about a fortnight afterwards the Archbishop of Canterbury sent down an inhibition, which stopped the sale, and saved the bells for a time.

When it is borne in mind that from the time of Athelstan to that of Charles II. (a thousand years) kings and princes have fought at or visited and resided in the town, that the fleets of England have constantly sailed thence, that its mariners and trained bands have done good service in the defence of their country, and that it has been the cradle and nursing mother of many of its manufactures-we can hardly suppose that Englishmen will allow such a noble fabric as this church, with its splendid peal of bells, standing in the centre of the town, to fall into ruins. for the sake of a few hundred pounds.

I

114

A DAY AT ST. OSYTH'S PRIORY.

IF any of my readers wishes for perfect quiet, rest, and repose, and to be well out of the way of smoke and bustle, of duns and other visitors—in fact, has a particular desire to find within sixty miles of London a place which, for all practical purposes, shall be to him or to her 'the world's end'-by all means let him make up his mind to spend a few days at the little village of St. Osyth, on the Essex coast. I cannot promise him trout-fishing, or fly-fishing, or any other similar luxury which belongs to the 'quiet and gentle life'; but, at all events, here he will be able to spend his days in calm contemplation, without even the dissipation of fine scenery to distract his mind. Here ―better, perhaps, than in any other village equally near to the great metropolis-he will be able to appreciate the sober advice of Horace

Omitte mirari beatæ

Fumum et opes strepitumque Romæ.

I remember reading, many years ago, in 'Punch,' a paragraph headed 'Strange Insanity,' and stating

that a respectable tradesman in the city had positively thrown himself into a cab, driven off to the Eastern Counties Railway Station at Shoreditch, and taken a ticket for Great Yarmouth. Well, perhaps it is equally an act of 'strange insanity' in this year of grace for anyone to drive off to Bishopsgate on a similar errand; for although the said line is no longer called the Eastern Counties,' but the 'Great Eastern,' it has not changed its nature with its name: it is still by far the worst managed line in the kingdom, the most unpunctual in its arrangements, the slowest in speed, the most churlish in its courtesies, the most indifferent in its servants. But if anybody wishes to see St. Osyth, and the remains of its once noble Priory, he must make up his mind to be thought a lunatic by London friends, and boldly take a ticket, not for Yarmouth, but for Colchester.

St. Osyth's Priory and the little village which, standing round the Priory walls, still bears the name of its patron saint, are a long twelve miles from the station at Colchester, and there is no direct daily communication between the old Roman Castrum-superColne and St. Osyth except a carrier's cart. But a branch line, that rejoices in about two trains per diem up and down, will take the visitor past Wivenhoe, where he will find himself in the neighbourhood of those 'natives' for which the estuary of the Colne has so long been famous, on his way to Brightlingsea. This place forms the head-quarters of the Essex oyster