against class, a fault which generally involves a want of truth; but it does its work admirably, and produces exactly the effect intended in the fewest possible words.

"Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake,
Gaffer Gray,

And why doth thy nose look so blue ?"
""Tis the weather that's cold,

"Tis I'm grown very old,

And my doublet is not very new,
Well-a-day!"

“Then line thy worn doublet with ale,
Gaffer Gray,

And warm thy old heart with a glass."

"Nay, but credit I've none,

And my money's all gone;

Then say how may that come to pass?
Well-a-day!"

Warmly fenced both in back and in front."
"He will fasten his locks,

And will threaten the stocks,

Should he ever more find me in want,
Well-a-day!"

"The squire has fat beeves and brown ale,
Gaffer Gray,

And the season will welcome you there."
"His fat beeves and his beer

And his merry new year

Are all for the flush and the fair,
Well-a-day!"

"My keg is but low, I confess,

Gaffer Gray:

What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live."

"The poor man alone,

When he hears the poor moan,

Of his morsel a morsel will give,
Well-a-day!"

This author, so gifted, so various, and so laborious, one of the most remarkable of self-educated men, died in London on the 3rd of March, 1809, after a long and painful illness, at the age of sixtythree; I fear poor.

VIII.

AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

THERE are some places that seem formed by nature for doubling and redoubling the delight of reading and dreaming over the greater poets. Living in the country, one falls into the habit of choosing out a fitting nest for that enjoyment, and with Beaumont and Fletcher especially, to whose dramatic fascinations I have the happy knack of abandoning myself, without troubling myself in the least about their dramatic faults (I do not speak here of graver sins, observe, gentle reader); their works never seem to me half so delightful as when I pore over them in the silence and solitude of a certain green lane, about half a mile from home sometimes seated on the roots of an old fantastic beech, sometimes on the trunk of a felled oak, or

;

sometimes on the ground itself, with my back propped lazily against a rugged elm.

In that very lane am I writing on this sultry June day, luxuriating in the shade, the verdure, the fragrance of hay-field and of bean-field, and the absence of all noise, except the song of birds, and that strange mingling of many sounds, the whir of a thousand forms of insect life, so often heard among the general hush of a summer noon.

Woodcock Lane is so called, not after the migratory bird so dear to sportsman and to epicure, but from the name of a family, who three centuries ago owned the old manor-house, a part of which still adjoins it, just as the neighbouring eminence of Beech Hill is called after the ancient family of De la Beche, rather than from the three splendid beechtrees that still crown its summit; and this lane would probably be accounted beautiful by any one who loved the close recesses of English scenery, even though the person in question should happen not to have haunted it these fifty years as I have done.

It is a grassy lane, edging off from the high road, nearly two miles in length, and varying from fifty to a hundred yards in width. The hedgerows on either side are so thickly planted with tall elms as almost to form a verdant wall, for the greater part doubly screened by rows of the same stately tree, the down-dropping branches forming close

shady footpaths on either side, and leaving in the centre a broad level strip of the finest turf, just broken, here and there, by cart-tracks, and crossed by slender rills. The effect of these tall solemn trees, so equal in height, so unbroken, and so continuous, is quite grand and imposing as twilight comes on; especially when some slight bend in the lane gives to the outline almost the look of an amphitheatre.

On the southern side, the fields slope with more or less abruptness to the higher lands above, and winding footpaths and close woody lanes lead up the hill to the breezy common. To the north the fields are generally of pasture land, broken by two or three picturesque farm-houses, with their gable ends, their tall chimneys, their trim gardens, and their flowery orchards; and varied by a short avenue, leading to the equally picturesque old manor-house of darkest brick and quaintest architecture. Over the gates, too, we catch glimpses of more distant objects. The large white mansion where my youth was spent, rising from its plantations, and the small church, embowered in trees, whose bell is heard at the close of day, breathing of peace and holiness.

Towards the end of the lane a bright clear brook comes dancing over a pebbly bed, bringing with it all that water is wont to bring of life, of music, and of colour. Gaily it bubbles through banks adorned by the yellow flag, the flowering rush, the willow