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
sturgeon, who had somehow lost his way, and was trying to find a
spawning-ground. There is an ancient custom that all sturgeon,
netted in English waters, belong by right to the sovereign; but no
claim was advanced in this case. The line between Ely and March
crosses the level, further north, and the huge freight-trains go
smoking and clanking over the fen all day. I often walk along the