And now I bethought myself of the happy hours I had lingered away amidst the deligtful 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 vastthoughts 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 might

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 tl.e 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" lav

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! Glory, beyond all glory ever seen 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

-"hear in the calm air above Time, onwards swiftly flying."And I had been there, too, in a scowling afternoon in autumn, when the wind roared mightily amongst their branches, mingling its fainter dirges with the roaring of the distant sea; on which occasion I had made this "composure" following:

Here will we stand, upon this grassy knoit,
O'ercanopied by solemn firs, and see
Up the wild twilight sky, the storm-clouds roll,
And whilst th' unquiet winds breathe heavily,
Drink in their freshness till the wasted soul
Leaps up in echo to their minstrelsy,
Like impotence, to whose embrace are given
Armfuls of mercies, and the strength of heaven.

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,
Sound was there none, except the rivalry
Of tuneful birds that fled the sultry glare,
To their ardent songs amidst the shade
pour

Of trees which compassed this sequestered glade.

There might you see trim ash, and lordly oak

Whose random boughs, with lichens overdight,

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 rutb Thrills at the plea of tenderness and truth,

Each above each, in varied beauty planted,
At all times lovely; lovelier if seen
When the scant sprinkling of their leafage
granted,

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-evʼning 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 In weary sort, along the dewy grass. Beyond this calm retreat,—not far away,

With fields of cern, and woods, encompassed round,

An ancient chapel stood, time-worn, and grey,

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,"

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, çol. 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

There are now delightful days—inviting walks in green lanes and meadows, and into the woodlands. Before the full glory of the year comes on, the earth teems with sweet herbs, and tiny flowers, of exquisite beauty.—

The blue-bells too, that quickly bloom
Where man was never known to come;
And stooping lilies of the valley,

That love with shades and dews to dally,
And bending droop on slender threads,
With broad hood-leaves above their heads,
Like white-robed maids, in summer hours,
Beneath umbrellas, shunning showers ;-
These, from the bark-men's crushing treads,
Oft perish in their blooming beds.
Stripp'd of its boughs and bark, in white
The trunk shines in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees,
That wave above it in the breeze,
And, waking whispers, slowly bend,
As if they mourned their fallen friend.

holding up his gown with his left hand. This knight of royalty and the pestle was originally a tailor or cobbler, became a mountebank, and practised medicine by the light of nature. Though he could not read, he rode in his own chariot, and dispensed good punch from golden bowls. Impudence is the great support of quackery, and Read had uncommon effrontery. A few scraps of Latin in his bills induced the ignorant to suppose him wonderfully learned. He travelled the country, and at Oxford, in one of his addresses, he called upon the vice-chancellor, university, and the city, to vouch for his cures, in common with the "good people" of the three kingdoms. He practised in different distempers, but defied competition as an oculist, and queen Anne and George I. honored him with the care of their eyes, from which one would have thought that the rulers, like the ruled, wished to be as dark as his brother quack, Taylor's, coach horses, five of which were blind, because Taylor had exercised his skill upon animals that could not complain. After queen Anne had knighted Dr. Read and Dr. Hannes, Mr. Gwinnet sent the following lines, in a letter to his beloved Mrs. Thomas :The queen, like Heaven, shines equally on all, Her favors now without distinction fall: Great Read and slender Hannes, both knighted, show

That none their honors shall to merit owe,
That popish doctrine is exploded quite,

Or Ralph had been no duke, and Read no knight

That none may virtue or their learning plead, This hath no grace, and that can hardly read.

From out the knotweed's button heads,
And put the husk, with many a smile,
In their white bosoms for awhile,-
Then if they guess aright the swain
Their loves' sweet fancies try to gain :
"Tis said, that ere it lies an hour,
'Twill blossom with a second flower,
And from their bosom's handkerchief
Bloom as it ne'er had lost a leaf.
-But signs appear that token wet,
While they are 'neath the bushes met;
The girls are glad with hopes of play,
And harp upon the holiday;-
A high blue bird is seen to swim
Along the wheat, when sky grows dim
With clouds; slow as the gales of Spring
In motion, with dark-shadowed wing
Beneath the coming storm he sails:
And lonely chirp the wheat-hid quails,
That come to live with Spring again,
But leave when summer browns the grain;
They start the young girl's joys afloat,
With "wet my foot "-their yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain,
And oft it proves a sign of rain!

Clare.

Dark columbine begins to flower.

Herb benet or common avens, flowers. India pink flowers.

Give me to walk on mountains bare,
Give me to breathe the open air,
To hear the village children's mirth
To see the beauty of the earth-
In wood and wild, by lake and sea,
To dwell with foot and spirit free-
MARY HOWITT

"The day itself (in my opinion) seems of more length and beauty in the country, and can be better enjoyed than where any else. There the years pass away calmly; and one day gently drives on the other, insomuch that a man may be sensible of a certain satiety and pleasure from every hour, and may be said to feed upon time itself, which devours all other things; and although those that are employed in the managing and ordering of their own estates in the country have otherwise, namely, by that very employment, much more pleasure and delights than a citizen can possibly have, yet verily, so it is, that one day spent in the privacy and recess of the country, seems more pleasant and lasting than a whole year at court. Justly, then, and most deservingly, shall we account them most happy with whom the sun stays longest, and lends a larger day. The husbandman is always up and drest

at the same instant of time, breaks over all the fields, and chaseth away the darkness from every valley. If his day's task keep him late in the fields, yet night comes not so suddenly upon him, but he can return home with the evening-star. Whereas, in towns and populous cities, neither the day, nor the sun, nor a star, nor the season of the year, can be well perceived. All which, in the country, are manifestly seen, and occasion a more exact care and observation of seasons, that their labours may be in their appointed times, and their rewards accordingly."*