itself out away into the fields. Where the old
cathedral is by way of accident only; where
it could be done without conveniently
(saving vested rights); where there are
profane factories and incongruous mills; and
where, in short, no one has time to think
of a daily service, and the choristers' voices
reverberate with fine effect up and down
the empty aisles. But this Ivysbury was
the closest, compactest thing of the kind that
could be conceived. It was a pocket edition
of a cathedral town, which its excellent
bishop might cover with his broad hand,
or shelter under his fine shovel–hat, or put
away out of sight somewhere in the region
of his great episcopal flaps. Humble intellects
have been known to construct from
memory a complete plan of the place, which
was indeed but an open square with a few
lanes radiating from it, that had the property
of taking the traveller back with unerring
certainty to the open square again. Low
houses, narrow lanes, delightful green doors
with brass knockers like the travelling
shows, and wooden palings. This was the
sort of loose impression to be taken away by
travellers so often deluded back to the open
square. Ivysbury was behind the time;
running to seed, said the smart men of
contiguous towns. The smart men were very
likely right.

Perhaps to take up this finely coloured
slide, exhibiting the interior of our Cathedral
on Sunday morning at first service with all
the inhabitants gathered thickly and filling
stalls and pews regimentally with the
precentor and minor canons doing their chanting,
and the organist in the gallery labouring, as
at a great engine, with solemn ecclesiastical
dignitaries in their little carved boxes sleeping
devotionally (praying, that is) on pillows
huge as themselves, with the great ecclesiastic
of all, the dean, in a little carved box
by himself,—perhaps this would most
conveniently bring together in one view, the
personages of our town.

When taken over it of a week–day, by
the old verger in the skull–cap, your eye does
not travel very high as you stand, with neck
well back and hat behind you, pivoting on
your heels. The roof seems to start from
the ground, much after the old–established
principle of card–houses. Everything is very
thick, very much bulged, and out of shape.
The great old window at the end lights
everything; for the smaller windows down
the sides are so short and squeezed, that they
almost go for nothing. Rough beams
protrude everywhere disguised in whitewash.

Please to take notice of the stalls where
the minor canons and singing gentry recline.
The carving by a pupil of Grinling Gibbons.
There is a woodpecker busy, with natural
instinct, "tapping a hollow beech–tree" right
over the Lord Bishop's stall, conjectured to
be from that master's own hand. It is
certainly of his period.

All individual singing canons have smaller
woodpeckers and smaller beech–trees, worked
into the extinguishers over their heads. That
bird is my lord's family crest. It was my
lord's ancestor that had the carving done. His
present lordship, it was said, was likely to
have them restored and repaired; which, to
say the truth, they want sadly. The
extinguishers being mostly warped all awry over
the canons' heads. Yonder was my lord's
own pew.

The tombs? Ay, the tombs: we must see
the tombs. This way, then, to the sort of
Indian temple to Vishnoo or Bramah may
be, running up the wall all in stages, with
curiously painted gods. This, sir, is the
Beagles' mausoleum, erected by John, second
Earl of Beagles (better known as Fighting
John), circa sixteen hundred and eight, to the
memory of Mary Janet, his wife. The noble
Mary Janet in a tarnished yellow ruff and
brick–red cloak, kneels on a cushion facing
Fighting John on another cushion, also in
tarnished robe. These are two excellent idols.

On the second stage are four little Josses
in tarnished raiment, all praying away lustily
with their little hands up. Kinsmen of the
House over them again, up and down at
corners, and in uncomfortable positions. The
woodpecker always ingeniously introduced
as apex.

More tombs. Small, short counters in
by–places, of a slate–colour, cold complexion.
Sleeping pairs done out of the snowiest
marble, reposing together placidly on their
marble counters.

The slabs in the pavement once had inscriptions;
all remotely connected with the noble
family who held the Manor. The sums sunk
(literally) in these mortuary reminders, may
have had some effect in creating those
straits in which the present noble head of
the House was reported to be labouring.
The crypt, with some curious bones and a
general damp flavour, was to be shown, too,
for a small extra fee; but we will not mind
that to–day, thank you.

Here, then, is that diamond edition of a
cathedral in a diamond edition of a town,
and here on this fresh Sunday morning, when
there is invigorating combination of frost
and sun abroad, is our congregation gathered
thickly as bees, to hear that morning service,
when the new dean, Doctor Dilly, would
show himself, for the first time, to his flock.
Here, then, are the minor canons and vicars
ranged chorally, like great white poultry,
along their oaken roosting–place; each with
his woodpecker extinguisher awry over his
head, like caps set crookedly on inebriated
men. Beautifully indeed they chant, with
eyes turned heavenwards. The tenor
especially, who should be written down Mr.
Seraphim, for his angelic and melodious
notes. Ecstatic light passes in flashes from
his face, as he pours his voice from mouth
ever opened wide. The youth has light hair