borne Hill with its Hanger, the church would appear to occupy the highest ground southward of the visitor. The path at last merges in the carriage-road, not very far from where the Alton branch leaves the deep lane; and onward to the church the road is so deep and crooked, and the few houses so straggling, that though so well seen at a distance one is actually in Selborne before knowing it. Opposite to the Playstow, or "Plestor," as White calls it after the local pronunciation, the road makes a turn to the left and again to the right; and the second turn, which brings one in front of the church and the Playstow, with White's late resi

dence on the other hand, though a little in advance, may be regarded as the "west end" of the village of Selborne. The road, or street as we may call it, is a natural pavement here as well as in the deep lanes; and this character extends to great part at least of the Playstow, which is rough, stony, and in bad order, and the sycamore tree is stunted and has its leaves half covered with dark spots of fungi as early as the end of August. The church, which is described by White himself, is finely situated, but the tower is stuccoed out of all keeping with the building. The vicarage appears remarkably clean and snug, and there are some good houses near the Playstow; and the late dwelling of the antiquary and naturalist, though the modern wings are

somewhat out of proportion to the central part, and the right one is much larger than the left, is substantial in its walls and its roof. But there is a melancholy touch of the finger of time upon it—though how much of the pain which this excites may arise from the feeling that there is no Gilbert White there now it would perhaps not be easy to ascertain.

The village continues straggling along for more than half a mile to the south-east of White's residence. The greater number of houses are on the left-hand side proceeding in this direction, and this is the side on which there is a sort of foot-pavement composed of pieces of rag-stone set up on edge. The tough malmy clay at the bottom of the hill comes very nearly down to the right side of the road here; and the black vegetable mould, so favourable both for garden stuffs and for grass, occurs on the other side. The best inn, "The Compasses," is situated on the lefthand side, a little way beyond the church, and, though it accords with the rural character of the place, it is very comfortable for so retired a situation; and any one who may happen to visit Selborne may make sure of cleanliness and plenty, moderate charges, and most hospitable treatment. The back apartments of the inn overlook the very beautiful winding dell of the Liths, and there is no point from which this dell can be seen to more advantage than from the garden behind the inn.

Lith, "Lithe," or "Lythe," means a joint or bend, which is very expressive of the character of this dell. It may be said to begin at the north-west or Alton end of the village, where one branch of the "Bourne" makes its appearance, and, winding round north-east and south-east, passes under the steep escarpment where the vicarage and church stand, turns more in a southerly direction, and then again proceeds eastward from about the middle of the length of the village, away in the direction of the black heath called Woolmer Forest. Near the bending eastward, it receives the more perennial branch of the "Bourne," flowing from the well-head, which of course also runs in the hollow; but the ascents there are not quite so steep. The portion of the valley above the junction is the short Lith, and the bank of it opposite Selborne is covered with a fine hanging wood of larches, the lively green of which contrasts finely with the darker tint of the beeches of Selborne Hanger against it on the other side of the village, and also with the osier holts, hop gardens, and deciduous trees, now forming close woods, and now detached

clumps, which give great richness to the vista that presents itself in the long Lith. This Lith, as seen from the village, is very rich and beautiful, but one feels an incompleteness about it, inasmuch as it presents no prominent object to which all this beauty is subservient, and thus impresses one with the melancholy idea of a very fine assemblage of natural beauties wasting "their sweetness on the desert air." There is not even a bit of water visible, though that might be easily obtained by judiciously damming up the Bourne; and ponds of moderate dimensions in such places, if properly kept, are proved to repay fully the ground which they occupy. There are some ponds of considerable dimensions, and not uninteresting for their aquatic plants and the aquatic birds that resort to them, but they are concealed in the woods and do not tell in the scenery of the long Lith. Further down there are some reaches of the Bourne, which might throw a little liveliness into the picture, but they do not come into the general view.

In former times, when the Priory was in the full bloom of its architecture, and in the full enjoyment of that feasting and fox-hunting for which its inhabitants were celebrated, it is impossible to judge how much of pictorial interest its gray towers and turrets may have given to the scene; but, the rich seclusion of the long "lith" remains as evidence of the exquisite taste which guided Peter de la Roche in the choice of a situation for his priory.

The home lands of the priory now compose an extensive and valuable farm, the farm buildings standing nearly but not exactly on the site of the ancient edifice, though in point of beauty the spot chosen by the monks is preferable, lying very sweetly on the bank of the Bourne, so as to have given a beautiful exposure to the western or great entrance of the building. Not one stone of that building remains upon another, though many have been dug out of the ground; and stone coffins, bones, a few coins, and other articles of small value have also been obtained. The stones have been used for building purposes; and the bones and rich mould, quite regardless of all peril from the ghosts of the monks, have been mingled with more modern and less holy matters, for the carnal purpose of increasing the productiveness of the land. Fragments of old stained glass windows, in leaden tracery, and remarkable for the thickness of the glass, though its colours have

faded and its transparency is nearly gone, are also met with. Among the most durable remains are some paving-tiles (whether Venetian or Dutch we are unable to say), which now form the floor of a summer-house in the farmer's garden. They are squares of small size, of a sort of cinnamon-brown colour, very hard and compact, and have been marked with various rude devices in a sort of white enamel, let into hollows in the substance, but decayed in many places. No monument, nor any inscription of consequence, has been met with, at least in very modern times, so that there are few religious houses of which the memory has more completely perished than Selborne Priory. A fine uniform grassy turf now stretches unbroken over both monk and monument, and the successors of the holy brothers are sleek black pigs and fine, fat, and fair geese! which might have done honour to the refectory even in its proudest days. Herein there might be some matter for meditation on the melancholy subject of mutability, but this we leave to the discretion of the reader; and shall only add that whoever shall visit this phantom remain of a priory, and fatigue himself in quest of that which is not to be seen, will find the inmates of the priory farm intelligent and polished; and, if he so list, he may refresh himself, unsolicited on his part, with as choice a draught of October as ever brimmed in a glass. Whether the spirit of some quondam prior, of rosy face and ample rotundity, lingers to preside over the farmer's mash-tun, we know not, but truly there is a spirit there which either monk or layman might be proud to canonize.

From the Priory, he who wishes to see all about Selborne will naturally proceed to the Temple Hill, in doing which he must thread the mazes of a part of the Temple Hanger; the walk round the top of the Temple Hill commands a very good view of the surrounding country; and it is interesting in some parts in consequence of the extreme steepness of the bank upon which the wood called the Temple Hanger is situated. The prevailing wood here is oak, but the trees are not of large size, and they are interspersed with an under-growth of hazel, brambles, and various other shrubs, giving a tangled character to the surface, quite different from the almost total absence of surface vegetation which one meets with in Selborne Hanger, where, except a few cryptogamous plants, there is little to be met with deserving the name of surface vegetation.

It appears, indeed, that about Selborne there is a deficiency of wild flowers; and one might, perhaps, be prepared to expect this from the peculiar character of the soil. The grass upon the rich pastures contains but few daisies or other plants with conspicuous flowers; there is little wild convolvolus in the hedges; and the corn lands are very free from weeds. The deficiency of plants in point of variety is made up, however, in the vigorous growth of those which do occur, and still more by the vast multitudes of birds. No wonder that White devotes many pages of his history to the different members of the swallow tribe; for at the time when these birds assemble, previous to their departure for the winter, the house-tops are literally covered, and the air is filled with them. A more modern residence, which has been erected, we believe, by the nephew of Mr. White, adjoining what was White's residence, but appearing more conspicuously towards the park, has the thatch drilled with nest-holes, till it is absolutely like a honey-comb. This modern erection, by the way, has most unaccountably fallen under the censure of an anonymous visitor of Selborne, whose lucubrations have been quoted in "Jesse's Gleanings," as being cocknified," we believe is the word, and, as such, out of keeping with the rest of the village. This is not the case; for the house alluded to is a plain thatched cottage, white-washed certainly, as it should be, as it appears among trees, and having some of its openings very simply ornamented in a sort of half rustic and half Gothic style; but nothing can harmonize better with its own situation than this cottage does, and whether it harmonizes with the other buildings of the village or not is a matter of small importance, because it is not seen from the road, or from any place where itself is not the principal object. This is, of course, a matter of very trifling importance; but, as Selborne is a place which no one would wish to see spoiled in reality, it is scarcely fair to hold up to the world as a deformity that which is a real improvement of it.

One of the most remarkable circumstances about Selborne is the absence of springs, which of course arises from the nature of the soil. Such perennial springs as there are come out between the chalk and the clay, as is the case with those which supply the well-head. The clay, even when of the most malmy character, admits little water to penetrate it, if it is of any considerable depth;