We lunched at Grisdalebrook, ten miles from Lancaster, which was to be our stopping-place. To-day's drive was made fragrant by the scent of new-mown hay, and we passed many bands of merry haymakers. When Dickens pronounced no smell the best smell, he must have momentarily forgotten that which so delighted us. I do give up most of the so-called fine smells, but there are a few better than Dickens's best, and surely that of to-day is of them. We went into a Catholic church in one of our strolls—for let it be remembered many a glorious tramp we had—and the coach was rarely honored with all the party when a chance to walk presented itself. The requests posted upon the door of this church seemed to carry one back a long way:
"Of your charity pray for the soul of Rebecca Robinson, who died June 7th, 1880, fortified with rites of Holy Church, on whose soul sweet Jesus have mercy. R. I. P."
There were several such requests. What a power that church has been and is, only one who has travelled the world round can know. In England here it is but a sickly, foreign plant, so fearfully foreign. We can all repeat Buddha's words and apply them to it, but they should not stop here:
"And third came she who gives dark creeds their power,
Sîlabbat-paramâsa, sorceress,
Draped fair in many lands as lowly Faith,
But ever juggling souls with rites and prayers;
The keeper of those keys which lock up Hells
And open Heavens. 'Wilt thou dare?' she said,
'Put by our sacred books, dethrone our gods,