CHAPTER XII. THE STRANGER. The mighty sky-born stream:— Its living waters from above We that with eye too daring seek To scan their course, all giddy turn:- Harebell or nodding fern: They from the rocky wall's steep side But keeps them green and gay. And Christ hath lowly hearts, that rest LYRA INNOCENTIUM. The Waterfall. IT has been well and wisely remarked, that one strong reason why the houses of God should be rendered, as far as may be, perfect in costliness and beauty, is because it is only in this way that the poor can share in those precious things which He has bestowed upon our beautiful world-at least in any sense of personal interest or possession. They may, indeed, look upon shining heaps of gold and silver-upon gems and pearls from the far East, but it is only to look at them with a painful, perhaps with a grudging feeling, that these can never be theirs. But it is not thus in the Church; nothing is, or at least, nothing ought to be, exclusive there; the "many members" of the "one body" have a common interest, a common right, in her ministers, her sacraments, her Book (so affectionately entitled) of Common Prayer, and in the visible glories of her thousand shrines. And God forbid that here, in England, she should ever forfeit her proudest title, “The Poor Man's Church!" Of all places, perhaps, thoughts like these come uppermost in a Cathedral Church, where the building itself is more magnificent, the services are more majestic, and attendance on both is more absolutely free, than in most other Churches; besides, these Churches are open, not only on Sundays, but twice every day; so that in the places where they are, the house of God is not shut from one week to another against the mourner, who would fain open there his griefs, nor to those whose happier experience would find its key-note of praise in the rich chants of the Psalms, or the glorious Te Deum. And then, that solemn grey pile itself, covering the space of at least four modern Churches, with perhaps as many massive towers, standing out in a sort of shadowy solitude, only interrupted by the cawing of the rooks that have built their nests in the tall old trees that stand all round it, looks down like a silent witness on the crimes of the generations, past and present, who have lived, and sinned, and died, under its unchanging shadow. But, if we enter by the old porch, it is hard to say whether our first impressions will be those of greatness, or of beauty, probably a mixture of both, for whilst pillared aisle, and lofty arch, and stately column will carry the eye upward till it is lost in the mazes of the wondrous roof, its branches and bosses, like a forest of stonework knotted with briar-roses, yet the glance will be arrested, and almost fastened downward, by the carven oak, and fairy embroidery, and variegated marbles shed in mellowed abundance on its very pavements, and seen by the light of each deep-stained lattice, in changeable hues of scarlets, and amber, and lilacs. It was one fine summer evening, as I was pass. ing through the nave to attend prayers in our Cathedral, that I noticed a very poor, but very happy-looking young woman, with two little blackeyed girls at her side, who were peering at the old monuments with all the unmistakeable wonderment of strangers. Now, I am sorry to say that I did not at that time give the poor credit for that good taste in religious matters which they really possess. Not but that I know that some of the peculiar features of a Cathedral service,—the mighty peal from the organ, like the voice of a great thunder, the company of priests and singing children, all wearing the white robe, and joining in that flood of harmony which audibly proclaims, "Day by day, we magnify Thee;"-the crumbling monuments of those who have gone before us with the sign of faith, and rest in the sleep of peace; the triumphant forms of the glorified, that gleam upon us from each pane, and cast their bright mantles in rainbow tints over us, as if in token to bid us follow them, even as they followed Christ; -all this, I was aware, must affect the dullest imagination, and, for the time at least, warm the coldest heart. But I did not at that time think that the poor were quick to take up the lesson which all this is intended to teach,-in truth, I had practically forgotten it myself,-that we are, all of us, living or departed, rich and poor, lonely or beloved, knit together in one communion and fellowship, one fold under one Shepherd, Jesus Christ our Lord. Oh, we need not teach the poor the difference that there is between their earthly lot and ours! They feel that too well already, for too often our unkindness or selfishness makes the sense of it enter like iron into their soul. Rather we would teach them-when we have learnt it ourselvesthat in the sight of our one Father which is in heaven, in the eyes of our one mother, His Church upon earth, we not only shall one day be,—we are, even now, equals, only like servants, or like children at school, we have different tasks, different ministries to fulfil. This is no poetic dream, but a simple reality, at least if holy Scripture can make it so, for "as the body is one, and hath many members, and all the members, being many, are one body; so also is Christ." But to resume. Some dim idea, that if the poor did not feel in this way, it was not altogether their fault, led me to address a chance remark to one of the pretty children I spoke of. I think it related to the beauty of the Church, for I remember she said, with a little rosy blush of pleasure at being noticed, that she had seen quite as pretty Churches in London; and then the young mother curtsied and looked pleased too (as people do when they are in a strange place, where they have no one to speak a kind word to them,) and said they had come from London a few days ago. Of course, I supposed they had popped in to see the minster, as every body does, because it is one of the "lions" of the place, and I never expected to see them again, least of all there. However, in a day or |