But I must not abuse my house, because whatever it is outside, it is absolutely comfortable and convenient within:  it is solid, well built, spacious, sensible, reminding one of the “solid joys and lasting treasure” that the hymn says “none but Zion’s children know.”  And, indeed, it is a Zion to be at ease in.

One other great charm it has:  from the end of my orchard the ground falls rapidly in a great pasture.  Some six miles away, over the dark expanse of Grunty Fen, the towers of Ely, exquisitely delicate and beautiful, crown the ridge; on clear sunny days I can see the sun shining on the lead roofs, and the great octagon rises with all its fretted pinnacles.  Indeed, so kind is Providence, that the huge brick mass of the Ely water-tower, like an overgrown Temple of Vesta, blends itself pleasantly with the cathedral, projecting from the western front like a great Galilee.

The time to make pious pilgrimage to Ely is when the apple-orchards are in bloom.  Then the grim western tower, with its sombre windows, the gabled roofs of the canonical houses, rise in picturesque masses over acres of white blossom.  But for me, six miles away, the cathedral is a never-ending sight of beauty.  On moist days it draws nearer, as if carved out of a fine blue stone; on a grey day it looks more like a fantastic crag, with pinnacles of rock.  Again it will loom a ghostly white against a thunder-laden sky.  Grand and pathetic at once, for it stands for something that we have parted with.  What was the outward and stately form of a mighty idea, a rich system, is now little more than an aesthetic symbol.  It has lost heart, somehow, and its significance only exists for ecclesiastically or artistically minded persons; it represents a force no longer in the front of the battle.

One other fine feature of the countryside there is, of which one never grows tired.  If one crosses over to Sutton, with its huge church, the tower crowned with a noble octagon, and the village pleasantly perched along a steep ridge of orchards, one can drop down to the west, past a beautiful old farmhouse called Berristead, with an ancient chapel, built into the homestead, among fine elms.  The road leads out upon the fen, and here run two great Levels, as straight as a line for many miles, up which the tide pulsates day by day; between them lies a wide tract of pasture called the Wash, which in summer is a vast grazing-ground for herds, in rainy weather a waste of waters, like a great estuary—­north and south it runs, crossed by a few roads or black-timbered bridges, the fen-water pouring down to the sea.  It is a great place for birds this.  The other day I disturbed a brood of redshanks here, the parent birds flying round and round, piping mournfully, almost within reach of my hand.  A little further down, not many months ago, there was observed a great commotion in the stream, as of some big beast swimming slowly; the level was netted, and they hauled out a great