modern restorer, as a rule, sins so miserably! From the medieval reconstructor to the restorer of the Churchwarden era is a vast gulf. It would be an archæological curiosity and an object lesson in ecclesiastical construction if we could have preserved for our study and edification a church showing all the varying periods of architecture, from the crude Saxon and stern Norman to that of to-day!
Reluctantly we left Crowland's old ruined abbey that stands alone in crumbling, dusky majesty, as though solemnly musing over the chances and changes of its chequered life's long history. This remote and hoary pile, surrounded by the wild waste of watery fens, impressed us with an undefinable feeling of mystery and melancholy—a mystery that had to do with the past, and a melancholy that had to do with the present. No other ruin has impressed us quite in the same way, but then Crowland Abbey has a striking individuality seen from near or afar; it is utterly unlike any other spot, and from every point of view forms a most effective picture. Time has fraught its ancient walls with meaning, and the rare dower of antiquity, the bloom of centuries is gathered over them all—a bloom that has beautified what man and age have left of the former hallowed sanctuary. Now a solemn peacefulness broods incumbent over Crowland's solitary tower, broken arches, and decaying masonry. No more, as in the days of old, at evensong when the silent stars come out, does the belated fisherman stop his skiff awhile by the side of the inland isle, to listen to the sweet chanting of the monks, mingling with the organ's
