as erroneously supposed this influence prevailed with the London booksellers to prevent his literary labors from being duly rewarded. He passed the winters of 1797 and 1798 in the neighbourhood of Bath; and was often noticed in the pump room, and in the streets or vicinity of the city, thin, pale, and emaciated, with a wild penetrating look. He was known to have been without animal food for several months, and to have supported life by a meal of biscuit, a piece of bread, or a cold potatoe, with a glass of water. Unable to pay his lodgings, and too proud to ask relief, he wandered about the fields at night, or slept beneath a hay-stack. Once, when almost exhausted, he took refuge at an inn in Bath, where, by refusing sustenance, he alarmed the mistress; she applied to the magistrates, and they consigned him to the parish officers. In letters to some persons in the city, he complained of "this unconstitutional infringement of the liberty of the subject, and suspected that his imaginary host of enemies had again been plotting. About this time he published "Letters to Lord Camden on the state of Ireland," which were admired for elegance and strength of language, shrewdness of remark, and perspicuity of argument. A small subscription was privately raised, and delicately tendered to him. He received it as a loan, and left Bath. Poverty and sensitiveness deranged his mental powers. He could neither labor corporeally, nor attain to eminence, nor even obtain sufficient for subsistence by his pen; and he shrunk from society, to suffer silently. At a little public house about six miles from Bath he was found dead in his bed-he perished, in distraction, and indigence, of a broken heart. " Yellow day-lily flowers. Ragged robin flowers, and continues till mowed down with the meadow hay. A COUNTRY RAMBLE. Maidstone, 13th April, 1830. The morning was unusually brilliant, and the air as soft as that of Mid soon as summer. As I sat discussing my breakfast, notwithstanding that unaccountable lassitude which Spring usually brings with it, I felt a mighty longing for a ramble in the neighbourhood, and was, accordingly, out of doors as circumstances would permit, wandering, I scarce knew whither. I presently passed the precincts of the town, and stood sunning myself on a quiet green, one side of which was lined with a plantation of firs, between whose dingy foliage a young larch here and there put forth its feathery branches, sprinkled with so bright a green, that the contrast was more than usually beautiful and striking. A regiment of geese-the awkward squad of a neighbouring poultry-yard- were gabbling great things as they tugged at the close-shaven turf, or eyed, with that shrewd sidelong look which fools oftentimes affect, such "remarkables" as they met with in their wanderings. As they were feeding close beside the path, they seemed not a little disconcerted at my near approach, and, sounding an alarm, made off towards a picturesque country inn that stood a short distance to the right, as if on purpose to remind me of the connection which Goldsmith has instituted between this silly bird and “the village alehouse with nicely sanded floor, And varnished clock, that clicked behind the door." "As calm as a clock," had long been a favorite proverb with me; and it now seemed to combine those two properties which are so rarely known to amalgamate, poetry and truth. I thought of many a rural repast to which I had done ample justice in the cool parlour of some quiet hostelrie, whilst my fancy had been "abroad in the meadows," amongst the breezy corn, bowing and flashing in the clear sunlight, presenting, as it glistened on its restless surface, more of that pensive tenderness which belongs to an autumn moon, than of those golden glories distinguishing the god of day. Beside this building, which was quite in the old-fashioned style, and exhibited a double series of "imbowed windows," towered a stately oak, beneath whose summer shade many a " contemplative man" had gone in the cool of the day, to interpose a little ease," and dream away an idle hour over his pipe and jug and above it a light column of smoke rose calmly from its ponderous chimney, in beauteous contrast with the undulated range of hills beyond it, dotted here and there with dark yews, and knots of dusky furze, hallowed by distance, and seeming to float in a delicate atmosphere of purple mist. I entered a narrow road, hemmed in by high sand-banks for some distance, and where it became more open, presenting occasionally a wayside cottage with its white walls, and trim garden. From a narrow slip of green sward beside the road, I now caught a good view of the hills, whither I was destined, and whose gentle swell was broken every now and then by steep chalk-pits, or hidden by tall trees, rising in the middle distance, which, where the lands behind them lay fallow, were scarcely distinguishable, until a wandering sunbeam glanced on them, and they leaped forth spontaneously into light and glory. At some distance to my left, I particularly noticed a lordly elm, the branches of which, frosted over with age, presented such a striking contrast to the depth of shade thrown over them as the quick sun-bursts smiled upon it, that I could liken it to nothing but its own portraiture "in black and white." The prominent lights became, all at once, powdered with gold; and the whole tree assumed the appearance of a delicate piece of fret-work, compounded of glass and fire. This feature in the landscape is one of the principal characteristics of spring; and were I required to describe that delightful season, in a single line, I do not think it could be done more satisfactorily than in the words of Cowper,— "Shadow of sunshine, intermingling quick" -So quickly, indeed, that I have been almost tempted, more than once, to exchange that powerful term, sun-bursts," for the more equivocal compound, "sunshot." The effect of these momentary gleams, I have attempted to convey some idea of, in the lines which follow :Now, on the distant hills the sun-light restsNow, all at once, his milder rays enfold The stately elms, that line the russet crests Of those twin slopes before us; and, behold! How, while it breathes upon them, and invests The spare-clad branches with its gaudy gold, They show so beauteous as to seem the while A tissue woven from a scraph's smile! Pursuing my walk, I passed over a clear streamlet, brawling across the road, beside which I kept for a considerable distance, amusing myself by watching the shadow of its ripples, as they travelled over its clear sandy bed, and thinking of Chaucer's "quick stremes and colde." Here and there an antique root, quaintly broidered with moss, peeped out from the ragged bank above it, beyond which, in a fresh flowering meadow, many happy groups of cattle were ruminating. After losing sight of this stream, I came suddenly upon a spacious opening to the right, at the further end of which stood the parish church, partially hidden by an enormous yew, and standing in its green church-yard, enclosed with a low stone wall, at one corner of which were those usual accompaniments, the stocks and whipping-post. In approaching it, my attention was, for a few moments, arrested by two grotesque pieces of sculpture, ornamenting the outhousess of an adjoining mansion, one of which represents a countenance strangely distorted by the act of vehemently devouring a loaf, held between the hands; and both, apparently, typify the blessings of a well filled store-house. The church, which I had now reached, was that of All Saints, at Boxley, so named from the number of box-trees formerly growing in its vicinity. I had explored its interior many years before, and had found little to reward me for my pains, except a long inscription concerning the Wiatts of this place, and of Allington Castle; detailing the great and good deeds of a certain cat, with reference to an unfortunate member of that honorable house. I had noticed, also, an ancient brass, commemorating one of its former rectors; but, beside these things, I do not remember to have seen aught worthy of record in this place. I seated myself within the porch, by whose twilight the quiet landscape, on which I looked out, seemed "thrown to finer distance," the warm tints of the old yew-tree, which I have just mentioned, though radiant with the light of a powerful morning's sun, forming a grateful resting-place for the eye, after it had wandered up the still street, and become wearied by the glare of its dusty roadway. After remaining here for a few minutes, I emerged again into the pleasant sun-shine; and, quitting the churchyard, pursued my way up the hills beyond it, till I reached a stile by the hedge-side, on which I rested to take the annexed sketch. And now I bethought myself of the happy hours I had lingered away amidst the delightful scenery on which I was gazing; but specially of one day, "from many singled out," when I had lain entranced on a green slope to the westward, and watched the clouds "Now huddling, now dispersing, As with the windy messengers conversing"-. following their fleet shadows down the long perspective, descending by a gentle sweep, from the high level ridge on either hand, and stretching away into the blue distance, like the framework of an enormous vessel. I had then "mused praise," as I looked on the rich level below me, streaked with all hues, and exhibiting, here and there, a still hamlet, or solitary farm-house, peeping above the trees that surrounded it; and well I remembered how the vast thoughts which then possessed me had been put to flight by the discharge of a pistol, and its strange echo,-a harsh rattling rush, so substantial that it migh almost be seen, and, like nothing else but the neezings of behemoth, or the " earnest whisperings" of Polyphemus. But other sounds awaited me; for the first fierce notes of the nightingale broke upon my ears as I lingered near the skirts of a coppice, not far distant; and I thought how gentle Master Walton had been held in thrall by this same "tumultouus harmony," and had thus prettily moralised upon it; "He that, at midnight, when the very laborer sleeps securely, should hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, Lord! what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest bad men such music on earth." And who, amongst the many that have treated of the "warbling woodland," did I not then bring to mind? But, first and foremost of the goodly train, ranked he whose "rimes" had consecrated the very spot where I now stood; for the old pilgrims' road to "Canterburie" lay through the shaw in whose recesses this "creature of a fiery heart" was cloistered. Whilst I thought of his merry monk, whose wanton eye, rolling hither and thither, must have twinkled with more than common lustre, as it glanced on the neighbouring abbey of " Boxele" (where, without doubt, good cheer and a hearty welcome awaited him), I could almost hear his bridel' "Gingeling in whistling wind as clere, And eke as loud, as doth the chappel bell." By this time I had finished my sketch, and was pursuing my journey, halting occasionally to gaze on the splendid scenery below me; I had passed the pleasurehouse built by lord Romney on the brow of one of those gentle undulations which jut out from the main range of hills; and, on turning round, beheld, to the westward, a scene the most gorgeous that eve rpresented itself before me. "O! 'twas an unimaginable sight! By waking sense, or by the dreaming soul." -The distance became gradually overshadowed by that mysterious gloom, which, at this season, frequently passes across the landscape at noon day,-a time, which, notwithstanding the radiance usually investing it, has, with reference to this appearance, been appropriately designated by the term "grim." The whole scene, with the exception of the little hill which I have just mentioned, became presently absorbed, melting away into the solemn mist, till it sunk entirely out of sight, whilst the full tide of sunlight, flushing that green eminence, and the little lodge that crowned it, imparted to them a glory, and an effect, infinitely beyond the power of expression. I had now reached a knoll of firs, endeared to me by many associations; for, on the green sward below them, mottled with alternate shade and sunshine, I had rested one sultry summer's day, gazing through their whispering foliage at the blue heavens, amidst such quiet that one might almost Here will we stand, upon this grassy knoll, Up the wild twilight sky, the storm-clouds roll, From this spot I shaped my course towards the little village of Bredhurst, and came suddenly upon its modest church, nearly eclipsed by the old yewtree in its cemetery. Many years before, I had been tempted to visit it, by a report that some curious scroll-work ornamented the windows of a part of it, now disused; the glass had been removed from them, or destroyed, and therefore, although at some height from the ground, and of the narrow lancet-shaped kind, I made an attempt to get through one of them, which was, after some difficulty, successful. But my exit was another matter, and I hung, for many a long minute, on my poor ribs, fearing they would all give way together, and wriggling, as I have seen a hungry, lean-faced dog, through the fore-court palings of a house "in chancery," till, by a desperate effort, I jerked myself out, head foremost, on to the green turf below. I wandered hence, towards the secluded chapel at Lidsing, or Lidgeon, situate at no great distance, and, after making the best of my way through a wood, came to the "slip of green" which I have attempted to describe in the following verses, and, shortly afterwards, to the “old chantry" in question :— One might have decmed that still green spot to lie Beyond the rule of Time, so brightly there The sun looked down from scarce a calmer sky; And, on the sobbing of its noon-tide air, Whose random boughs, with lichens over- Seemed ready.coiled to meet the thunderstroke; And graceful birch, with stem so silver. bright; Its pendent branches, as the zephyr spoke Around them, trembling in the morning light, Like love, that may not love, and yet, in ruth, Thrills at the plea of tenderness and truth, Each above each, in varied beauty planted, Entrancing glympses of the sky, betweenAnd from their front, the narrow valley slanted Down to the centre of a quiet green, Fringed with dark knots of furze, which seemed to lie Like wingless clouds upon an ev❜ning sky, -A summer-ev'ning sky, whose amber light With the soft sweetness of its azure blending, Melts into vivid green, that so the sight Unpained may gaze upon the sun descending, So bright that valley seemed, so purely bright, The thoughtful stranger o'er its bosom bending, Saw, with impatient eye, the shadows pass An ancient chapel stood, time-worn, and Upon its little plot of mossy ground, Within whose sleek and sunny precincts lay Two modest graves with slips of bramble bound, All open to the winds, unsought, unknown, But, though so lonely seeming, not alone. For when the clear, cool, rays of morning fell Upon the sparkling turf, that wakeful bird, "The sweet and plaintive Sappho of the dell," ”華 In this lone haunt her fervent suit preferred, And there, the tinkling of the sheepfold bell, Amidst the dim and sultry noontide, heard From that old chantry's farther side, betrayed The straggling flock that wandered in its shade. The ruddy thorns which careful friends had bent O'er those twin mounds, and watered with their tears, Put forth green leaves, and danced in merriment, Reckless as childhood of its coming years; And there, at times, the wary robin went To trill its simple vespers, full of fears,Whilst earth seemed all unearthly, and the skies Wept light like that which swims in Pity's eyes. The sky had been for some time overcast, but, before reaching this spot, the sun broke forth again in all its warmth and splendor. I returned towards the hills, and, seating myself beside the stepping-stone mentioned in my "Summer Wanderings," p. 13,* looked through the misty sunlight, on the rich valley * Hood. Copied in the Year Book, col. 242. Mr. Bacon, an innkeeper at a celebrated posting house called Brownhill, about 12 miles north of Dumfries, was an intimate acquaintance and an almost inseparable associate of Robert Burns. Many a merry night did they spend together over their cups of foaming ale or bowls of whisky today, and on some of those occasions Burn composed several of his best convivial songs and cheerful glees. The bard and the innkeeper became so attached to each other that, as a token of regard, Burns gave to Bacon his snuff box, which for many years had been nis pocket companion. The knowledge of this gift was confined to a few of their jovial brethren until after Bacon's death in 1825, when his household fuurniture was sold by public auction on the 22d of May. Amongst the other articles, Mr. Bacon's snuff box was put up for sale and an individual bid a shilling for it. There was a general exclamation in the room that it was not worth two-pence, and the auctioneer seemed about to knock down the article, he looked on the lid and read, from an inscription upon it, with a tremendous voice, "Robert Burns, Officer of the Excise." Scarcely had he uttered the words of the inscription when shilling after shilling was rapidly and confusedly offered for this relic of Scotland's 'bard; the greatest anxiety prevailed while the biddings proceeded, and it was finally knocked down for £5. The box is made of the tip of a horn neatly turned round at the point; its lid is plainly mounted with silver, on which is engraven the following inscription "ROBT. BURNS, OFFICER OF THE EXCISE." I was present at the sale, and amongst |