name, and makes all England appear almost like a fresh conversion of an entire nation unto God by the thousands of new churches springing up over the land.'

There is no doubt, but the Almighty has made England the ark from which the living water will proceed to irrigate and refresh the whole earth; but in this holy warfare she will have the help of her Scottish sister, especially if her church society would only expend their funds, instead of hoarding them up, to be useless to either God or man. Mr. Tuttle also visited that formerly persecuted church, and of it he says; In every part of that country [Scotland,] the kingdom of Christ is rapidly extending itself. Its ambassadors are quietly but energetically laying the foundation for its future greatness. It is like life from the dead to see, in that unpromising quarter, the spouse of Christ decking herself anew with the beautiful garments of salvation.'

Did our space permit, we could enumerate many more signs of our Lord's coming; the frantic madness of Popery in Ireland and in its former strongholds on the continent; its rapacity, cruelty and persecuting principles everywhere; but above all the fearful answer to our Lord's question is one of the most prominent and portentous signs of the times. 'And shall not God avenge his own elect, which cry day and night unto Him, though He bear long with them? I tell you that He will avenge them speedily. Nevertheless when the Son of Man cometh, shall He find faith on the earth?

The whole Papal church has cast off the faith and become antichristian; and the Greek church is very little better. Let us of the Anglican communion, therefore, pray to the Lord of the harvest that He will send more laborers into the field of the church which is white to the harvest; and above all that He would increase our faith,

W, C. P.

SKETCHES IN CORNWALL.-No. VII.

TRURO 'GLOVE FAIR'-SANCREED CHURCH-GRANITE CUTTERS -EARTHENWARE POTS-A TOLMEN-DRUIDICAL CIRCLESTHE DRUIDS-WAYSIDE CROSS-ST. BURIAN'S-THE BOLLEIGHT MONUMENT-A WINTER'S EVENING WALK TO ST. SENNAN'S CHURCH-TOWN-THE FIRST AND LAST INN IN ENGLAND ’—LONGSHIPS' LIGHTHOUSE—MORNING'S WALK TO PENBERTH-ON TO THE 'LOGAN ROCK INN'-THE CASTLE AND THE STONE.

6

OUR clean and quiet metropolis of Truro, was yesterday (November 19), the scene of much disquiet, and more mud, owing to large herds of cattle, flocks of sheep, and teams of horses pouring in at an early hour from all parts of the adjoining country, and almost filling several of the most public ways and places of the town; for, according to ancient usage and prescriptive right, the animals are put up for sale in the middle of the street. It is called the Glove Fair,' and for this reason: At the corner of the principal street occupied by the cattle, a wooden glove is erected on the top of a pole some 20 feet in height. If any jealous and enterprising patriot from a neighbouring town or village should be ablemounted knight-like on an ass-to dislodge this gauntlet, without tearing down the staff, and carry off his gage unperceived and unmolested to his native place, and enter the same in triumph with a band of music, then farewell to the honour of Truro in this matter,-its token is gone,-its pledge forfeited; the town possessing the glove becomes, under like conditions, the favoured spot ;-the man is dubbed an hero, and his charger revels in ease for the rest of his life on the carrots and beans of a grateful people. So you see the nearer we get to the Land's End, the more unlike (of course superior) we are to other people.

In that delightful little book, companion of my childhood, 'The Evenings at Home,' there is a story named 'Eyes and No Eyes.'-Two boys go nearly the same road; one returns full of interest in what he has seen, the other loiters back, having seen little and taken interest in nothing. The moral of this tale is proved every day; and while many travellers remember no more than the name of a spirit-cellar or ale

house after weeks spent in fruitful Spain or sunny Greece, so not a few visitors to Cornwall, nay, even inhabitants, literally return home, or spend the remainder of a long life there, without knowing more than that it is generally celebrated for mines and pilchards. But to such as would really enjoy, and readily enter into, the past history of this interesting county, and profit by its almost endless associations, especially those which relate to the religion of our land, I should recommend the custom of studying certain points and places from map, or guide-book, or, if possible, a history of Cornwall, and know the place theoretically before entering it practically. I always do this, and am consequently as able to inform the oldest inhabitant' on subjects of interest as he to enlighten me. Now, just take a map of the county, and, drawing a line through, from St. Michael's Mount to St. Ives, in spirit and intention accompany me in a ramble of four days, throughout this storm-vexed region, where Old England both begins and ends.

About 2 o'clock one day in January last, with blue bag slung from cotton umbrella on my back-tea-merchant fashion -I confronted a driving Nor'-Wester along the promenade of Penzance, making for Newlyn, the great fish depôt of this part of the coast, and the hill rising over the village of St. Paul, for St. Burian. Far over to the right you may see the Trannack Downs, some 700 feet high, and between them and yourself lies Sancreed church, amongst the trees, with two beautiful crosses, one on the churchyard wall and the other within the enclosure. The granite shafts of the interior have certainly been cleansed of the all-pervading white-wash, and the old rood-screen is still preserved in the vestry, but much remains to be done. I grow angry when I see a pretty parsonage-house and well-trimmed lawn, just patronising a cold neglected-looking church, and tolerating its presence.

Look at that noble old church-tower just before you, commanding a free view of the ocean to the South, East, and West, against which the winds of centuries have beaten, and around whose turrets, voices from beneath the great Atlantic surges ever moan. And now we are literally in the oldest district of England, and well amongst moorstones and boulders, barrows and walls of grey granite, Druidical circles and huge upright shafts, wayside crosses and tolmens, cairns, crom

lechs and rocking-stones. There are some men shaping a square dogged-looking moorstone, which seems to say, 'Cut away, I don't care!' and as that is apparently the master workman, let us speak to him. He answers most civilly when I ask the nearest way to the Nineteen Maidens, and in answer to an inquiry about the existence of any probable unexplored barrows or tumuli in these parts, replies: "That, some few years ago, he was trenching a piece of common-land for a wall, when he came upon a little pit, with an earthenware pot in it, which he opened, found something like cinders within, and threw it aside.' 'What became of it?' say I, in hot haste, and some hope. 'Oh! sir, I told master of it, and he took it and put it into a case, and I have heard that you may see it in some Museum, I think, at Penzance.' I breathed a wish that so it might be, and having held forth for some minutes on the manners and customs of Druids and Romans, in life and death, shook hands, and departed, gently whispering, 'If you find another such pot, just let me know of it.'

Leaving the high-way to Burian Church-Town, and, keeping the left-hand road, we pass by a pleasant little dell with some wood and running water, and so up the hill to the hamlet of Boleigh. Pass on by a few houses, and although an indiscriminating good wife told me that the turning off to the Maidens was by the blacksmith's shed on the right, I found it on the left, up this short lane, and over this Cornish stile, sharp to the right! But what is this stile composed of? A large granite block, shaped like a pear, about 4 feet by 3 at the upper end, with a large hole drilled through the stem or lower part. Now, if you have the least spark of antiquarian fire, rejoice and sit down, think of it and feel it all over; it is a Tolmen, i. e. a sort of Druidical anchor or moorings, not for boat or vessel, but for a struggling victim, a criminal condemned to die, and made fast to it while the sword of justice is acquiring a keener edge. This is thought to have been its use and this its purpose; and if so, even with the bare idea, what a dark and strange train of thoughts crowd upon the mind! You are close upon the greater and lesser circle which formed at once the temple of the sun, the demon of the whirling stream, the spirit of the flowing sea, the prince of the powers of earth and air, and the halls of justice. It is the winter solstice; the moon is at her full;

her beams fall, with pale, unearthly light on all around; the primeval masses of the two mystic circles seem to tremble as each ray falls upon them, and gleam with a lurid and a spectral fire, and altar-stone and tolmen appear as torpid monsters crouching to receive their coming prey. Anon, as from afar, and mingling with the sigh of the chill night wind as it sweeps by us, arises a faint sound of confused voices, and solemn chant; and now, just where yonder grove of stunted oak opens upon the rising ground, see!- -a procession slowly comes. There is one in front with azure robe and circuture of gold about his waist and temples, and those clasps contain venom which will slay the wearer if he deal not right and justice as from the great source of all; and, following him, the Arch-Druid, appear the bards, with uplifted harps, and the younger ovates, as the choir of that stern and fearful band, bare-footed and bare-headed they approach us, and a mixed multitude follows, in silence and with awe. Amongst these latter, two objects attract our special notice :—a man led bound as if for execution; and a milk-white heifer covered with oaken garland and sacred mistletoe, as if for sacrifice. The one as a murderer has freely offered himself thus to die; the other dies for his expiation. It is a sad and woful spectacle, but not so painful and degrading as when the malefactor stands beneath the gallows-tree to die in shame and ignominy before an idle and hardened multitude. Now the greater circle is entered, the self-offered and repentant criminal is fastened to the heavy tolmen, while the sacrifice is bound to that which lies within the lesser space.

See, now an aged bard advances with a sheathed sword, and he lays it on the chief and central altar, while some of each order take their places within either inclosure. The Arch-Druid, with solemn gesture, the jewelled torque of gold glittering like a phantom fire on his forehead, now points to the doomed man, and, approaching the altar, bids his attendants bring up the oblation and place it erect upon that massive stone; at the same time the ovates lead forth the struggling heifer to the second altar and await the signal. And now, once more, see the Arch-Priest takes up the weapon, and, holding it aloft, unsheaths the glittering blade. How cold and keen its edge appears in this calm pervading