every leaf, petal, and grass-blade, all open to receive the carbonic acid gas which is thrown off by animals, and we may safely say that when we are in the open air not half an hour elapses before our breath has been absorbed by plants, and so restored to earth. The familiar saying that "all flesh is grass " is not a mere metaphysical or poetical expression, but is a statement of a physical fact. symbolism, but it is no less a simple and actual truth. While inspecting these ancient relics of our predecessors' energy, one or two points almost force themselves upon us. Of course it has its One is, that the materials of the outer walls were laid by hands less skilful than those which raised the stately buildings within. There are but few distinctive characteristics about the former, while the latter abound in marks showing that they were the work of Freemasons, who in those days were operative, and not, as at the present time, merely speculative masons. Each of them, when admitted into full fellowship with his craft, had his own distinctive "mark," which he placed on every stone which he worked, and by which it could be identified. There are several ancient churches where successive coats of plaster and whitewash have been carefully removed, and the stones which they had concealed suffered to appear as they were laid. On almost every stone may be seen the mason's mark; and it is worthy of notice that they are never curved nor rounded, but are angular, so as to be easily formed by the edge of the chisel. A relic of this custom is to be found in the cross used as a mark on documents by illiterate persons who cannot sign their names. Another point is, that the stones are, as a rule, left rough, without any attempt at producing the smooth surface which is gained by the use of the " drag.' Not many years ago it was the fashion to build. churches that looked exactly as if they had been cut out of pasteboard. They were built of sound stone, but the modern architect seems to have done his best to make them look as if made of stucco, and to conceal any evidence of the junction of the stones. Now the old architects took every pains to produce exactly the contrary effect. They had a horror of smooth and flat surfaces, and would often leave gaps of an inch or so in width, in order to destroy the uniformity. Inside the church the surfaces of the stones were tolerably smooth, but on the exterior were left as rough as possible, thus producing a richness of effect which could never be obtained by a smooth wall. Then their utter disregard of conventionalities would frighten most modern architects. They were not in the least particular about rightangles, as I once found when building a fowl-house in a corner of an old convent garden. Do what I would, nothing would make my walls come right, and instead of four right angles, the building had two angles obtuse and two acute. The fact was, that I had taken for granted that the original walls formed a right-angle, and had cal culated accordingly. One church in Kent-namely, Adisham-is very remarkable in this respect, a plan of the edifice showing that there is scarcely a right-angle in the whole building. Neither from the exterior or the interior does the building give the least idea of this irregularity, but the compass and measuring tape prove it to be a fact. The same church affords an excellent example of the boldness with which the old architects could dispense with conventionalities. That a church should be built east and west was a necessity, and that the principal altar should be at the east. Conventionality demanded that the altar should be raised on the highest floor of the building, but the only site that ran east and west was on the side of a hill sloping rather sharply from west to east. Not discouraged by this obstacle, the architect met it by inverting the customary mode of construction, building the church on a succession of floors, that at the east being the lowest, so that when any one enters the western door he looks down upon the top of the altar and this reversal of usual construction gives the altar quite as much prominence as if it had been as much above the western entrance as it is below it. Any one with the least appreciation of art must have realised this theory of irregularity, even by means of a common brick wall. Let the wall be new, with straight and sharp angles, perfectly level, freshly pointed," in order to conceal the bad quality of the material, forming part of a speculating builder's "villa residence," and nothing more mean and commonplace can be imagined. Take the same wall some fifty or sixty years afterwards, when the surface has been weather-stained, spotted with lichens, and splashed with mud; when the angles have been chipped and lost their regularity, when the pigeons have pecked away the mortar between the bricks and even made havoc with the softer portions of the bricks themselves, when insects have taken possession of nail-holes, and spiders have woven their webs over the crevices. It then becomes picturesque, owing to the brokeu lights and shadows that flit over its irregular surface, and a painter will be glad of an opportunity of transferring it to his canvas. We may be sure that the old architects understood the picturesque as well as the old painters, and intentionally broke up the surface as much as possible, for the sake of light and shade. They could have made the walls as smooth as cardboard if they desired to do so, but they instinctively knew that smoothness ought not to be a characteristic of building stone, and so never made use of that execrable instrument, the "drag.' They impressed their own individuality upon each stone which they worked, and, so to speak, signed them with their own mark. The value to the present generation of the sound work of these ancient architects is almost beyond calculation. It has often been said, and with justness, that we take little heed of our best blessings, and do not awake to a sense of their value until they are unexpectedly taken away. Such was the case with the river banks. Thousands of people lived on the reclaimed lands, while crops and stock of uncalculated value occupied the ground which had been a marsh. Year after year the embankment was almost forgotten, except in consequence of a rate for keeping it in repair. It seemed to be as stable as the hills beyond, and few persons troubled themselves about its existence. Suddenly they were shaken out of their torpor by the shock of a fearful explosion, swiftly followed by the news that at least fifty yards of the river bank had been blown away, and that if the coming tide should make its way through the breach, life would be endangered, cattle and crops be destroyed, and the land injured for many years, besides the certainty of an enormous outlay incurred for redraining the whole country from Lambeth to Gravesend, and making good the breach in the wall As I lived at the time within less than a mile from the spot, and was one of the first on the ground, I will tell the story in my own words. On October 1st, 1864, a little before 7 a. M., I happened, for a wonder, to be in bed, generally being at the desk at five. Suddenly the house seemed to be struck by lightning, accompanied by what appeared to be a crashing peal of thunder. A second and a third took place, the last smashing every window and door, and shaking all the ceilings to the floors of the different rooms. The dining-room door was broken into splinters, the piano was driven through the foldingdoors from one room into the other, the whole of the glass and china was broken, and, as there was not a window or door left in the house, we were at the mercy of thieves. Added to which was a piercing north-east wind blowing and tearing through the house in such a manner that we should have been more comfortable in a tent. On going to the window there was seen a column of smoke many hundreds of feet in height, and resembling a vast pine-tree, spreading out at the top, and carrying with it beams and stones, bricks, and fragments of human bodies, as if they had been corks flung up by a Geyser. Many fragments were carried as far as Woolwich. The fact was that a powder barge and two magazines, which were built just inside the embankment, had successively exploded, the last magazine containing about forty-five tons of gunpowder. How the accident occurred I have no doubt. The proverbial recklessness of coal miners is well known, but it is surpassed by men employed on board of the gunpowder vessels. In both cases the men will have their pipes, and are so inured to danger that they forget its existence. I have often, when yachting in the Thames and Medway, seen laden powder-barges with á fire on board, the crew smoking, and allowing their vessels to pass to leeward of steamers when coaling, so that they are covered with sparks Now, it is rather a peculiarity among powder casks that they are liable to the attack of a tiny insect, popularly called the " worm, but being in reality the larval or grub state of a beetle not longer than this letter "1." It feeds upon the wood, but the hole which it makes is not larger than that which would be made by a "shortwhite" pin. The men do not see these holes, but carry about the casks, allowing a small stream of mealed powder to dribble through the apertures. In this state the powder is of a grey colour, and almost invisible on the deck or platform, so that when a seaman wishes to smoke, and throws down his lighted match, or knocks the ashes out of his pipe, or when he allows sparks from a passing steamer to fall on the deck, there is a train ready aid, and the natural results follow. Evidence is out of the question, as no one involved is left alive, and we have to fall back on past experience. The stokers of steamers are just as caeless. They only think of their own special business, and look after their furnaces, putting in coal when needed. But, although they know that until they are clear of the river they will pass magazines and loaded powder-barges, they seldom look out to see if they are too close for safety. Every one knows that whenever coals are put into the furnaces, a shower of sparks flies out of the funnel, and, especially at night, may be seen floating in the air for a considerable distance before they are burned out. Any one of these sparks would be sufficient to ignite gunpowder, and the reader may therefore imagine how reckless must be the conduct of men who may, in a moment, not only destroy themselves, but hundreds of others. There was a very excellent rule, which was strictly enforced on shore, namely, that no lighted pipes, nor cigars, nor loaded guns were allowed within a definite distance of the magazines, and, supposing a man to be shooting in the marshes and smoking, he had to put out his pipe and draw the charge of his gun before he was allowed to proceed. Yet it was found practically impossibie to check the danger from passing steamers. There was a third magazine not very far from the others, and the man in charge of it said, at the inquiry which was made, that sparks had repeatedly fallen on his magazine, and that they always brought his heart into his mouth." This magazine, by the way, had a wonderfully narrow escape from the fate that befell its companions. It was so near the others that a large iron bar was driven through the roof, a number of the slates blown off, and yet it did not explode. This fact strengthens me in my belief that the explosion was caused by a train of spilt powder extending from the barge along the jetty, to the magazine. In this case the damage done was frightful. I had no idea that any other house except my own had suffered, but, on going out, found that Lessness Heath and Erith had suffered as from a bombardment, being simply wrecked, and tha: the calamity had extended to Dartford, Greenhithe, and Bexley, while many houses in Essex had been severely damaged. The population were nearly all in the roads, just as they had escaped from their beds, and many with bare and bleeding feet, the blood streaming from wounds caused by the broken glass on which they had been forced to tread. Even the very walls which divided rooms were shaken down, so that nothing remained except canvas and paper; and when I mention that the shock was felt at Cambridge, the reader may imagine what it was to those who lived within a mile. Considering the magnitude of the disaster, there were very few lives lost, and, as if to show the capriciousness of such an explosion, a little child was found alive and unhurt in a corner of a bedroom on the first floor of a house which had stood within a few yards of the great magazine, and of which no relics were left except some shattered walls, a water-butt, a cat, and the child in question. The immediate danger to human life was inconsiderable, but disaster impended which threatened the lives of thousands. The two magazines had entirely vanished, leaving nothing but two huge craters. Of the houses attached to the magazines, nothing was left except the ruins of the one already mentioned, and part of the ground flooring of another. Even the very bricks had disappeared, though fragments of them were afterwards fou d at wonderful distances. But the secondary damage was horrible to contemplate. At least fifty yards of the river bank had been wholly blown away, and, not only that, bnt the shape of the wall was altered. There was an excep ionally high tide known to be coming, and a fierce wind not only aiding the tide, but driving the water against the gap in the embankment. What was to be done? The tide was coming in fast, and there were neither men nor materials for the reparation of the breach. Did the salt water once make its way over or through the embankment, it would have been ruin to hundreds of farmers, not to mention the almost impossible task of draining such a vast submerged tract of land in time to avert the miasma, which would be the inevi. table result of encroachment by brackish water. The least gap, were it but a few inches in width, will suffice to cause an inundation, as may often be seen on a small scale when the Thames overflows its banks. Water will find its own level, and the narrow gap is soon converted into a channel for an inundation. Those who were even the least experienced foresaw what the result of the explosion was likely to be, and many of the residents in the neighbourhood made up their minds to seek other honses. Fortunately about four hundred men were at the time engaged upon the great main drainage works at Crossness, situated about a mile from the gap, and were sent off at once to try to repair the bank. They laboured as if every man were a Hercules, but the river was too much for them, and gained on them inch by inch. Sud, |