"Now, don't you go a straining of yourself. Him 'll give it down." (Clearly Thomas.)

"Ah! take care of that, Thomas; there's a reverie in that." "Don't you be afeared, sir; I'll take care on it."

it."

"Let it come on the wheel, can't ye, and I'll help you down with

(Positively Thomas.)

"Now you be all right, miss. Thank you, miss."

"Wish you good day, sir. Wish you a good day, sir. Now, you shan't do it all yourself, I'll be hanged if you shall! down, now, will ye, and give me hold of the handle."

(Happy Thomas!)

So you put it

Some floundering and puffing to get over the hill. A little way down is the place where the young railway is to quit his tunnel, -marked out by flags and sticks; and then we plunge into the deep despondency of the Lee. Do people survive to middle age in this dreary village? There are always two men standing outside the public house, but they never speak. It is not even a nice day in the Lee -they have not the heart to say it. No sound is ever heard there but the clank of the blacksmith's hammer, which never ceases. for some flaxen-headed ploughboy to whistle over such a Lee as this! We soon pass the church, and turning to the right, a tall solitary Scotch fir-tree, more like a palm, comes in view. Up this branchless trunk, seventy feet long without a knot, it was once proposed by a sweet poetess that I should swarm in nankeens. But I anticipate.

Oh,

A few yards beyond this palm-like fir is the house of Castle-End; a modest, quiet, substantial edifice of grey stone, standing a little retired from the road, a small lawn interposing, with flower-beds, evergreens, and a paling. On the left is a kitchen-garden and more shrubbery; and behind, a farm-house, and barn, and outbuildings, and a dirty fold full of pigs, and cows, and poultry. Dull, many people would think it; but it is better than the Lee; for here you have a view of the Bailey (not the Old Bailey, though with hanging woods enough,) and the road is the great thoroughfare into South Wales.

In this house, about this lawn and kitchen-garden and fold, and under this old fir-tree, I passed one long summer-day with L.E.L., not then a poetess, but a romping, black-eyed girl, in the earliest dawn of womanhood: she was comely, rather than handsome, but with a play of intelligence upon her features more attractive than beauty.

This was the residence of her aunt, a hospitable, kind-hearted maiden lady; and associated with her was another maiden lady of singular eccentricity, if not mad, certainly next door to it; and the partition that separated the premises of the craziest scantling. Miss C. was perfectly harmless; and this fact being well known to visitors as well as inmates, she was admitted to the family circle, notwithstanding her odd ways. One of her peculiarities was a way of breaking in upon the conversation with a most rapid repetition of the words, "My lords and my ladies-my lords and my ladies-my lords and my ladies," continued for minutes together; and then she varied with another strain of " Cabbage and carrots and cabbage and carrots and cabbage and carrots"-for an equally indefinite period. Any allusions to garden-stuff or the aristocracy was sure to set her off; a

single word would do it. The grace at dinner was framed with a view to this peculiarity, for it was said that on one occasion a clergyman, not previously cautioned, was taken up very shortly at the word "Lord" by Miss C. with "Make us truly thankful, my lords and my ladies," &c. Another strange way she had of stealing quietly about the room, under pretence of examining books, or other articles upon the tables, till she could arrive unnoticed behind a stranger's chair. This feat she usually contrived with consummate skill, tacking about as if she was waiting for a slant of wind; and when the victim was earnestly engaged in conversation or otherwise, she ran silently down upon him, and commenced operations. Drawing an imaginary carvingknife and fork, she proceeded to cut up the piece de resistance; and, as her lips were moving all the time, no doubt she was helping a large party of my lords and my ladies to your primest cuts. Seated opposite to a mirror, it was not unpleasant to watch this process, and see the impartiality with which you were helped to the company; first a slice or two of lean, then a bit of fat, with a just proportion of stuffing and gravy. You were even disposed to assist her researches with the light of your own local knowledge; as, for example, " My dear madam, allow me to suggest that you are now in the wrong place for fat; and the seasoning, I am disposed to think, is not thereabouts. Perhaps you will permit me to express a hope that you will cut me handsome, in case I should come up cold another day. I hope his lordship finds me done brown; but, if I should be a little raw in places, have no scruple in sending out a slice of me to be grilled. I trust her ladyship relished the part you sent her, and may be induced to come again. There are parts of me tender enough; but, upon the whole, I am disposed to think I might be improved by a little hanging. I have a fancy that sweet sauce would go well with me. At any rate, I must protest against being served up à la Tartarre." The poor lady would get quite hot in the process, and more off her guard every moment; so that I am convinced, with a little management she might have been led into an amicable conversation with the joint she was carving; but any attempt of this kind was discountenanced.

Under the old fir-tree. "You see that bunch of hay and feathers in the fork of the branches ?"

"Yes; a sparrow's nest, no doubt."

"Oh! I should so like a young sparrow. Dear little thing! I should pet it so much. Everybody has canaries and goldfinches screaming and giving one the headache. I want a bird that does not sing. I should so like a young sparrow. I should teach him all sorts of tricks. I hardly know how to ask such a thing, but-if you would just climb up, and bring me a young sparrow, I should feel so much obliged."

"I fear that you really must excuse me. Not anticipating a pleasure of this kind, I perhaps am not so well equipped. You perceive that this tree is entirely without branches, except at the top. This would be a trifling consideration under other circumstances-to the country boy, for instance; but I rather fear that I am not exactly dressed for this," feeling the sharp edges of the flakes of bark which it was apparent would be most inimical to the Indian fabric.

"I do assure you it's not rough; it is not, indeed;-look here, how very smooth it is all the way up ;-there's a kind of knot, you

see, about half way, where you could rest as long as you please; and you could put the sparrow (dear little thing!) in your hat, and rest there again as you came down; but coming down would be nothing!"

"Oh dear no, less than nothing, I am afraid. But here is a boy, perhaps we can persuade him."

"Oh yes! he'll go, I'm sure. Here, young man; would you step here a moment. You see that round thing of hay up there?"

"Iss; that's a sparrow's nist. I see the old 'un a going in." "Well, what I want you to do is, I'm sure you'll do it, don't you call it swarming up a tree? Well, I'm sure you know how to swarm, and what nice thick boots you have. If I was a young man, I should be so proud if I could swarm up a tree. Tell me how you do it."

"Do it? why, I takes hold o' the tree a this 'n, and I grips him with my knees, and turns my right foot back'ards a that 'n, and then I shoves myself up; that's the way I does it."

"What a capital way! How long do you think it would take you to go up this tree? I dare say not more than a minute?"

"Should n't oonder. And what d'ye want when I gets there ?" "Do you know I've set my heart upon having a young sparrow. I should so much like to have one, if you would have the kindness to go up and bring me one,- -a cock if you please,-dear little thing! You can drop it if you like, and we'll hold the handkerchief. I'm sure you will, won't you?"

"A young sparra!! Hoo, hoo, again). A' wants a cock sparra!! ther). A' wants a- hoo, hoo, hoo, Presently another boy came.

a tree?"

hoo! (walking off and turning Hoo, hoo, hoo! (ten yards furhoo, hoo, hoo, hoo!" Young man, did you ever climb

"Do you think you could climb up this one?"

"Iss, think I could."

"So you say, but I think you are afraid to try."

up

"No, I bean't, not a bit on it. I ha' got up harder than that 'un."

"Well, if you are not afraid, I wish you would go up and bring me down a young bird out of that nest. But you are sure you would not fall and hurt yourself?"

"I bean't afeard o' that. I could bring down nist and all if I liked."

"Then go up, if you are not afraid."

But he was a calculating boy, and began by measuring the trunk carefully with his eye, before committing himself. Then he got out his mental scales, and weighed the matter carefully. On the one side was a probable small gratuity, and a feather weight of fame; on the other, labour, risk, abraded leathers, and a possible walloping for wearing out the stockings.

"No, I'll be dazz'd if I do!" said the boy, walking smartly down the road.

Still we must have a sparrow. "In the ricks, perhaps, under the thatch? that will be the place, of course! There's a ladder in the shed. You go and get the ladder, and I'll beat round the ricks with

this long stick. The old one will be sure to fly out. the gate. I'll come and help you to carry the ladder if it yourself."

Never mind you can't do

"Well, as I'm a living sinner, if somebody haven't been and left the rick-yard gate open, and all the pigs be got out, and they 're at Micheldean by this time, I'll lay a guinea! Jack! Jack! there's Jem a-been and left the rick-yard gate open, and all the pigs be got out! Do 'ee run down the road and see if you can see anything on 'em. Od rot 'un! if I could catch 'un I'd thump 'un well!"

I never saw her but this once, and as she then appeared, so does my recollection follow her through life, even to the last scene in that damp, hot, steaming house at Cape Coast, from whose mysteries the veil will never be lifted.

Castle End is now to be let, as I see by a small modest announcement upon the palings. It appears sadly shrunk and gone down in the world from what it used to be, as all old places do when we revisit them. But excepting that the garden and the evergreens look a little rougher than formerly, for want of a tenant to look after them, there is very little difference in the place. The house, to be sure, will never again witness such jolly doings with my lords and my ladies, but the garden, in reality, may contain about the same quantity of cabbage and carrots as it did in Miss C.'s time, and the old fir tree seems to have about as large a head for the wind to wheeze and moan through, as it had when the cajolery failed upon the climbing boys. Landlord! spare that tree; for with it you would cut down some pleasant associations, not unmixed with serious and sad thoughts. Our reveries must, in the nature of things, partake of this piebald character; and yet, notwithstanding, I should be sorry to pack up mine in a box, like Mrs. Jenkins's maid of The Close.

OH! that such bliss were mine! By thy dear side
To pass one live-long summer's day of love;

To know that thou wert mine-to call thee bride,
And feel that word was ratified above!

How would I look into thy dark blue eyes

And read the very secrets of thy soul,

And watch the light of love that in them lies,

Which proudly brooks nor thraldom nor control.
How would I hold thee in a grasp of bliss,

Around thy neck how lovingly entwine,
And press thy darling lips, and kiss-and kiss,
And sip to madness their ambrosial wine,
'Till drowsily I sank to blissful rest

Upon the soft, white pillow of thy bridal breast!

Univ. Coll, Durham,

CUTHBERT Bede.

A RAMBLE ALONG THE OLD KENTISH ROAD FROM CANTERBURY TO LONDON:

ITS CURIOSITIES AND ANTIQUITIES.

BY HENRY CURLING.

"Kent, in the Commentaries Cæsar writ,

Is termed the civil'st place of all this isle :

Sweet is the country, because full of riches."-Henry VI.

In the present time, and under the present system, when all men rush through the country by rail-road, a perambulation or a quiet ride along the old beaten highway, is almost as rare a circumstance as an excursion through the centre of Africa.

The old road from Canterbury to London was, in former days, a well-known route, and so full of interest, from its various associations, that every stage was classic ground. A man could no more pass through the woodland scenery on the London side of Rochester, without thinking of Gadshill and his minions of the moon lurking about in the gloaming, and listening for the tread of travellers, than he could stop at one of the Chaucer-like hostels at Canterbury without being reminded of pilgrims, fat-paunched abbots, lusty bachelors, and merry-eyed wives of Bath.

In such scenes, divested as they are of the pestiferous vapour and the squalor of the mining and manufacturing districts, the spectator, as he gazes over the undulating woodland, with here and there some old square flint tower of a village church peeping out, and the road seen winding over each wooded ascent,-might almost imagine himself looking upon England when tuck of drum startled the hamlets around, and the York and Lancastrian factions beat up for men to feed their ranks. Nay, the old English landscape becomes peopled with the peasantry of those Shaksperian days, clad in one sort of rural costume-the broad high-crowned castor, the leathern doublet, or the loose smock gathered in with the broad belt at the waist.

As I lay one fine morning in an old, rickety, square-topped, redcurtained bed, in a venerable room of one of the antique hostels at Canterbury, whilst the morning sun streamed through the casement upon the uneven flooring, and shone brightly upon the oak panels of the wainscot, it struck me that, instead being whisked up to London by train, I should like to box the road, and observe its varieties, and look up its points of interest en route. After breakfast, therefore, I hired a rough and ready pony, and, with the bridle under my arm, commenced my pilgrimage along the once well-known and well-frequented high road towards Sittingbourne.

The first place I made a short halt at, after clearing the suburbs and ascending the hill without the city, was the ancient village of Harbledown. In this small place, and in the hospital built by Lanfranc in the year 1084, a precious relic was formerly deposited, which was kept there as a sort of preparatory initiation to the worshipful, on their pilgrimage to the shrine of Thomas à Becket,— the relic being neither more nor less than Thomas's old slipper, which "all pilgrims, poor devils, and wayfarers were enjoined and