the tempest battling sore,

Where the aisles and vaultings whistle, and the wind-swept turrets


Nor a huge Cathedral, soaring above the city's din,

With the world's rude turmoil round about, and God's own peace within,

When the moon in beauty decks them, or the sun in glory paints, But they are ours, for-"I believe the Communion of the Saints."

But time and change have done their worst, and better years are gone,
And by our brethren set at nought, we wander on and on :
But their injustice cannot put eternal justice by,—

And their mistake can never turn our truth into a lie :

One LORD we serve,-one Faith we keep,—one hope we hold with them;

Our hearts are true,—and where and who is he that dares condemn ?
For that more blessed Pentecost we yearn and strive and long,
The Council Ecumenical, that shall right the Church's wrong:
And for this faith, and for this hope, contempt, as here we roam,
Right well were borne, and bitter scorn, and fiercest hate, at home:
No toil we spare, all risks we dare, till we and they are one:
He only has to speak the word, and it shall straight be done.

So on o'er heath-clad mountains, and through the vine-hung lane,
The peaceful spoils of this fair land for our own dear Church to gain.
For her we note the turret, for her the buttressed pile,
For her the foliage of the pier, and the vault that spans the aisle :
For England's Priests are toiling to repair their mother's loss,
And every art must bear its part in the Triumph of the Cross:
Let wealth and love and patience and skill and craft combine:
Fetch the oak tree from the forest, and metal from the mine :
Go, cull the choicest colours to deck the storied glass,
Iron for things of iron, and brass for things of brass:
And bid the stone to live and breathe with holy emblems rife,
And flowers to glow, and plants to blow in cold metallic life.

Then that blest SPIRIT, Who of old inspired the sons of men,
Into the corpse of art shall breathe the breath of life again.
Another Palestrina shall tune the Church's song;

Another Fra Angelico shall paint the blessed throng.
She shall labour in His service That died upon the Rood,

And, labouring, evermore perceive that her merchandize is good; }
The merchandize of many a soul from error won and sin :

The merchandize that at the last, the Crown of Life shall win.
So on we go, her pilgrims, on her true service found,—

Where'er we tread, whate'er we do, upon her errand bound;
If we forget her in our mirth,— —or in our hour of ill,

Then let our own right hands forget their cunning and their skill!
Santarem, May 22, 1854.




LITTLE more than five miles from Penrith, a sudden turn of the road brought us to Pooley Bridge, where we once more crossed to the Cumberland side of the Eamont, and were almost taken unawares at finding the glassy waters of the lower reach of Ulleswater stretched at our feet. This exquisite lake, which by twisting itself into three distinct reaches, resembles the letter Z in shape, is about nine miles in length, but seldom more than one in breadth; in one place a huge projecting rock reduces its width to less than a quarter of a mile. The counties of Westmoreland and Cumberland divide in the centre of the waters, throughout the middle and lower reaches of the lake: the upper reach, and Patterdale, are wholly in Westmoreland. Ulleswater is remarkable. for the grand reverberation of its echoes: the sound of a successive discharge of cannon fired on the lake, is stated to make such a sevenfold variety of awful sounds as to produce on the mind of the listener an impression that "the very foundations of every rock on the lake must be giving way, and the whole scene, from some strange convulsion, falling into general ruin." But a far more exquisite melody must be produced by a continuation of musical echoes: the inconceivable inflexions of tone, intervalled by the notes of every distant waterfall, are said to have the marvellous effect of "transforming the whole lake into a kind of magical scene, in which every promontory seems peopled by aerial beings, answering each other in celestial music."2


"Had traced the Eamont's winding way,
Till Ulfo's lake beneath us lay."'3

We saw at last its waters sparkling in the sunlight by our side. We were really gazing on the solemn sentinel

· 1 Gilpin.

2 Ibid.

3 Sir Walter Scott.

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