when he thought I was far behind; or by managing to run plump up against him at a corner, that I might observe the various degrees of self-possession and impudence with which the different culprits carried the thing off. Some were overwhelmed with instant shame, gave me a confused nod, and hurried on to avoid all interrogation; but the generality adopted the approved method of conscious guilt, by becoming the attacking parties and starting off into exclamations and surprises. "What, Harry Sevenoaks in London! Credat Judæus Apella!"-then the eyes are rubbed, and after an incredulous stare the party continues—“ It is Harry, by Heaven!—why, my dear fellow, have you forgotten that this is September ?--what would they say were I to mention this at HHouse, or Lord S-'s, or the Marchioness of D- -'s?" Now it is clear, that a man who attacks you in this way, and even hints at betraying you to your noble friends, cannot himself be in the same predicament. He must be a mere accidental traveller over the forbidden ground; at all events, he wishes you to infer it, but for fear you should not have ingenuity enough to draw that conclusion, he takes care to add, that he is a mere bird of passage, having only arrived that morning from Cheltenham or Harrogate, and intending to set off next day for Dawlish or Sidmouth. Joe Manton, and his fellow-gunsmith Egg, have as many charges to endure as their own fowling-pieces; for several of my acquaintance have declared, that after writing repeated letters without effect, they had been obliged to run up to London to

reclaim the guns, which had been left to be repaired never failing to add, in a tone of indignant reproach, "and you know pheasant-shooting begins in ten days!" One friend had thrown himself into the London mail upon learning the dangerous illness of an uncle, from whom he had considerable expectations, and whom he accused of a scandalous want of consideration for falling sick at the time of the County races. Another, who was the indisputable author of some very ingenious charades in rhyme, informed me, with a significant look, that a letter from his quiz of a bookseller had compelled him to run up to make certain preliminary arrangements for the publishing season. A third poor fellow, who began to walk rather limpingly as he specified his disaster, was under the necessity of coming all the way from Scarborough, to consult Astley Cooper respecting the old wound he received at Talavera; and a fourth, after frankly stating that he had never left London, declared, that he was so tired of all the bathing-places and the different noblemen's seats of which he had the run, that he was determined, for once and away, to pass an autumn in London, out of fun and novelty, and just to see what the thing was like.

Love of the country is with me a passion which has sprung up as the others subsided; perhaps a certain age is necessary for its full and sufficing fruition, before one can feel assured, that if we walk out into the fields, look forth upon the green earth, the blue sky, and the flashing waters, and so put ourselves in communion with Nature and the unseen Spirit of the

universe, we shall infallibly tranquillize our bosoms, however agitated, by imparting to them the blandness and serenity of the surrounding landscape. If we become less social as we advance in life, we certainly sympathize more with nature-a substitution of which few will find reason to complain. The coxcombs of whom I have been writing had none of this feeling; they love London rather than the country, yet they hated it so much when it was under the proscription of fashion that they invented all sorts of ingenious lies to apologize for their presence. Strange inconsistency! that a man should deem it more respectable to be a liar than to be accounted poor; more strange still, that an Englishman, who boasts so much of his liberty, and resists with so much pertinacity the smallest encroachment upon his free agency, should voluntarily become the slave of the most capricio usof all despots--Fashion.

THE POET AMONG THE TREES.

OAK is the noblest tree that grows,

Its leaves are Freedom's type and herald;
If we may put our faith in those
Of Literary-Fund Fitzgerald.

Willow's a sentimental wood,

And many Sonneteers, to quicken 'em,
A relic keep of that which stood

Before Pope's Tusculum at Twickenham.

The Birch-tree, with its pendent curves,
Exciting many a sad reflection,
Not only present praise deserves,
But our posterior recollection.

The Banyan, though unknown to us,
Is sacred to the Eastern Magi.
Some like the taste of Tityrus,
"Recubans sub tegmine fagi."

Some like the Juniper—in gin ;

Some fancy that its berries droop, as

Knowing a poison lurks within

More rank than that distill'd from th' Upas.

But he who wants a useful word,

To tag a line or point a moral,
Will find there's none to be preferr'd
To that inspiring tree-the Laurel.

The hero-butchers of the sword,

In Rome and Greece, and many a far land, Like Bravos, murder'd for reward,

The settled price-a laurel-garland.

On bust or coin we mark the wreath,
Forgetful of its bloody story,
How many myriads writhed in death,
That one might bear this type of glory.

Cæsar first wore the badge, 'tis said,

'Cause his bald sconce had nothing on it, Knocking some millions on the head,

To get his own a leafy bonnet.

Luckily for the Laurel's name,
Profaned to purposes so frightful,
"Twas worn by nobler heirs of fame,
All innocent, and some delightful.

With its green leaves were victors crown'd
In the Olympic games for running,
Who wrestled best, or gallop'd round

The Circus with most speed and cunning.

Apollo crown'd with Bays gives laws
To the Parnassian Empyrean;
And every schoolboy knows the cause,
Who ever dipp'd in Tooke's Pantheon.

Daphne, like many another fair,

To whom connubial ties are horrid,
Fled from his arms, but left a rare
Memento sprouting on his forehead.

For Bays did ancient bards compete,
Gather'd on Pindus or Parnassus ;
They by the leaf were paid, not sheet,

And that's the reason they surpass us.

One wreath thus twines the heads about,
Whose brains have brighten'd all our sconces,
And those who others' brains knock'd out,
'Cause they themselves were royal dunces.

Men fight in these degenerate days

For crowns of gold, not laurel fillets;
And bards who borrow fire from bays,
Must have them in the grate for billets.

Laureates we have (for cash and sack)
Of all calibres and diameters,

But 'stead of poetry, alack!

They give us lachrymose Hexameters.

And that illustrious leaf for which

Folks wrote and wrestled, sung and bluster'd,

Is now boil'd down to give a rich

And dainty flavour to our custard!