quiet churchyard, and points among the humble graves, as if, over this dial of human life, it loved to preach silent homilies on “the passing away,” even to the simplest poor.  It must be inexpressibly touching to meet with these beautiful forms in the lonely wilderness, where the ivy alone, as it throws its loving arms around them, appears to recognize their grace and all their tender significance.  It is like the chance discovery of a good deed done in the darkness, or like a pure life spent in the sweet and serious retirement of a little hamlet, pointing the way to heaven for its scanty flock of cottagers.

It was the custom in those days, during the celebration of Mass, at the moment when the Host was raised, to ring a peculiar bell in the tower, in order that those not gathered beneath the consecrated roof might be made aware far and wide of the awful ceremony, and be reminded to offer up their devotion in unison.  And we remember what Izaak Walton said of quaint George Herbert,—­how “some of the meaner sort of his parish did so love and reverence Mr. Herbert, that they would let their plough rest when his saints’-bell rung to prayer, that they might also offer their devotion to God with him, and would then return back contented to their plough.”  Now it seems to us that the spire is a perpetual elevation of the Host, a never-ending lifting-up of the Symbol of Redemption, a consecrating presence to field and cottage, hillside and highway, ever ready to bless the accidental glance of wayfarer or laborer, and to make in the desert of his daily life a momentary oasis of sweet and hallowed thought.  Its peaceful influence extends over the whole landscape and pierces to its remotest corners.

  “A gentler life spreads round the holy spires;
  Where’er they rise, the sylvan waste retires,
  And aery harvests crown the fertile lea.”

It may be thought that St. Peter’s cock, which so often answers the sunbeams from the spindly spire, and kindles and glitters there like a star, is rather empty of emblematic significance and soul-language.  But what saith old Bishop Durandus?—­“The cock at the summit of the church is a type of the preacher.  For the cock, ever watchful, even in the depth of night, giveth notice how the hours pass, waketh the sleepers, predicteth the approach of day,—­but first exciteth himself to crow by striking his sides with his wings.  There is a mystery conveyed in each of these particulars:  the night is the world; the sleepers are the children of this world, who are asleep in their sins; the cock is the preacher who preacheth boldly, and exciteth the sleepers to cast away the works of darkness, exclaiming, Woe to them that sleep!  Awake, thou that sleepest! and then foretell the approach of day, when they speak of the Day of Judgment and the glory that shall be revealed, and, like prudent messengers, before they teach others, arouse themselves from the sleep of sin by mortifying their bodies; and as the weather-cock faces the wind, they turn themselves boldly to meet the rebellious by threats and arguments.”