thus point to traces surviving to the present day, which they have left behind them, and which England, as long as it is England, will retain.

CURIOSITIES OF WORDS (2).

5. DANISH NAMES.-The Danes, too, have left their marks on the land. We all probably are, more or less, aware how much Danish blood runs in English veins; what large colonies from Scandinavia (for probably as many came from Norway as from modern Denmark) settled in some parts of this island. It will be interesting to show that the limits of this Danish settlement and occupation may even now be confidently traced by the constant recurrence in all such districts of the names of towns and villages ending in "by," which signified in their language a dwelling or single village; such as Netherby, Appleby, Derby, Whitby. Thus, if you examine closely a map of Lincolnshire, one of the chief seats of Danish immigration, you will find one hundred, or well-nigh a fourth part, of the towns and villages to have this ending, the whole coast being studded with them, while in Hampshire it is utterly unknown.

6. MISER. It is nothing strange that men should have agreed to call him a "miser," or miserable, who eagerly scrapes together and painfully hoards the mammon of this world. Here, too, the moral instinct lying deep in all hearts has borne testimony to the

*

tormenting nature of this vice, to the gnawing pains with which even here it punishes its votaries—to the enmity which there is between it and all joy; and the man who enslaves himself to his money is proclaimed in our very language to be a "miser," or miserable

man.

7. PASSION.-Look a little closely at the word "passion." We sometimes regard a "passionate" man as a man of strong will, and of real though ungoverned energy. But "passion" teaches us quite another lesson; for it as a very solemn use of it declares-means properly "suffering; and a passionate man is not a man doing something, but one suffering something to be done on him. When, then, a man or child is "in a passion," this is no coming out in him of a strong will, of a real energy, but rather the proof that, for the time at least, he is altogether wanting in these; he is suffering, not doing-suffering his angry, or what other evil temper it may be, to lord over him without control. Let no one, then, think of passion as a sign of strength. One might, with as much justice, conclude a man strong because he was often well beaten; this would prove that a strong man was putting forth his strength on him, but of anything rather than that he was himself strong. Archbishop Trench.

V.

VISIT TO HENRY THE SEVENTH'S CHAPEL IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY (1).

1. THE day was gradually wearing away; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers; and I saw at a distance the choristers," in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres.

2. On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery," and scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labour of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb.

3. Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath,1 richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarves and swords; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazonedR

with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendour of gold and purple and crimson with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum* stands the sepulchre of its founder—his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing.

4. There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence; this strange mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems* of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementoes* which shew the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant." On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once borne before them, my imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valour and beauty of the land; glittering with the splendour of jewelled rank and military array; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed away; the silence of death had settled again upon the place, interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and pendants—sure signs of solitariness and desertion.

VI.

VISIT TO HENRY THE SEVENTH'S CHAPEL IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY (2).

5. WHEN I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those of men scattered far and wide about the world; some tossing upon distant seas; some under arms in distant lands; some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets; all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy honours the melancholy reward of a monument.

6. Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance of the equality of the grave; which brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation* of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival.

7. A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem-the thistle.1 I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the chequered* and disastrous story of poor Mary.