A RAMBLE IN ae ae OF LINDISFARNE. 
Miss E, SPENCER HICK, 
3 Belle Grove Villas, Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
“ Human things must be known to be loved.” —Pascal, 
** Drops of water falling, falling, falling, brim the chatty o 
isdom comes in little lessons, little grains ae gat store '—Sanscrit Proverb. 
WitH what pleasure do I recall last autumn, with its visit to the 
Isle of Lindisfarne, that isle physically so insignificant, yet so 
great in the history of our northern Christianity. So sacred 
from its associations as to suggest some stately cathedral, with 
its blue dome far away among the fleecy clouds, its sandy pave- 
ments and its grassy aisles, its walls a mass of green and red 
with hips and haws, its seats, the varied forms of cellular and 
flowerless plants. Its ancient priory, the pulpit, still stands 
glorious in its ruins, a fit memorial to the earnest Celtic 
Missionaries, to whom our northern Church owes undying 
gratitude. Yea, more, to whom belongs the honour, now 
strangely overlooked, of establishing the Christian Faith, never 
more to be uprooted, in London and the south, after 37 years of 
heathenism, when the Italian Bishops, the successors of that 
St. Augustine whose memory has been so honoured this year 
by over 100 Anglican eee preferred voluntary exile on the 
continent to a martyr’s crown in England; only one of whom, 
Canterbury’s Archbishop, stood firm to his post, and that only 
because he dreamt St. Peter flogged him for his cowardice ! 
I saw, as in a vision, a long line of Celtic heroes. St. Aidan, 
carrying the model of the priory and the monastery he had 
founded ; Cedd, enveloped in a cloud, through which shone, 
vague and indistinct, the outline of St. Paul’s Cathedral, on the 
site of which he had established Christian services; haughty 
Wilfred, bearing St. Peter’s keys, forcing the Papal sceptre on 
the rebellious Witan, next preaching to the South Saxons; and, 
last of all, St. Cuthbert, with rosary of beads that bear his 
name, and banner with the inscription, ‘The world without 
woman.’ They entered into the priory, and the air was full of 
a strange celestial harmony. 
gain, I saw them gathered in groups on the shore, and lo! 
the sea was crowded with ships manned by strange warriors, 
ho, with battle cry of Vyking, dispersed the monks of 
Lindisfarne ! And I awoke, to find myself lying on the grass 
_ hear the priory, alone, with only the sound of the sea-guills: and 
2 July xs 
