ding which might vie with many of the cathedrals of
our land. Beautiful its solemn towers, its sculptured western front;
beautiful its columned aisles and lofty nave; its sparkling shrine
and delicate chantry; most beautiful the streaming glories of its vast
orient light!

This magnificent temple, built by the monks of Mowbray, and once
connected with their famous house of which not a trace now remained, had
in time become the parish church of an obscure village, whose
population could not have filled one of its side chapels. These strange
vicissitudes of ecclesiastical buildings are not singular in the north
of England.

Mowbray Church remained for centuries the wonder of passing peasants,
and the glory of county histories. But there is a magic in beautiful
buildings which exercises an irresistible influence over the mind of
man. One of the reasons urged for the destruction of the monasteries
after the dispersion of their inhabitants, was the pernicious influence
of their solemn and stately forms on the memories and imagination of
those that beheld them. It was impossible to connect systematic crime
with the creators of such divine fabrics. And so it was with Mowbray
Church. When manufactures were introduced into this district, which
abounded with all the qualities which were necessary for their
successful pursuit, Mowbray offering equal though not superior
advantages to other positions, was accorded the preference, "because it
possessed such a beautiful church." The lingering genius of the monks of
Mowbray hovered round the spot which they had adorned, and sanctified,
and loved; and thus they had indirectly become the authors of its
present greatness and prosperity.

Unhappily for a long season the vicars of Mowbray had been little
conscious of their mission. An immense population gathered round the
sacred citadel and gradually spread on all sides of it for miles. But
the parish church for a long time remained the only one at Mowbray when
the population of the town exceeded that of some European capitals. And
even in the parish church the frigid spell of Erastian self-complacency
fatally prevailed. A scanty congregation gathered together for form, and
as much influenced by party as higher sentiments. Going to church was
held more genteel than going to meeting. The principal tradesmen of
the neighbouring great houses deemed it more "aristocratic;" using
a favourite and hackneyed epithet which only expressed their ow