To make a bonfire of vestments, and everything that was capable of absolute extinction by the agency of fire, was an occasion of ribald mirth and revelry. To put the glorious cathedrals, the undying evidence of the splendour of Catholic devotion and enthusiasm, to the basest uses was their common habitude. The turning of the noble cloisters, that had been the pious and unceasing work of so many years to build, into stables for the horses of Cromwell's cavalry was only one feature of many other and even more hideous acts of vileness that were not only accomplished, but approved of. On these one would rather not dwell. The words horror and indignation seem infantile to express the emotions called forth by the contemplation of such things. After all this, the smashing of the old and beautiful stained glass windows, sorrowful as it may make us, seems of comparatively little consequence, unique and of priceless value as they were. It is, nevertheless, inevitable to think with wondering awe of the awful waste of the inspired work of centuries. There are yet, and we may well be thankful for it, a few remains of the extraordinary beauty of the artistic work of the monks of old. The Lady Chapel of Gloucester Cathedral is a striking example. It was finished only a few years before the Reformation, and was more fortunate than the majority of such buildings, inasmuch as, although the traces of mutilation are evident, the beauty of the work of the monk-artist can yet be seen and appreciated. That the work of destruction was carried out to the fullest extent of their means by these iconoclasts is proved by the general absence of remains. It is only an occasional chance, such as the digging of foundations of a building on the outskirts of a cathedral city, as happened not long ago, that leads to the discovery of mutilated fragments of statues, broken arteries of altars of untold age, and powdered remains of stained glass, that even modern skill admits its inability to equal, which can give us real and tangible evidence of the wealth of beauty and pious effort that must have been stored up in those marvellous old buildings. The spirit that could guide to the destruction not only of such things as the eye alone could perceive and appreciate, but of so intangible and defenceless a thing as music, must indeed have been insatiable. The majestic strength of those venerable fanes, that seem to defy the flight of ages, was theirs to successfully resist such enemies as they then had to encounter, and though they were, to some extent, destined to suffer in the conflict, yet such wounds as they received were not altogether incapable of healing. The point we have to arrive at is the complete realisation that whatever was beautiful in art was hateful to the Puritans, and it was only when every vestige of it was uprooted, they ceased their work of violent and wanton destruction. So far as music is concerned, their work may be said to have been complete.