he is solitary, and then the scenes he visits fix their images in his soul, and long afterwards he can reproduce them by word-painting for others. The reproduction of scenes visited thus is often rendered easy and suggested by trivial circumstances, turning over the pages of an old pocket book, or opening an old letter, or coming across a preserved fern leaf that you had forgotten you had ever picked up. Here is the case of a rambler in North Wales, who, on winter nights, wrote an account of summer rambles :-" Under just such circumstances did I the other day stumble upon an old dusty knapsack which I had not seen for years, and which 'sent my memories slipping back into the golden days.' I took it and looked into it, and there arose therefrom an odour to me sweeter than roses, but one which to another philosopher's nose would only have seemed an unpleasant agglomeration of the odours of apples, spilt sherry, trout, and oat cakes, over-ridden by a strong suggestion of bird's eye tobacco. That knapsack, sir, had been my fides Achates (if I may apply that term to an inanimate friend) in many a delightful vagabondisation, when I, with my knapsack-like Goldy with his flute-trudged along with strong limbs and a light heart through the solitary paradises of Snowdonia."

To bring our paper to a conclusion, we must commend the travelling propensity of the age as a good thing, and peripatetics as the very best of philosophy, and the following extract from "Through Norway with a Knapsack" as a first-rate speciSpeaking of the waterfalls of Romsdal, the author "Here they pour and dash down their own chosen courses, the wild unfettered creatures of God's bounty. Here we may gaze upon them undisturbed, and revel in the wonder,

men. says:

gratitude, and veneration that such a scene awakens, by reminding us that he has so fitted our faculties to his works around, that every object or action in the universe has in it some element of grandeur or of beauty capable of filling our souls with joy. There are those who tell us that this world is but a festering heap of wickedness and corruption, but the man who would fit himself for the reception of a higher manifestation of his Creator's bounty in another world, must first train his soul to be capable and worthy of fully enjoying the heavenly elements of this."

FURNESS.

If we look at the map of the northern counties of England, we find that there is a peninsula of considerable size separated from Cumberland by the estuary and stream of the Duddon, and having also on the same side Coniston Lake as the continuation of the boundary; and on the east Windermere and the Leven separate it from Westmoreland, while Morecambe Bay divides it from the rest of Lancashire, of which county the peninsula forms a part.

Down this peninsula runs a ridge of hills, and as the whole district is named Furness, these hills are known as Furness Fells, which, declining in height near the southern end, slope away into a low undulating tract in the south-east called Low Furness. From the mouth of the Duddon to Morecambe Bay, nearly parallel with the coast, runs the island of Walney, about ten miles in length, which, as its name imports, is an island wall, forming a gigantic breakwater, giving security to the thriving port of Barrow. (Plymouth breakwater is nearly the shape of this natural one in Furness.) The town of Barrow, about midway between Duddon and Morecambe Bay, was ten years ago but a small village, beginning to thrive, however, by what has since caused it to attain its present dimensions. The iron ore of the district began to be smelted here, and so workmen's houses were erected, the railway gave

communication north and south, and the dock dues, being less than at Liverpool, gave encouragement to shippers. Now the ironworks have been extended, and steel works are being erected, and thousands of houses. The population, from a few hundreds, has swelled to near eleven thousand. The south eastern end of the straits separating Walney from the mainland being of considerable width, room is found for several islands, one of which is now being excavated for the docks of Barrow, and on another, at the mouth of the strait in olden times, stood the frowning battlements of Piel Castle, and still stand there the ruins of its walls; but we opine the revolving light on the south end of Walney is of more use than ever was Piel Castle.

About two miles from the port of Barrow is the Valley of the Deadly Nightshade, and in the valley the ruins of the once famous Abbey of Furness. Famous yet, for who knows not Furness? Who of all our tourist people has not visited Furness? Who of all who read of ancient grandeur has not heard of Furness? It ranks with Netley, and Fountains, and famed Melrose. We have climbed the steps of its tower and looked down on its grassy floor. We have rambled in broad sunlight among the beautiful Norman arches of the cloisters, we have taken in the grand coup d'œil, including the broken arch and the oriel, and all is beauty; but

"If thou would'st view fair Furness aright

Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins grey.

When the broken arches are black in night,
And the shafted oriel glimmers white;

When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress alternately
Seem framed of ebon and ivory ;
When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die.

We have seen it thus. Willingly we yielded to the great enchantment. The grass-grown pillars became dark figures of the old grey friars from Savigny.

The brook, in its

softened murmurings, became a sound of music, and we were carried back seven centuries, and in fancy saw the Abbey founded. Serfs of Anglo-Danish and mayhap of Celtic blood, at the bidding of the Norman monks, toiled on. The cloisters were built, the great gothic arches were raised, the magnificent chapter-house was finished, and there in solemn procession went abbot, and monks, and bishop, with swinging censers and uplifted rood, and chanting non nobis Domine, and calling on Mary to bless from Heaven their noble founder Stephen, Count of Boulogne, and Henry the King. Then, in 1135, they rejoiced that Stephen was King, and three years after, when the Fell men returned from Northallerton, where the holy standards had been displayed in battle, with the sanction of the venerable Metropolitan, they assembled again joyfully, glad of the defeat of the Scots King, shouted Te Deum laudamus, and said mass for the souls of the slain. Then, throughout those troublous years of Stephen's reign, when for the poor "to till the land was to plough the sea," they held by the fortunes of the king, and never had a prayer for Matilda, the empress. Then their