tone of St. Edmund; in one of the brick niches thereof dwells the
present respectable Mayor of Bury.

Certain Times do crystallise themselves in a magnificent manner; and
others, perhaps, are like to do it in rather a shabby one!--But
Richard Arkwright too will have his Monument, a thousand years hence:
all Lancashire and Yorkshire, and how many other shires and countries,
with their machineries and industries, for his monument! A true
_pyr_amid or '_flame_-mountain,' flaming with steam fires and useful
labour over wide continents, usefully towards the Stars, to a certain
height;--how much grander than your foolish Cheops Pyramids or Sakhara
clay ones! Let us withal be hopeful, be content or patient.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] Dryasdust puzzles and pokes for some biography of this Beodric;
and repugns to consider him a mere East-Anglian Person of Condition,
not in need of a biography,--whose [Old English: weoweth], _weorth_ or
_worth_, that is to say, _Growth_, Increase, or as we should now name
it, _Estate_, that same Hamlet and wood Mansion, now St. Edmund's
Bury, originally was. For, adds our erudite Friend, the Saxon [Old
English: weowethan], equivalent to the German _werden_, means to _grow_,
to _become_; traces of which old vocable are still found in the
North-country dialects; as, 'What is _word_ of him?' meaning, 'What is
_become_ of him?' and the like. Nay we in modern English still say,
'Woe _worth_ the hour' (Woe _befall_ the hour), and speak of the
'_Weird_ Sisters;' not to mention the innumerable other names of
places still ending in _weorth_ or _worth_. And indeed, our common
noun _worth_, in the sense of _value_, does not this mean simply, What
a thing has _grown_ to, What a man has _grown_ to, How much he amounts
to,--by the Threadneedle-street standard or another!

[5] Lyttelton's _History of Henry II._ (2d edition), v. 169, &c.

[6] Goods, properties; what we now call _chattels_, and still more
singularly _cattle_, says my erudite friend!

CHAPTER IV.

ABBOT HUGO.

It is true, all things have two faces, a light one and a dark. It is
true, in three centuries much imperfection accumulates; many an Ideal,
monastic or other, shooting forth into practice as it can, grows to a
strange enough Reality; and we have to ask with amazement, Is this
your Ideal! For, alas, the Ideal always has to grow in the Real, and
to seek out its bed and board there, often in a very sorry way. No
beautifulest Poet is a B