had be missed it, would have certainly
resisted great temptation.

The other tombs, by the contemplation of
which the archdeacon is made to declare that
he has been benefited, are at St. Giles's,
Cripplegate:—"I go to my parish church—
there is the grave of Milton; in my parish
he lived and died." The grave of Milton! at
the end of a charge like this of all things
under the sun, is it the grave of Milton that
still forcibly reminds the Pluralist that his
course also is to end? Does he know what
language rings through the broad world
out of the grave of Milton, about ministers
who, "having a Gospel and church government
set before their eyes, as a fair field wherein
they might exercise the greatest virtues and
the greatest deeds of Christian authority, in
mean fortunes and little furniture of this
world; they understand it not, and think no
such matter, but admire and dote upon
worldly riches and honours, with an easy
life, to the bane of Christianity. Yea, they
and their seminaries shame not to profess, to
petition, and never leave pealing our ears,
that unless we fat them like boars and cram
them as they list with wealth, with deaneries
and pluralities, with baronies and stately
preferment, all learning and religion will go
under foot. Which is such a shameless, such
a bestial plea, and of that odious impudence
in churchmen, who should be to us a pattern
of temperance and frugal mediocrity."

Milton speaks from his grave with a loud
voice, in sooth. But what does he say even
of burial-fees to the vicar who derives so
much advantage from the contemplation of
his tomb? These are the words of Milton,
which the satirist had well in mind when he
prevented the archdeacon summing up his
argument with this example:—

If the minister be maintained for his whole
ministry, why should he be paid twice for any part
thereof? Why should he, like a servant, seek vails
over and above his wages? . . . Far less becomes it
these, now with a greediness lower than that of tradesmen
calling passengers to their shop, and yet paid
beforehand, to ask again for doing that which their
founders did freely. . . . Burials and marriages are so
little to be any part of their gain, that they who
consider well may find them to be no part of their
function. At burials their attendance they allege on
the corpse; all the guests do as much unhired. But
their prayers at the grave—superstitiously required;
yet, if required, their last performance to the deceased
of their own flock. But the funeral sermon,—at their
choice, or, if not, an occasion offered them to preach out
of season, which is part of their office. . . . But the
ground is broken. To sell that will not only raise up
in judgment the council of truth against them, but will
lose them the best champion of tithes, their zealous
antiquary, Sir Henry Spelman; who, in a book written
to that purpose, proves that fees exacted or demanded
for sacraments, marriages, burials, and especially
for interring, are wicked, accursed, simoniacal, and
abominable.

No doubt that last was a conclusion founded
on false premises; but who can doubt what
Milton would have said about this pamphlet,
if it were indeed the publication of a solemn
charge to the archdeaconry of London?

AN EXCURSION TRAIN.

TRAVEL in an open carriage by an excursion
train? We know the thing is horribly
plebeian—low. The price at which the railway
companies convey their passengers in
these carriages—something like half-a-crown
per hundred miles—is in itself a sufficient
argument against any one of a right way
of thinking, ever condescending to be
carried at so disgracefully cheap a figure.
Then, the open carriages themselves—
although it is true they are not called "third
class," and are not fitted with a stifling low
roof, with wooden shutters that keep the light
out, and louvre boards that let the draught in,
or with other appliances insisted upon to
regulate the amount of discomfort to which
third-class passengers are entitled—the open
carriages themselves, we say, are always
looked upon as being the third-class—if not
the fourth. No, on the whole, the thing is
so disgraceful, that—and yet, it must out—
we have done it. More than that—it must
out again—we have done it on a Sunday!

Still, O, my highly respectable brother,
there is much that you and I might learn,
even from the extremely common people in
this vulgar open railway-carriage. It would
be better for us all, sometimes, if we
stood less upon our first-class notions; and,
in our journeying through life, could find
enjoyment by the way, even though offered
us as cheaply as an excursion at half-a-
crown per hundred miles: even though
freely shared by those who never saw the
inside of a London club, and who know
nothing of the merits of well-fitting gloves,
or patent leather boots—except, perchance,
from having made them.

One lovely Sunday morning, a few weeks
back, we had risen somewhat earlier than
usual. We felt heavy, dull, and (if we
may so express it) cobwebby. We had been
working very hard for several weeks; business
had kept us all the summer closely shut up in
London. In fact, we wanted change of air—
if only long enough for our respiratory organs
to get filled with air instead of dust and
smoke. We thought of a long walk; but
it would require a very long one before we
reached an atmosphere such as we wanted.
Where could we go, and yet get back again
in time to recommence our labours on the
Monday morning? At once, we thought of
an excursion train. We recollected that for
a few shillings we could visit one of the
fairest spots in England; could travel many
miles through waving corn-fields and green
meadow lands; could drink our fill of pure
sea air; could even cross and recross salt
water and yet be back in London the
same night. We recollected an excursion