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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 "the cry 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."1 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."ž


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

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

1 Gilpin.

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mountains. There was the royal peak of Helvellyn, soaring in the azure distance above the craggy multitude. We were revelling in the beautiful!

The beautiful! Be it a lovely landscape, a perfect human form, or an incomparable bijou wrought by the invisible Creator, through the instrumentality of human art,—everywhere the beautiful is an uneffaced relic of the work of GOD'S SPIRIT, once manifested in Eden! Surely some among us forget this; else we should not so often find the beautiful classed amid the "pomps and vanities of this wicked world." It were high time man better understood the destiny of his being. Nay, thou lowbowed spirit, bent beneath the Cross of chastening because of sin, quench not thou the longing for the beautiful, implanted in thy soul by a FATHER's tender mercy to oasis thy desert path! Rather, cultivate thine admiration, and cherish thy taste for "whatsoever things are lovely." Dost thou not know that, when thy SAVIOUR cometh, "out of Zion He will shine, in the perfection of beauty" (Psalm 1. 2;) and, lifting the Cross from off the shoulders of His poor and afflicted ones, whose nature He hath rescued from defacement, will give " beauty for ashes," (Isa. lxi. 3,) not only to the long-stricken human race, but likewise to all creature-kind, whether animate or inanimate ? For His glory will be the consummation of the beautiful, even the "joy of the whole earth.” (Ps. xlviii. 2.)


The peculiarity of the shape of Ulleswater, renders a leisurely progress along its margin a succession of unexpected tableaux,-ever shifting, ever varied: each fresh dissolving view" surpassing its predecessor in sublimity and Alpine grandeur. The extent of lake first seen, does not exceed three miles; behind, the Vale of Eamont seems already shut off by Dunmallet, the tree-feathered pyramid which closes in the foot of the lake. On either side, the lower declivities of the fells are softened by woodlands and pastures. A little further, Swarth Fell rises massively on the opposite shore; whilst in front, the prospect is terminated by the impending promontories of Hallin Fell and Shelley Neb. But soon after, winding above the lovely house and grounds known as

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Halsteads, the road suddenly turns an angle, and a second panorama, bounded by mountains of yet more gigantic dimensions, bursts upon the sight. Here, the scarred cliffs on the left shore (anciently part of the Forest of Martindale,) rear their frowning fronts immediately above the stream. On the right, the rough hillocks of Dacre Common, and the romantic fern-clad steeps of Gowbarrow Park, o'ershadowed by many a gnarled oak, mountain ash, or weeping birch, and peopled by herds of fallow deer, form the charming foreground, through which the road undulates.

On a lofty knoll in Gowbarrow Park, is perched Lyulph's Tower; a hunting box, built by a Duke of Norfolk, and so named in remembrance of Lyulf, the first Baron of Greystoke, to "whom the lake did belong." This Lyulf, or Ulfe, is said to have lived in the time of the Saxons, and is supposed by some writers to have given his name, "Ulfeswater," to the lake. Other authors, however, consider the name "Ullswater," merely signifies "water of the lake :" just as "Helbeck," denotes "water of the beck;" "Ellesmere,' """water of the mere ;" or "Helgill," "water of the gill." I confess, I think the former derivation wears the best guise of probability; and Sir Walter Scott appears to have entertained a similar opinion, to judge from the appellation, "Ulfo's lake," by which, in the "Bridal of Triermain," he distinguishes this noble sheet of water.

It is customary for carriages to pause at the foot of the eminence crested by Lyulph's tower, in order that tourists may mount the height, and enjoy the splendid prospects commanded by the tower. But, as our route on the morrow was destined to carry us over the selfsame range, by the road which branches from Ulleswater to Keswick, at a very short distance beyond the pathway pointing to Lyulph's Tower, we resolved to defer our enjoyment of the view, together with a possible bird's-eye glance at Aira Force (a noble waterfall in Gowbarrow Park, by many esteemed one of the finest cascades in the

1 Dr. Burn, Mr. Mackel.

2 El, Hel, Ul, Hul, Wel, and Elv, or Elf, all signify "water."

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