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Rambles among the Lakes.

from the margin of this lake, one of which is called Raven's Crag. Having passed this lake, the highest mountains of the district break upon your view, viz., Blencathra and Skiddaw.

About a mile before you reach the town of Keswick, you come to an eminence where you get a magnificent view of the surrounding scenery. The giant mountain Skiddaw lifts up its back in the distance. At its foot lies the large lake called Bassenthwaite waters; and to your left you have the charming lake called Derwentwater. Keswick is a neat little town, containing 3,500 inhabitants. The principal objects to be visited are Derwentwater and the neighbouring mountains. Derwentwater is regarded by some tourists as the queen of all the lakes. It is about three miles long and a mile and a half broad. It is situated in an amphitheatre of mountains. Several islands stud its surface. The surrounding scenery is remarkable, not so much for its beauty as for its sublimity. Every object is bold and striking. The Skiddaw mountains rise with great majesty at the back of the town.

Having seen the lake and gazed upon the mountains, and watched the movements of travellers going up who appeared no larger than blackbirds, I inquired for Greta Hall, the residence of the late poet Southey. It stands back some distance from the road, and also from the river Greta. The hall is embosomed in trees, and not much of the building can be seen by those walking along the highway. Having seen all of the premises I possibly could, I went forward to the old parish church in the village of Crossthwaite. The church is large, and now, having been restored, presents a very handsome appearance. The side door was open, and facing the door was a marble effigy of Southey. Not far from it, leaning on a pew, was the sexton, an old man who has spent all his life on the spot. He was full of information and talk about Southey. He knew him well, and tells anecdotes, some of which are very amusing. Some visitors came to the church door one Sunday morning and wished to be put into a pew where they could see Mr. Southey. The sexton agreed to accommodate them. Having put them into a seat he was to point out Southey by putting his hand on his pew as he passed. The poet noticed this movement of the

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sexton, and guessed its intent. So the next day as the sexton was walking through Keswick he met Mr. Southey with a book in his hand, as usual. Mr. Southey came up to the sexton, and putting his hand on his shoulder, said, Sexton, never do that again."

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Many of the Americans pay a visit to Keswick when they come to this country. They are sure to find their way to Southey's tomb. One day our sexton having informed some of these Americans that he dug the grave in which Southey was burried, they took hold of his beard, which was rather long, and cut it off, saying that they would take to America the beard of the man who had laid Southey in the grave.

Well having seen all I could see at Keswick in one day, and the evening drawing on, I took coach and rode back to Grasmere.

Purposing to leave Grasmere on Tuesday afternoon, I spent the morning in visiting a charming spot called Easdale, with its little lake called Easedale Tarn. This is one of the finest dales in the locality. You pass through a succession of chambers in the mountains until you reach the tarn, at a considerable height above the level ground. Just before I got to the tarn I saw an old woman climbing the mountain side dressed very much like a gipsy. She was the only person I could see. She made her way to a little hut near the tarn. When I got up to the spot she had taken off her bonnet and cloak, and I found she was the wife of the proprietor of the hut whose name is Eaton. She was a canny old Cumberland dame. She was very communicative, and gave me all kinds of information about the tarn. She expressed her regret that her husband was not there, as he would have given me a row on the water. She wanted to put the kettle on and make me a cup of tea. She kept a visitor's book, and asked me to enter my name. I did so; and I found that the last entry before mine was made by a poet. He had written these lines

"I see no cause to spin a yarn Because I have been to Easdale tarn; Of course we came the tarn to see, And then we drank a cup of tea.' Having admired the beautiful scenery of Easdale I made my way back to the village of Grasmere, and as I had to

pass the old church I thought I would go and take a farewell view of Wordsworth's grave. This graveyard may be regarded as one of the chief points of attraction in the lake district. From almost all parts of the world, and at all times in the day during the summer and autumn months, pilgrims come to this spot. I visited the grave three times. The first was when I came by the excursion train. As soon as our coachman had put us down at the Prince of Wales Inn we ran off at once to the little church. Years ago, when in College, I had heard a friend describe Grasmere churchyard, and I had always longed to see it. Having entered the churchyard gate we at once passed into the church, the door of which was standing open. We read the epitaph on the marble tablet which speaks of Wordsworth as a philospher, a philanthropist, and a poet. A little modest innocent looking girl was at the church door who seemed the very image of simplicity. Leaving the church we at once went to the tomb of the poet. A peculiar thrill of feeling seemed to shake me as I looked on the tomb of Wordsworth for the first time. It is a plain dark stone with nothing on it but the following names

"William Wordsworth, 1850.

Mary Wordsworth, 1859." On the right hand side of the poet's grave there is a white stone which commemorates the death of his daughter Dora, and on the left a dark stone to the memory of Susanna Hutchinstone, the sister of his wife. At the back of Wordsworth's grave there is another grave which awakens sad and pensive reflections in the minds of all who know the history of the person buried there. On a modest stone you read, Hartley Coleridge, born 1796, died 1849." There is a cross and a crown of thorns worked into the stone, and round the circular head of the stone the words, "By thy passion and bloody sweat, good Lord deliver us."

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I visited this same spot on the Friday evening after I reached Grasmere the second time. The shades of evening had fallen. An awful stillness prevailed in the mountains. The river Rotha, which flows close by, was quite calm, and the trout were leaping up after the flies. Two ladies, probably mother and daughter, were sitting on the low wall which divides the church

yard from the river enjoying the solemn silence of that never-to-be-forgotten evening.

The last time I saw this dear spot was on my return from Easdale, when I met some good friends from Sheffield who kindly gave me a ride in their trap as far as Ambleside, where I took the steamer, and proceeded home.

I feel that I have only given a rapid glance at this beautiful and wonful part of our native land. Many other subjects might claim our attention. The geology of the lake district is worthy of special notice. The botany would amply repay any amount of attention given to it by the earnest student. The character and habits of the people; the names of persons and places indicative of the races which have settled there are all worthy of a fuller amplification, but our space would not admit of such expansion-we must content ourselves with a few reflections on this part of the subject.

No devout mind can linger in this district, or dwell upon it in recollection, without being impressed with the majesty and power of God. These mighty mountains, which fill the mind with awe and dread, are the productions of His omnipotence. These beautiful lakes, fanned by the gentle winds, or reflecting in their open bosoms the midday sun or the midnight stars, are the products of His wisdom, goodness and love. His everlasting counsel planned it all. His all availing energy performed it all. These mountains and hills were not thrown together by chance, but they stand where a divine arrangement placed them. They are the monuments of a divine interposition; and as we gaze upon them we are reminded of the words of our great poet Milton—

"These are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty! thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair! thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine."
Or, in the words of another poet-

"Let all the world rejoice

The great Jehovah reigns;

The thunders are His awful voice;
Our life His will ordains.

He rules by sea and land;

O'er boundless realms He sways;
He holds the ocean in His hands,
And mighty mountains weighs.
Unequalled and alone

In majesty He fills His throne."

REVELATIONS OF LIFE IN LONDON. BY THE REV. G. W. MCCREE.

No. V.-Inside the Houses.

FEW visitors to London know much, or can possibly know much about its population. They see its public buildings, the Thames, the Crystal Palace, the theatres, the prisons, and the great, long, busy streets, but of the people of London as they are at home they know nothing. How can they? Neither the rich nor the poor are very accessible. The doors are shut. Few can open them. Thousands of the poor are as inaccessible as the rich. They will not be seen. Their houses are their castles, and it is not every man whom they will admit within their precincts. Hence, visitors to London with return tickets for six or ten days rarely see the metropolitans at home.

There is, however, a source of information open to us, of which we shall freely avail ourselves. In Red Lion

Square there is a house where may be found hundreds of volumes full of close writing, and they contain, we venture to say, the most copious, exact, and valuable information concerning the poor of London, which can anywhere be found. We purpose culling from these volumes-the journals of City Missionaries-some facts and revelations which may interest our readers.

One of the missionaries, writing of sensational sermons, bills, texts, and preachers, makes some very wise remarks:

"We are living in a peculiar age, and whatever is done to be successful, many think needs to be sensational. If people are to be got to attend church, then we must have a gorgeous ritual to draw them. If they are to be got to a meeting, minus the ritual, then the preacher must be placarded as the converted Burglar,' 'Blind Jos, the Fiddler;' or else he was a thief, a convict, or a pugilist; and if none of these things can be said of him, then the trade, or business he worked at, must be put on the placard, and all is done to draw. Now, there is danger in all this, for while the one phase of Ritualism has a Romeward tendency, though the Ritualists as a body say that they don't intend such, I am afraid that the other tends to make the hard-handed artisans of our large towns scoff at all religion. I remember an infidel said to me some time ago, 'Ah, you're nowhere.' I said, 'How so?' He said,

If you were a returned convict, or thief, and then set up the religious shop, you would make a good thing of it.' At this a number of men standing round laughed heartily, and said, 'Hear, hear,' showing that he was not alone in that opinion."

Still, we must admit that "Fiddler Jos" has done much good, and that even sensational placards are sometimes, if not often, useful among a certain class.

The Irish Romanist is a singular and very ignorant being. He fears the priest and loves whiskey; enjoys a dance and goes to mass; will either crack a joke or a skull, as you like; and dies with perfect faith in extreme unction, and very little in Christ. Here is a sketch of one of them by a missionary who knows them well:—

"Their ignorance of any of the simplest truths of the gospel is alarming. All they seem to know consists of a few set phrases about the Virgin Mary and St. Peter,' as most of them like to call him, their great anxiety being to please the former, and get past the latter when they die, as they strongly believe he stands at heaven's gates, and will only allow those who please him to pass in. I will give the following as an illustration. I was visiting a tailor and his wife. I asked him how he stood for eternity, if he should be called to die. He said, 'Oh, sure, I will do as King Charles the Third did' (there never was, of course, any such King of England), 'who, I am told, when he came to heaven's gate, and St. Peter asked him who he was, answered, "I am Charles the Third of England." St. Peter replied, "No matter, you cannot come in here." Then they had a fight about it, during which Charles threw his hat over the wall, and while St. Peter went inside to look for it, King Charles rushed in and was safe.' I thought this the strangest way of getting to heaven I had ever heard of, but the man seemed firmly to think this story true, and that he would be able to get saved in some such way. I read to him the seventh chapter of Revelation, and showed him that unless he is washed in the blood of the Lamb, he can never be saved. Both he and his wife listened to the reading of Scripture as some new thing.

"As is usual with such a class of people, they will drink at times excessively, even if they should have no food the next day.

Sunday is their chief day for drinking and card-playing, after having been to mass in the morning, and it generally ends in a fight or some other squabble."

Many of the missionaries are exposed to personal violence-especially when visiting the Romanists. They are pelted with stones. Water is poured upon them. Foul words are rattled at them like hail, and their lives are sometimes in danger. One of them says:

"On Thursday, August 5th, I was visiting in Czar-street, and was only in the first house when a disturbance began, by an Irishwoman on the opposite side of the street jeering the people who had received me, though they were professedly Protestants. On leaving that house, I got into conversation with four or five other Irishwomen, who sat on a door-step, when the noisy woman came also, and saying many bad things, ordered me to be gone, and took up a large stone of several pounds weight to throw it at me. I told her to be cautious what she did with it, as the law would surely punish her, if she committed any violence upon me. So after a little more thought, and seeing I was not afraid of her, she dropped it. I said a few more words to the people, who were now much increased in number and violence, and then passed on to the first house, where I knew a Protestant family resided, the crowd of Irish setting up a loud cry.

"On another occasion, in the same street, there were a number of Irishwomen met together for gossip in one of the houses. We got into an argument of a desultory sort. One of them said that the whole lot (meaning all Protestants) would be no better than her cat, which sat before her on the hearth.' And after many questions had been asked and answered on both sides, one asked me what I thought of the Virgin Mary. I said she was a good woman, and the mother of our Saviour, but nothing more. On which she went to the street door and screamed as if for her life, and a host of persons came from their houses, some crying one thing and some another, but the issue of it was, that I was pushed out of the house, and then all sorts of screams and yells were set up by the people, in the midst of which I left the street for the day."

The women are, I am sorry to say, always the worst in these battles and persecutions, and are very furious in their opposition to the missionaries.

The Irish are great beggars. They have quite a genius for mendicity. This makes it difficult for the mis

sionary to teach them the way of life. One says:

"The begging propensity of many is a nuisance. Even strong hearty men descend to it. 'Tis true they don't ask for much to begin with, perhaps only the 'price of a pot,' or ' Havn't yer got a penny to give us, master?' As far as appearances go, it seems useless saying anything to these begging fellows about their salvation, for they have a ready way of disposing of the subject by saying, 'O, yes, we know all about that; come, arn't yer going to give us this penny?' But as I know one of Satan's devices is to keep people thinking about anything to the exclusion of eternal things, I thrust in the sword of the Spirit, in hope that it may some day pierce their adamantine crust and reach the soul."

The indolent, aimless manner in which working men often spend the Lord's-day is well known. Here is a graphic picture of a group of those idlers:

"Sunday mornings have been devoted by me to the looking up the men lounging about the district, and visiting the shops open on a Sunday. It is lamentable to see the efforts made by a party of men to kill time on a Sunday morning. Things which would not claim a moment's attention or a passing glance on a week day are matters of great interest on a Sunday. I saw a party one morning. They were interested by the depth of the ditch alongside the road. One called to the other to look at it. Byand-by a rut was seen in the road. Each must then measure the depth, pass comments on the clay, &c.; then the hedges claimed attention; and presently one thinks they may as well go half a mile further, but then they find they are so wearied with doing nothing that they cannot go. Meanwhile they are within a stone's throw of a church, or, by walking a few yards further, of a chapel; but to them the Sabbath is not a delight, holy to the Lord, and honourable.' I came up to them, gave them a tract each, and was glad to find, for want of something better to do, they began to read, and while in sight I found they continued reading."

How evident it is that open-air preaching and visitation are essential to the evangelization of the masses. We must go to them, they will not

come to us.

The most singular and fanciful notions often obtain credence among certain classes in London. Men who have the most grotesque notions as to God, the soul, the constitution of nature, politics, and the future state

Revelations of Life in London.

abound; and as they are always fond of argument, it is not difficult to gain access to them. What do our readers think of this ?

"When I called upon Mr. B. to-day, he received me gladly, and seemed anxious to have a long conversation. In Canada this man appears to have been much celebrated as an electrician and magician. I observed in his room a French-Canadian newapaper, in which he was described as 'a little man with great powers.' After I had spoken to him a short time about the immortality of the soul, and of the importance of being prepared for the future state, he asked me if I would allow him to tell me what he thought of those matters. The 'spirit' or 'soul' of man, he said, was no larger than a pea, it was situate in the middle of the brain, and when a man died, this spirit evaporated, and passed into what is called 'space,' where it remained for ever with the enlarged powers it assumed at the death of the body. He believed that God was the Father of our spirits,' as the Bible taught; but he also believed that electricity was God, and vice versa."

Many working men seem to think that "electricity" will explain everything. It is force, it is life, it is this, and it is that. And yet they cannot tell you what electricity itself is.

A missionary occupies "a district;" that is, a section of London containing from four to six hundred families. These he visits for five or six hours a day, holds meetings in their midst, and, in fact, lives and labours for them. One of them thus describes his district:

"Charles-street has been long and widely known as a haunt of the dishonest and the fallen. There is not a house in the street but what is partly occupied by such, and some of the houses are entirely so occupied. There are in this street ten common lodging-houses, and these are not better than so many schools and nurseries of vice and criminality. I never spoke to an inmate of one of those houses but what he admitted to me that it was a most undesirable place to live in. Each house is occupied, on an average, by about sixty persons. Some of the houses accommodate only men, others only women, and others both men and women. When a young man or woman commencing a course of sin enters as an inmate of these houses, he or she immediately receives an accelerated impetus in the downward course from the example and teaching of those who are older in sin, and who seem

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to take a kind of satisfaction in seducing others into the same snare into which they have themselves fallen. I have known both young men and young women to come to reside in those houses, whose first error was that of forming a companionship with some who were there before them, and I have been surprised at the short time which passed before they became as bad as those who seduced them. Besides these lodging-houses there are in Charlesstreet and its courts twelve houses entirely occupied by the fallen, and four others are partially so occupied by them, and those associated with them in sin. The moral influence of these characters is not confined to the houses they live in, or even to the street they occupy, but extends to the surrounding neighbourhood, where the people are rendered so familiar with crime that it ceases to excite any feeling of abhorrence. Married women associate with the fallen, and partake with them of the drink purchased by the wages of sin, and some are actual associates with them in sin, at which their husbands connive, so far as that they too partake of the illgotten gain. Four keepers of lodginghouses in this street have been convicted during the year of receiving stolen property. One of them had acquired a large sum of money by this means during his many years' residence in the street. I was in the street, conversing with a group of thieves, as he passed in the custody of two detective policemen. One of those to whom I was talking expressed his pleasure at seeing him taken, and said, 'there are some more of them that get their coin on the cross, that ought to be taken too,' so that it will be seen the thieves have no respect for, or sympathy with those who facilitate their living by theft."

But even work amongst such people has its reward.

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"I boarded this year a vessel," writes the Missionary to the Commercial Docks, "and spoke to all the men on board, of the gospel. Among them was a lad, who sadly wanted a Testament. When I gave it to him, I said to him, I hope you will read it, for many poor lads to whom I have given Testaments have never returned to their friends again.' The vessel left the docks, and on her voyage out encountered a strong gale. The boy was sent aloft, and fell from the topsail into the sea. This was told me by a sailor aboard the vessel, when she returned to London. He went into the forecastle after telling me this, and brought up the Testament belonging to the boy. I looked at it, and it bore marks of having been well read. 'Sir,' said the sailor, 'he was always

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