and to hear the sounds of Christian joy and praise. I recall some words of Macaulay on this point: "While industry is suspended, while the plough rests in the furrow, while the exchange is silent, while no smoke ascends from the factory, a process is going on quite as important to the wealth of nations as any that is performed on busier days. Man, the machine of machines, compared with which all the contrivances of the Watts and Arkwrights are worthless, is repairing and winding up; so that he returns to his labors on Monday with clearer intellect, with livelier spirit, and with renewed corporeal vigor."

The streets were thronged with little children going to and from their various schools. It was a sultry day, and the operatives cleanly dressed sat quietly in their door-ways, the men generally in their shirt-sleeves. They looked to me pale and worn. It was good to see them resting for a little. time from their bone-wearing and monotonous toil. The poor children of the manufacturing cities are the greatest objects of compassion. The multiplicity of laborers in England and their consequent low wages, lead parents to put their children very early into factories where the hard work and confinement are terrible. They have been known to begin labor at the tender age of five, and I have seen it stated that boys and girls from eight to fifteen are obliged to labor in factories and workhouses eighteen hours a day. But now, at this still hour, there seemned to be, at least to a looker-on, something like repose to the weary.

I took a long walk to hear Canon Hugh Stowell preach in Christ Church, Salford. The text was from the Epistle to the Galatians, vi. 15. His sentences were extremely sententious. The first two I remember were these: "A man will give every thing to God but his heart. God will have nothing from man without his heart." He argued upon the essential falseness of a baptismal, ritual, credal, sentimental, or moral piety. Faith was a new life. It was God dwelling in us as a living principle of pure emotion, right thought, and benevolent action. To criticize so good and noble a sermon were hardly fair; but its style ran often into poetic commonplace, and did not retain the nervous masculine march with which it began. And one cannot but long in the English pulpit for the free elbow, the bold and graceful sweep of the arm, that is seen in the French pulpit, be it that of Lacordaire or Cocquerel, and also in the most effective American preaching and oratory. There is a trussed look, a gesturing with the hand, instead of the arm. In the afternoon I heard an Independent minister in a most humble and obscure brick building, with nothing on the exterior to distinguish it from an old black cotton warehouse. A few sheep were gathered in this lowly sheepfold. The preacher was a thin, pale man, who prayed fervently for the crowds of those who had not the bread of life in that swarming city, for the poor, the sinful, and the tempted. He preached an earnest but sad sermon. Yet perhaps he was one of

the few who in the eye of God saved the citywhose prayers filled the golden vials before the throne. I could not help fancying that even the sight of one stranger rather cheered the little flock.

Of course I do not mean to speak of a Manchester Sabbath as any thing peculiar. If I had penetrated into the back lanes of Ancoats, and the less public parts of the city, I should probably have found the gin palaces in full swing, and profaneness and gross vice enough. But to the transient stranger the day was apparently kept holy, and the great tired city rested from its labors.

CHAPTER XI.

THE LAKE COUNTRY.

A LIVELY and pretty scene was that miniature Bowness Bay, on beautiful Lake Windermere, with its fleet of tiny yachts, their pennants flying, and its array of gayly cushioned pleasure-boats. A pleasant-looking boatman touched his hat, and we were soon out of the crowd of small craft and voracious swans, the rapid-winged boat cutting its way over the lake, smooth and black as Egyptian marble, toward the "Ferry Inn," some little way down on the opposite side. While we were running over, there were indications of the sultry day ending in a thunder-storm, and two or three rumbles of thunder broke among the hills. The tall mountains at the head of the lake grew misty, and the sun shining through the clouds that piled up swiftly around it, showed like an immense St. Andrew's cross. A considerable swell followed the gusts that began to sweep down the lake, but our boatman thought it would soon pass over, as it did. We neared the great craggy wall on the opposite side, about a mile across, skirting along its base, until we came to the promontory of Ferry Inn, marked by its conspicuous clump of sycamores.

Here we could see nearly the whole reach of the lake, which is ten miles long. In shape it is not unlike "Long Lake" in Northern New York, but how unlike the shaggy sides and setting of that rude though beautiful Indian water! Everywhere the hand of taste has smoothed the shores of this English lake. At every point where there is a foothold, some noble dwelling is placed, its rolled lawn or its majestic park coming down to the very water's edge. But the lakes of the Adirondack region, in point of size and other features, might bear some comparison with these English lakes, especially with the rockier and sterner ones. Perhaps in future times those rough emeralds of the mountains, where now nought is heard but the plaintive cry of the loon, or the plashing of the wild deer among the lilies, will be built upon, and become the homes of poets and the resorts of travelers, artists, and health-seekers. But there is something exquisitely soft in Windermere. It has a feminine delicacy, and with its light touches of beauty draws out the fatigue from the weary brain. It does not want in largeness and grandeur toward its upper end. As we came around Curwen Island, on our return, we had a clearer view of the northern extremity of the lake. Fairfield Mountain stood out distinct and dark against the sky, and just under it on either side Rydal Head and Nab Scar, with Wansfell Pike and the Kentmere range of hills on the right. But toward the south it faded away in wavy and gentle lines.