backed by ancient plantations." We have never visited a scene more suggestive of calm and serious thought; its effect was increased by the winning voice of the church-bell, fraught with its divine message, swelling above the landscape; the mingled congregation moving on noiselessly, the rich and poor, the old and young, might have been imagined an array of pilgrims, bound for the sacred temple. "Imagined!" Were they not so? Are we not all pilgrims, toiling onward; working our way through anxieties and tribulations, now led forward by hope, now lured aside by temptations, now driven

The reasons which induced our English ancestors so constantly to plant yew-trees in churchyards have been variously stated. Some affirm that it was to insure a supply of yewbows that the young men of the parish might practice archery, when enjoined by law. But Brady, in his Clavis Calendaria, says: "Among our superstitious forefathers, the palm-tree, or its substitute box and yew, were solemnly blessed on Palm-Sunday, and some of their branches burnt to ashes and used on Ash-Wednesday in the following year; while other boughs were gathered and distributed among the pious who bore them about in their numerous processions, a practice which was continued in this country until the second year of Edward VI." Caxton, in his Directory for keeping the festivals, also shows that the yew was substituted for the palm in England:-"But for that we have non olyve that beareth grained leaf, therefore we take yew instead of palm olyve." The melancholy shade and evergreen tint of the yew afford a good type of immortality, which may have also been another reason for their constant appearance in our churchyards, many of which contain yews of many centuries growth.

back by disappointment- all pilgrimsall troubled-all unsafe-all uncertain of success; whose ears hear the church-bells, though their promise may not strike upon the heart? Pilgrims, and weary and profitless pilgrims are we all, to ourselves and others, until we find the right path; and keeping our eyes fixed upon the bright star of salvation, hold out both hands to help onward our fellow-men; knowing and believing that, despite the hardest the world can do unto us, there is a living and eternal hope which never fails!

O what glad tidings of great joy are brought to every faithful heart by these musical church-bells! In groups, or one by one, the congregation entered the porch. And yet the scene had so inspired us with meditation, that we still lingered within the inclosure.*

The bell ceased-the only living creature lingering on the path was a pretty,

"Husbands at chirche-door have I had five."

At that time stone porches were usual, which, with the room over them, termed the Parvis, became a sort of little chapel, having a piscina. Fire-places are frequently found in them. In these rooms it was not uncommon to keep the church chests, within which the various writings and other valuable properties of the church were kept. Some few of these still remain; as at Newport Church, Essex, where a very remarkable one exists.

gentle-looking girl of ten or eleven years old, using every possible art to tranquillize a child whose wailing voice seemed strangely at variance with the quiet beauty of the scene.

Before we entered the church (whither the little girl, having won the child to tranquillity by her caresses, had gone before us, and as if fearing the renewal of a disturbance, to which she was most likely accustomed, had crouched down just inside the door) we turned for a moment to look at the tomb, consecrated by the poet

to the memory of his mother and also marking his own resting-place

"Upon the lap of earth."

We could hear the tone of the minister's voice, and almost fancy we could distinguish the words; but there was no mistaking the "Amen" of the congregation, so earnest, so solemn, rolling round the building the fervent "So be it" of a

Christian Church, a deep-hearted solemn aspiration that thrilled the very heart, inspiring resignation and hope, and all the meek yet mighty virtues of our exalted faith. Those country churches are wonderful landmarks of history and religion; the aged and low-bending trees that have stood the storms of centuries, the massive ivy, the gray, stern, steady walls, tell a state's history, as well as one of a higher

and holier origin: for ourselves we feel strangely moved when we see the spire of the village church pointing to the heavens, or hear the faintest sound of the distant church bells float above the landscape.

The accompanying sketch of the poet's monument was made before the ground around the testimonial was arranged as a parterre. Here it appears uncultivated, whereas it is exquisitely arranged, and contains numberless flowers, breathing incense to the poet's memory.

The interior of the church is picturesque and well cared for, and after service, which was performed throughout with dignified simplicity, and completed by a sermon sufficiently plain to be comprehended by the unlettered, while its graceful language and unaffected piety carried the listener beyond this world to the happiness rather than the terrors of the next; we were shown the private entrance-porch from Stoke-Park, and the pew appropriated to the use of the family-the old seats, the richly-stained glass, the subdued light, the beautiful domain beyond, the overhanging trees, the full-bosomed melody of the birds, the murmurs of the half-whispered greetings and retreating footsteps of the congregation as they passed out, the manner of our guide, whose attention increased in proportion to the expression of our sympathy with the scene-are all vividly impressed upon our memory.

a

the

“The churchyard was full, very full,” our guide had said, "and a wonderful quantity of persons visited it and read the epitaphs, and even scratched their names on the church walls, though it was forbidden, and took away bits of the yew and wild flowers. It was," he thought, pleasant churchyard to be buried in. Not too full, but not lonely;" and indeed he said truly, for in those country churchyards once at least each week children's children of the silent dead pass beside their graves; the modest headstone and the light waving grass seem more akin to humanity and human feeling than the dungeon-like vaults, or huge "slabs," pressing so heavily upon what we loved so well in the churches or churchyards of our towns. Again we stood beside the poet's grave, read the epitaph on his mother, and cast many a "longing, lingering look behind," while leaving the churchyard immortalized by the most perfect elegy in our language.

HAGAR, IN THE WILDERNESS.

AMID the wilderness, alone,
When noon with burning splendor shone,
Beneath her sky serene

Two mournful forms were seen-
A sad and anxious mother there,
Who wept, in wild and deep despair;
And near her, in the shade,
A pallid boy was laid.
With care her weary feet had sought
Each channel, that she fondly thought
Might hold some trace of rain,
But ever sought in vain.
And bravely had she borne till now;
But death was on that youthful brow-
No water-spring was nigh,

And he-her child-must die.
She turn'd away-she could not brook
On that beloved face to look-

And hid her weeping eye.
"Let me not see him die!"
Alas! my own, my cherish'd one,
What has thy mournful mother done

That thou shouldst thus be reft,
The only treasure left?
How many streams and fountains bright
Are flashing in the golden light,

With music sweet and clear!

But none, alas! are near.

O for one draught from some sweet spring,
Upon its bright course murmuring!

O for one silver wave,
Its drooping brow to lave!
O God, to thee I turn, for thou
Alone canst aid and comfort now;
Hear in this lonely wild

A mother for her child!
How can I bear to see him die!
How can I watch his glazing eye!
Yes, I have err'd-but he-
O spare him yet to me!"
Then from the far-off azure sky
A silv'ry radiance gleam'd on high,
As through its portals blue
A swift-wing'd angel flew,
And gentle words of kindest cheer
Fell on the weeping mother's ear:
"Look up, for help is nigh!
Look up, he shall not die!"
And lo a fount of waters bright
Flash'd on the grateful mourner's sight,
Who brought the healing wave
The pallid lips to lave.

For God had watch'd his wandering child
E'en in the desert lone and wild,

And life and joy were there,
Where late had breathed despair.
Pilgrim, whose mournful footsteps stray
O'er life's forlorn and rugged way;

Though worn with grief and pain,
Think not thy toil is vain.
Still looking from the midnight sky,
Behold a heavenly watcher nigh;

Droop not in doubt and fear,
The water-spring is near.
Though throbs thy heart with anguish strong,
Though grief's sad reign endureth long,
Dark as thy lot may be
Hope's waters flow for thee.

P. J. OWENS.

THE FRENCH CRYSTAL PALACE.

THE

THE magnificent edifice in Paris, erected for the display of the world's best specimens of art and manufacture, is called, after its great prototype in London, to which by the way it bears no sort of resemblance, The Crystal Palace. The French themselves call it the Palais de l'Industrie. It is a substantial oblong building, one hundred and ninety-two meters (French yards) long, and forty-eight wide, having lateral galleries twenty-four meters in width; above which are galleries of precisely the same dimensions. Although the sides of the edifice are of stone and metal, the roof being of glass, there is no want of light anywhere; the galleries of the ground-floor, which are covered by the flooring of the upper galleries, are also lighted by two hundred and eight windows, opening on the Champs Elysées, in addition to the arches which open upon the nave; added to which there are openings in the flooring of the upper gallery at certain distances to let down light and air.

The grand entrance to the palace is surmounted by a group, representing France crowning Industry, Commerce, and Arts. To the right and left are other sculptures surmounting Corinthian pillars, and consisting of cherubs supporting the escutcheon of the Emperor. Below the central group, extending the whole length of the gate, is a frieze, representing Industry and the Arts offering their productions to the "Universal Exposition." On the right and left of the arch are figures of Fame, and beneath the arch is sculptured a grand subject, also relating to the arts and industry. The whole design is at once grand and imposing-a fitting entrance to an exhibition of human skill and ingenuity | gathered from all parts of the world.

Not only is the monumental entrance imposing, but the general appearance of the palace is magnificent in the extreme. The building, being destined to become a permanent repository of the trophies of science and art, is far more solid in its structure than the Crystal Palace of Hyde Park; but the durability of the edifice has in no way affected the general beauty of design which pervades all parts. While it has enabled the architect to construct spacious staircases of solid materials and noble landing-places of great architectural

beauty, it has also given to the upper galleries, as well as to the whole building, a general aspect of grandeur and elegance, combined with a feeling of durability, strength, and comfort, which, without lessening in any degree, the general light and brilliancy, adds materially to the effect of the whole.

The machinery gallery, which lines the Quai de la Conférence-the ancient Port aux Pierres-is most remarkable for its great length. It extends, indeed, twelve hundred meters in a straight line under a vault of glass seventeen meters in elevation. Within, two galleries have been constructed, one on the borders of the Seine, the other on one side of the Champs Elysées, each of which is six meters in width, and by which the whole extent of the perspective may be embraced at once.

One of the most difficult and delicate tasks which had to be performed was the appropriation of space to the various nations from which articles were expected for exhibition. Room, of course, was not wanted for Russia, and how much the United States would need it was not possible to say. In this matter no fault can be found with the directors of the exhibition. An English journalist from whom we quote, admits that France has been more liberal than we were upon a similar occasion; with a building little more than half the size of the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park, more space has been granted to Great Britain than was given to the French. Half of the ground-floor and two-thirds of the galleries are given up to strangers.

To the south, going from east to west, we meet first with the English, then the Americans, next the Belgians, then the Austrians, and, lastly, the Zollverein. In the galleries to the east we have Persia, China, Turkey, Egypt, Tunis, Greece, and the Italian States; to the west, Denmark, Sweden and Norway, Holland, Switzerland, Spain and Portugal. England has allotted to her a space equivalent to 8,470 meters; the Zollverein, 4,499; Austria, 2,694; Belgium, 2,412; the United States, 2,286; Switzerland, 1,099. China, Greece, and Persia united, only cover a space of 262 meters. Most of these nations have spaces both below and above; but some, whose contributions are of minor importance, have only space allotted to them in the galleries. But in such circumstances the contributions are always so arranged,