to be equalled in the suburbs of a manufacturing city. No marvel why
gala spots for pleasure-loving citizens should be found interspersed
among the more refined parterres of the wealthy upon the shores; no
marvel that a summer's evening should witness crowds of holiday-seeking
folks, thronging to taste the sweets of fresh air, and rest from labour,
in the midst of so fair a scene.

No marvel that a water frolic becomes dignified into a regatta there,
that for once, within the circuit of the year, the great and small, the
proud and humble, rich and poor, can mingle, to look together upon a
common object of amusement--that fashion and poverty can meet in the
field of pleasure--St. Giles and St. James acknowledge the existence, nor
frown at the presence of each other. And who does not rejoice in the
festivity, almost the sole remnant of national sport left us in this
iron-working age? Who that can spare an hour from the counter or the
loom, or desk--from scribbling six-and-eight-penny opinions, or
scratching hieroglyphical prescriptions for _aqua pura_ draughts, does
not contrive to find some mode of transit by earth, air, or water to the
scene of mirth. Even a soaking shower is unavailing to damp the ardour
of the multitude, and not unseldom lends fresh stimulus to fun and
laughter among the merry-hearted denizens of smoke-dried city streets and
lanes. But we must not linger in their midst--the gay pleasure-boats,
with their shining sails, tacking and bending to the breeze, the swift
skullers in the gay uniforms, the eager faces that line the course, the
signal guns and flags of victory, the music, and the mirth--all tell that
the spirit of enjoyment is not yet quite gone out from among us. We must
now pass to other, and far different objects, and from the present,
travel back to the past, whose page of history unfolds itself in the
nearer object that meets our eye, the whitened sides of the "Lollard's
pit," where martyrs of old poured forth their dying prayers; and yielded
up their bodies to be burned as witness of their faith--where Bilney
listened to the words of his murderers, beseeching him to release them
before the people from all blame, that they might not suffer loss of
popularity or alms--and where he turned and said: "I pray you, good
people, be never worse to these men for my sake, as though they should be
the authors of my death. It is not they;"--then was bound to the stake
and slowly burned, in the