Here we visited the Church of St. Mary-de-Crypt, (lately restored) where the admirers of Whitfield would chiefly think of him, and where, perhaps, he ought to have been more thought of by the Church, and so saved from the extravagances of his subsequent career. We went also to see St. Michael’s and St. Mary-de-Lode, (fresh restorations again) and finally visited the scene of Bishop Hooper’s fiery martyrdom. The death of Hooper dignifies the otherwise inglorious memory of a prelate who did not a little to spoil his own work as a reformer, by tampering with Geneva. And it is curious how much of puritanism he seems to have bequeathed to his see; Glos’ter having been the proverbial haunt of the “godlie” in Cromwell’s time, and having bred the zealous evangelist, to whom I have already alluded as originally illuminating with his enthusiasm, the cold interior of St. Mary-de-Crypt. Strange, that after beginning here as a deacon of the Church, he should now lie buried under a puritan pulpit in New England, having completely revolutionized the Calvinism of our own country, and entailed upon it the _Convulsionism_ of which it is now expiring. Had the zeal of Whitfield been according to his knowledge, and had the dormant Hanoverian age, which produced him, by the law of reaction, only known how to use him, he might have left behind him some less equivocal fruits of missionary enterprise. Before speaking of the cathedral, I must allude to our visit to Highnam, on the other side of the Severn. Here we found a Church, lately erected entire, at a cost of £30,000, by a single individual—nave, chancel, tower, and spire complete, and all affording a model of ecclesiastical art, worthy of standing in the neighbourhood of some of its noblest originals. To see a Victorian Church, and one thus erected by private munificence, comparing so favourably with some of the most admired specimens of the middle ages, not only in general construction, but in the most elaborate details, was indeed refreshing to the eye and to the heart. The chancel and altar were especially noteworthy, adorned as they were with the most delicate sculpture, in Caen stone, and instinct with the life and beauty of a healthful symbolism. Into the chancel opened a small sepulchral chapel, which exceedingly interested my feelings, and warmed my admiration of the whole. Two memorial windows were dedicated, each to the remembrance of a departed child, and between them stood, in a niche, the marble bust of their departed mother. Blessed religion of Jesus, which makes the dead in Christ so dear, and which so beautifies their memory: which so sanctifies the ties of earth, and so triumphs over death, in its power to render them eternal! Here was a family nest, indeed, hung upon the altar of the Lord of Hosts! My eyes glistened as I read, beneath the lovely effigy of the Christian wife and mother, an inscription to “Anna Maria Isabella G—— P——; in fulfilment of whose