ands which the
king had seized. That," pointing to the end of the Palace, "is the part
of the building which was blown down, or, rather, the roof blown in,
upon one of my predecessors during the last century. Both Bishop Kidder
and his wife were buried in their bed in the ruins. But not to dwell on
these memories, I have pleasanter ones to recount. On that terrace walk,
where we will now mount and take a view of the surrounding country, the
pious Ken--that God-fearing and steadfast man--composed the hymns,
which, morning and night, bring him to our minds."

Melville Falconer had forgotten, if he had ever heard, those hymns; but
Mr. Arundel said:

"My mother will be interested, indeed, my lord, to hear I have been on
the spot where those hymns had birth."

"Ay," said the bishop; "and we must have her here one day and show her
this fair place. One can imagine, as he gazed out on this prospect, that
the saintly Ken was eager to call on every one to 'shake off dull
sloth,' and rise early with the birds to offer the sacrifice of the
morning."

It was indeed a fair prospect towards which the bishop waved his hand.
Fields of buttercups lay like burnished gold in the summer sunshine.
Beyond these fields, known as the Bishop's Fields, was a belt of copse,
and further still the grassy slopes of a hill, really of no very exalted
height, but from its strongly defined outline and the sudden elevation
of its steep sides from the valley below it, it assumes almost
mountainous proportions, and is a striking feature in the landscape as
seen from Wells and its neighbourhood. A wooded height, known as Tor
Hill, rises nearer to the Palace, and then the line sweeps round to the
Mendip range, which shuts in Wells on the north-east, and across which a
long, straight road lies in the direction of Bristol.

The bishop continued to chat pleasantly as he led his visitors along the
broad terrace walk on the top of the battlemented wall. Then he passed
down into the garden, and ascended a spiral stone staircase which led to
a small ante-chamber, and then into the long gallery.

This room is one of the principal features of the Palace at Wells, with
its long line of small, deep bay windows, and its beautiful groined
roof, the walls covered with portraits of many bishops who have held the
see.

Archbishop Laud looks down with a somewhat grim face, like a man who had
set himself to endure hardness, and never flinch from the line he had
marked