Speak, stubborn Earth, and tell where, O where
Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair: :
Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun;
Not-thy soft hand, fair sister! let me shun
Buch follying before thee-yet she had,
Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad;
And they were simply gordian'd up and braided,
Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded,

Her pearl-round ears, white neck, and orbed brow;
The which were blended in, I know not how,
With such a paradise of lips and eyes,
Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs,
That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings
And plays about its fancy, till the stings
Of human neighbourhood envenom all.

Unto what awful power shall I call?

To what high fane?-Ah! see her hovering feet,
More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely sweet
Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose
From out her cradle shell. The wind outblows
Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion:
'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million
Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed
Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed,
Handfuls of daisies."

Here is a corresponding picture, and both may hang together in that palace of the Soul the poets from all time have been decking out for that noblest of sovereigns. The subject is Adonis, who, after his death by the boar, was again restored to life," each summer time," by Jove, in pity to the entreatings of Venus, and, by her care, is he thus watched and tended during his long sleep. After Endymion had

"a thousand mazes overgone,

At last, with sudden step, he came upon
A chamber, myrtle-wall'd, embower'd high,
Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy,
And more of beautiful and strange beside:
For, on a silken couch of rosy pride,

In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth,
Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth,
Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach:
And coverlids, gold-tinted like the peach,
Or ripe October's faded marigolds,

Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds.

On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed,
By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth
To slumbery pout; just as the morning south
Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head,
Four lily stalks did their white honours wed
To make a coronal; and round him grew
All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,
Together intertwined and trammell'd fresh :
The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh,
Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine,
of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine;
Convolvulus in streaked vases flush;

The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush;
And virgin's-bower, trailing airily;
With others of the sisterhood. Hard by
Stood serene Cupids watching silently.
One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings,
Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;
And, ever and anon, uprose to look

At the youth's slumber; while another took
A willow bough, distilling odorous dew,
And shook it on his hair; another flew

In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes."

devotion to, beauty, whether of the world around or the universe within,-of nature or man's soul,-and which is the element wherein the poet "lives, moves, and has his being." In most other poets, this influence, in a pure unmingled state, is less discernible; their beautiful passages are not so frequent in proportion to the entire amount of their writings as his; they do not affect us with so great a sense of freshness, and they are truly passages to something: whereas, with him, the beautiful is its own great reward, its stream, as in the poem we have been noticing, winds through his pages "at its own sweet will," luxuriating in the pleasant verdure, the bright flowers, and the serene sky, in the bright shapes and the intoxicating enchantments of the faery-land through which it is passing, and where it would be content for ever to stay.

PHENOMENA OF CLOUDS.

AMONG the natural appearances near the equator, we noticed the fixidity, and the varied configurations of the clouds in fine weather. We see them moulded into every diversity of form, and of a texture so dense, that they seem as if they were destined to be permanent decorations of the evening sky. Connected with this circumstance is a superior brilliancy of colouring,-blue, red, and umber colour, in all their life and freshness. These effects appear to vary as the mean temperature, and, consequently, are proportional to the cosine of the latitude. These clouds are not only the glory of the heavens, but the children and pledges of fine weather. Their structure is due to electricity, excited by a change of temperature; for they are seen in the hottest weather, and never pass into the form of a rain-cloud without thunder and lightning. Clouds, in general, afford the best hints for predicting the state of the weather in time to come; and when we study them with a reference to the weight of the atmosphere, and the relative heat of the invisible vapour, they will prove almost infallible guides in this respect. In pursuing our observations, we must not forget the effect which their site upon the imaginary sphere has upon their appearance. To deduce their real from their apparent form, is a problem which every student in meteorology must solve for himself; though I think he will find some assistance by attending to the following, which are the more worthy of his acceptance, as I am not aware that any one has hitherto taken any notice of the subject. Let a semicircle be described, with a radius of three or four inches; draw the diameter, and then upon the arc 5°, 45°, and 90°, depict loose sheets of vapour, in lines parallel with the diameter, and similar in density to each other. If the eye be supposed to be at the centre, and a line be drawn from it to the arc, it will be obvious how the same cloud may assume the shape of cirro-cumulus, cirro-stratus, and stratus, just as it happens to be over-head, at middle altitude, or near the horizon. He will perceive, from the diagram I have suggested, that, at 45°, the visual line does not fall upon the farther edge of the sheet, but runs obliquely across it; two things which, taken together, will account for the even texture and greater density in the lower parts of the cumulo-stratus. A little theory and a little practice will show how much clouds may be modified by their situation, and the importance of taking this matter into account when we register or reflect upon what we see in the heavens. The theory of Hutton, that clouds are formed by the meeting together of currents differing in temperature, is almost a matter of daily experience; and we see an inverse but a beautiful proof of it, in the disappearance of those highly electric clouds which we described at the beginning of this paragraph. We have said that they do not pass into the nimbus without explosion; yet they vanish oftentimes as the temperature of the day rises, and supplies them with an element, to the lack of which they owe their origin. But, though unseen by us, they have not, perhaps, wholly lost their composition, but are ready to resume their fantastic but lovely forms, as soon as the additional spring is drawn from them by that decline of temperature which ushers in the evening. The belief that they are in regions near the equator, still existent, though invisible to the eye, is supported by the shortness of the time in which they form or disappear in the finest weather, when no traces of counter-currents, or any atmospheric disturbance, can be seen. The connexion between lightning, or "light," and the nature of clouds, is adverted to in the book of Job, and their use in the economy of second causes touched upon with great beauty and inimitable accuracy; so that, when we pry into and admire the formation of these meteoric bodies, we do it under the countenance and with the encouragement of the very highest authority.

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS, BY A LAME
GENTLEMAN.*

SOME months since, I blended pleasure with business, and took a trip to Louisville. After spending three or four days in that hospitable city, most delightfully, I embarked on board the steamboat Mary-I use a fictitious name, and, like the lord of poets, "I have a passion for the name of Mary,"-to return to Cincinnati. All was bustle on board-the captain was hurrying to and fro among the hands, uttering strange oaths, and vowing that he must be off before the other boats.

Ah! a race on the carpet-or, to speak without metaphor, on the river-thought I, and as one on crutches, unless he has certain powers possessed by the devil on two sticks, which for his soul's sake he had better not have, unless he has the gift of Asmodeus, if any accident happens, is just in as bad a predicament as the liveliest imagination, expatiating on our western waters, could possibly fancy. I cannot swim, thought I-it will be a tempting of misfortune-I'll quit the boat. I passed out of the cabin to carry this resolution into effect, and beheld the firemen pitching the huge logs into the furnace, as though they were so many Lilliputian splinters. The heat from the apparatus passed over my face like the breath of the scirocco. At this instant the steam gave a hiss full of fumy fury-it seemed to me the premonitory symptom of a bursted boiler; just as the hiss of a snake is the avant-coureur of a bite. I could not pass that boiler; it was impossible. While I stood eyeing it-irresolute-I heard the paddles splash in the water, and the boat moved under me-we were on our way. hurried into the cabin, determined to get the sternmost berth, number one-the farthest off from the boiler-and ensconce myself in it until supper; and then I could just pop out, and take the nearest seat at the table.

I

now

When I opened the book to set my name down to number one, lo! every berth was taken but number ten, the nearest of all to the

boiler.

"There must be some mistake about this," said I, aloud, "I believe I took number one."

"No mistake at all, sir," exclaimed a thin, dyspeptic old man, starting up from a chair which stood jam against the door that led to the stern of the boat; "no mistake at all, sir, I came three hours ago and took the berth--I have no idea of being near that boiler ! Did you see that account in the paper this morning of the bursting of the boiler of the Return! Horrible! horrible !"

Here the conversation among the passengers turned upon such accidents, and we talked ourselves into a perfect fever. Every jar of the boat-and somehow the boats on the western waters have a knack at jarring-seemed to be the last effort of the boiler to contain the boiling-waters within. I tried to philosophize:-I began to think about Napoleon, and to reason myself into a belief of destiny. I always was something of a predestinarian. found it!" thought I, just as I was settling down into a fatalism as doubtless as a Mussulman, "if I had quitted this boat, or even got berth number one, it would certainly influence my destiny should that boiler burst."

"But con

I determined to try once more to get the berth, and I addressed the old codger again; but in vain. He vowed he would leave the boat-be put ashore, before he would give up number one. He, I discovered, had never been out of sight of his own chimney before, and had often sat in its snug corner and read of steamboat accidents. He had a decided taste for such things. A connexion near Wheeling had left him a piece of property, of which he was going to take possession, and, I verily believe, the price of it could not have induced him to change berths with me.

Habit is everything. By the time I had despatched more cups of coffee than I choose to tell of, and more eggs and bacon than might, under other circumstances, have been compatible with the health of a dyspeptic, for such I was, and seated myself on the stern of the vessel, with a fragrant cigar, watching the setting sun as it threw a gorgeous hue on the glittering waters. By this time, by a process of ratiocination with which, I fear, the sensual had more to do than the intellectual man, I had partly reconciled myself to the dangers that encompassed me.

I discovered that the other boats were out of sight, and I began to reflect that every situation has its pleasures, as well as perils. And there arose, vividly to my mind, the fact that when, not a very long time previous, I was approaching Dayton, through the woods, in a carryall, all alone by myself, as an Irishman would say, with a greater desire for a straight course than the trees would allow me From the Gift of 1839.

to practise the fore-wheel of my vehicle-I was in a full trotquarrelled with a tree that stood in its way, got the worst of it, and broke short off. Its trotter behind took up the quarrel like a true brother, and the consequence was, I was pitched out into the road with much less ceremony than a carter unloads his cart. My better half, my crutch, kept its seat and bounced up, I thought with a spirit of rejoicing and devilry, delighted, no doubt, to get rid of a burden that I had compelled it to carry for years-a burden which, unlike Esop's, grew heavier on the journey. Crutch and I have never been friends since. In taking a long walk, after this event, it bruised my arm so terribly, that I have been an invalid for five months. This infused into my arm a spirit of nubtuation. It ran up the single star, at once, and vowed it would not bear the weight of the whole body-that it was not made for that purpose, and wouldn't and couldn't. I had several times threatened this unruly member with dismemberment, but it knows very well it is bruised too near the shoulder for that, and is, like South Carolina, too close a part and parcel of my body to entertain many fears on that In fact, I played politician with it, and brought in a compromise till I have agreed not to use the crutch until my arm gets well, and to endeavour to contrive some other means of walking. For amusement, and to get rid of ennui, in the mean time, I scribble. But, where was I in my story?-Ah! away went the horse with the broken carryall, my crutch driving, while I lay in the road, happily unhurt, but, like King Darius, "deserted in my utmost need." In an instant I recovered myself, and called out "wo! wo!" in the most commanding tone I could assume. The horse stopped, but, you may devend, I had a hop of it to reach him.

score.

"lone

Some one of old boasted to one of the philosophers which one was it? I forget,-that he could stand longer on one leg than any man in the country: "That you may," replied the philosopher, "but a goose can beat you." Now, the fact is, I can beat the best goose of the whole of them: and this is something to brag of, when we remember that these sublime birds saved the now mother of dead empires," then in her high and palmy state, by cackling. A good many cackle now-a-days in vain, to save our state; but, gentle reader, they are not geese. And, my fellowcitizens, if you think I have any qualities for saving the statewhich our statesmen want, though even geese had them of old, but they were Roman gecse, and the last of the Romans, both of geese and men, rests in peace—if you think I have any qualities for saving the state, be it known to you, that I have adopted the motto of various elevated, disinterested patriots of our country, I have a right to jest viz.-" neither to seek nor decline office." with my misfortunes,-it is the best way to bear them. I had to lead my old horse up to the broken carryall to mount him. He feared to look on what he had done, like Macbeth; and the ghost of Banquo never startled the thane more, than did that ghost of a vehicle my steed. How he curveted, twisted, turned, kicked up! At last I mounted him, and shared, with my crutch and the harness, the honour of a ride into Dayton.

In this way I entered that town for the first time, and drew up at Browning's in a state of grotesque dignity, I ween, that has seldom been surpassed.

He was

I chewed the cud of this incident for some time, and then thought of another. The winter before last, I was returning from Columbus in the mail-stage. We had passengers,-a reverend gentleman, who, with myself, occupied the front seat. one of the biggest parsons you ever saw. Opposite to the reverend gentleman sat a Daniel Lambert of a Pennsylvanian, one of your corn-fed fellows. He believed emphatically that Major Jack Downing was as true-and-true a man as ever wrote a letter, and his political bias led him to remark, that he didn't think the major was any great shakes after all." Alongside of the Pennsylvanian, face to face with your humble servant, was a young man He with demure features, saving and excepting a twinkling eye. was a southerner, he said, travelling for his health. On the back seat sat an old and a young lady, with an elderly respectablelooking man between them. The young lady was like a dream of poetry: her features were finely formed, and her eyes were the most expressive and intelligent I ever beheld. She mechanically

from the impulse of good feeling-stretched out her hand to take my crutch, as I ascended the steps of the stage; and, remembering Dr. Franklin's tale of the deformed and handsome leg.-I often have cause to remember it, and I promised it a test,—I felt an instinctive admiration for the fair lady.

We were soon dashing along, not on the best roads in the world. I like to observe character: I'd shut Shakspeare any day, and turn a deaf ear to Booth any night, though representing his

best character, to hold converse with an original in the lobby. I sat in silence, and listened to the talk of my travelling companions for a mile or two, when I made up my mind as to their characters. My mind was made up from the first as to the fair lady. In coming to a fine prospect, I caught her eye glancing over it, and I commenced, gently, to expatiate upon it. I made a hit-I thought I would. We broke out at once into a cantering conversation, in which our imaginations sported and played on the beauties of the poets and of Dame Nature. I tried to find out who she was, but you must remember I had to deport myself with great delicacy and tact-she was an accomplished, young, and most beautiful woman, and I was merely a stage-coach acquaintance, without not only the pleasure of an introduction, but ignorant of her name. These parsons beat us young men out and out; for, when we stopped to dine, the reverend gentlemen took a seat by the fair lady, in the corner on the left-hand side of the fireplace; and they carried on a conversation, in a low voice, for some time. I began to form a bad opinion of the whole tribe of black coats, and to think them no better than "the gentleman in black, with the black waistcoat, inexpressibles, and silk stockings, black coat, black bag, blackedged papers tied with black tape, black smelling-bottle and snuffbox, and black guard," whose adventures have lately been published. Well, thought I, if I were an old limb of the law, instead of a young one, I might play old Bagsby with him, but I am not, and. I was interrupted agreeably in these reflections by the reverend gentleman, or the "gentleman in black," leaving the fair lady, and walking to the other side of the room to the fireplace, for there was a fireplace in both ends of the room,-and commencing a conversation with the elderly gentleman and lady seated there. I was left tête-à-tête with the fair lady, and divers and sundry things were said by both of us not necessary to record. How fast the time flew ! I felt a cold chill as the driver entered the room. We arose; he said "he was sorry to have kept us so long, but he was having the wheels of the stage greased, the former driver had neglected it, and his horses couldn't stand it." "So long!"-I sat down-you know my feelings-and I hoped, and hope, my fair companion did not regret a great deal the delay.

Long ere this, of course, I had discovered the lady was as intelligent as she was beautiful, and I offered her a newspaper I had put in my pocket at Columbus, that I might read for the third time a beautiful tale which it contained. The editor of the paper praised the story very highly, and I commended his taste and the public's.

"What is the name of the tale?" asked the lady. "Constancy,' ,'" said I: "I fear it is but a day-dream-but the story is beautifully told-and I hope the author, if ever he has a love affair, may realise it."

She blushed, and asked me to read it. I pride myself somewhat upon my reading-I had a motive, you see, for offering the newspaper, and in a voice just loud enough for her to hear, I complied.

We were soon seated in the stage again, rattling away. The Pennsylvanian had eaten to sleepiness; he nodded and nodded fore and aft. The young man beside him, with a face as grave as the parson's, would every now and then slily tip his hat, so as sometimes to cant it nearly off; at which the unsuspecting sleeper would rouse up, replace his beaver, cast his eye to the top of the stage, as if he wondered if a bounce of the vehicle could have pitched him so high, and then nod again.

We changed horses at the Yellow Springs, still keeping up a brisk fire of conversation. I did my best to beat the preacher; but these preachers are bad men to deal with,-they stand on a place Archimedes wanted; for while I was musing upon some fairy thought the fair lady had uttered, the reverend gentleman, or "the gentleman in black," took advantage of the pause, and proposed that we should sing a hymn! I have no voice in the world-I mean for singing, and, with a jaundiced mind, I thought at once the reverend gentleman wished to show off. I asked him rather abruptly if he was married! he smiled peculiarly—I didn't like his smile-moved his head-I couldn't tell whether it was a shake or nod, and gave out the hymn.

Just as you pass the Yellow Springs, on your way to Cincinnati, is a branch, which, at this particular time to which I allude, was very muddy. We descended into it in full drive-the ladies and the parson in full voice-and sweetly sounded the fair lady's. I was just watching her upturned eye, that had the soul of the hymn in it, when the fore-wheel on my side entered a mud-hole up to the hub, and over went the stage! Were there bones broken? you ask. Bones broken! I would have compromised the case, and used a dozen crutches. We had a verification of

Dean Swift's proverb,-it gave consolation to him to whom the dean addressed it, but none to me: "The more dirt,

The less hurt."

The big parson fell right on me! Do you wonder that I felt myself sinking into the mud! I seized time, as I was rapidly disappearing, as I thought, altogether, to ask the fair lady if she was hurt? She was not, she assured me, and, in a plaintive voice, inquired if I was? There is consolation, thought I, in that tone, if I should sink to the centre of the earth; and when I reflected how muddy I was, I contracted myself into as small a compass as possible, determined to disappear. Here the Virginian called out in a long angry voice, which satisfied us that he was not killed, though he felt himself in danger.

"Halloo, Pennsylvany! are you never going to get off of me?" The sleeper was not yet fairly awake.

"Don't swear, don't swear!" said the preacher, persuasively, and, making a stepping-stone of my frail body, he got through the window. The Pennsylvanian used the body of his neighbour for the same purpose-engulfed him-and followed after the parson. The fair lady was unhurt, and (not to be too particular) we all got safely out. And-and, no matter-it's no use for a man to make himself too ridiculous-I shall not commit a suicide on my own dignity-I forgot my situation but for a moment, and that was in observing the parson by the roadside on his knees, with his clasped hands uplifted, and his hat reverently cast aside. I forgot my situation but for that one moment, and in that one moment my opinion of the parson was entirely changed.

The stage was uninjured; in ten minutes we were on our way. I-I-I can jest with some of my misfortunes-with my crutch; but there are some misfortunes a man can't jest with.

In about half an hour, the stage stopped at a neat farm-house, and the fair lady with her companions left us, but not before I seized an opportunity of uttering, notwithstanding my discomfiture, in my very best manner, one or two compliments that had more heart in them than many I have uttered to many a fair acquaintance of many years' standing.

When we were on our way again, I learned from the parson that (he had caught it all between the two fireplaces where we stopped to dine, it gave me serious notions of reading divinity,)—that the fair lady was travelling under the protection of the old lady and gentleman, who were distantly connected with her. She was on her way home from boarding-school in Philadelphia; she had stopped at a relative's. Her parents lived at (a great distance, thought I.) She was the authoress, he told me, of "Constancy."

Not long after this little event, I received a newspaper, th direction-my address in full-written in a fair delicate hand, (a hand meant for a "crow-quill and gilt-edged paper,") containing a beautiful story "by the authoress of Constancy." didn't think it possible for my name to look as well as it did in that direction.

I

Whenever I travel, and often, often when I don't travel, and am an invalid as now, that fair lady is the queen of my imagination; but a cloud always passes over my face, (I've looked into the glass and seen it,) and another over my heart, (I feel it now,) whenever think of the branch by the Yellow Springs. Yet, in spite of the upturning, even on board of the boat, in the fear of a boiler's bursting, when her image crossed my mind, gone were the dangers around me. The smoke ascended from my cigar, not in a puff, like the steam from the boiler, but soothingly, lingeringly, placidly ;-it curled above my head like a dream of love. eye on the rapidly varying landscape, and renewed a vow I have often made, (and I always keep my vows,) that if-bah! your "if" is a complete weathercock of a word, a perfect parasite to your hopes and to your fears, used by all, faithful to none, a sycophant, but I must use it,-if I ever-no matter-if it turns up as I hope-I'll make a pilgrimage to the shrine of that fair lady, though I go to the uttermost parts of the earth.

I fixed my

TRANSLATION OF THEKLA'S SONG, IN SCHILLER'S PICCOLOMINI.
THE Oak-woods crash, the storm-clouds flee;
The maiden, she wanders by the sea;
While the wild waves roll with might, with might,
Hark! she sings forth to the murky night;—
See, tears have dimm'd her eye!
When the heart is withered, what is there more ?
The empty world hath not a wish in store.
I have lived-I have loved-why longer roam?
Thou Holy One! call the wanderer home;
Now suffer thy child to die.

WALKS IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF LONDON.

HAMPTON COURT.

We have been too long at home, and must once more don our walking shoes, and, in the right pleasant company of our gentle reader, leave behind us the murky atmosphere of the great city, and inhale vigour of body and freshness of soul from the balmy air of a May morning. And whither shall we bend our steps? Shall we seek the gipsies of Norwood, or go botanizing and butterfly hunting on the breezy hills of Hampstead, and pursue our researches, with the learned Pickwick, upon the nature of the tittlebats in the seven far-famed ponds? No;-these we will visit some other time; but let us devote this splendid day to the ancient palace of kings at Hampton, where art and nature are combined to please, and where (thanks to the growing good sense of the times) the public are permitted to wander about at pleasure, free from the vexatious annoyance of a ciceronizing housekeeper, gaping for fees, and hurrying visitors through rooms, which require days fully to examine, in the space of an hour.-Now comes the weighty question, how shall we go? Shall we walk the full distance of thirteen miles, as the fittest preparation to a day of joyous fatigue, bodily and mental? (for the contemplation of beauty, natural and pictorial, becomes at length fatiguing;)-shall we preface such a day by tiring ourselves with the weary traverse of a dusty road? By no means. Three ways to Hampton are open to us; let us choose the best for the purpose we have in hand. Shall we take coach or omnibus the whole way? Shall we go to Richmond by land or water, and thence proceed to Hampton Court, or shall we go by omnibus to Isleworth, and thence take our "departure," as the seamen say, when they begin their reckoning on a voyage? Let us not crowd too many pleasures into a brief space of time, or we shall not enjoy any of them fully. Let us leave Richmond to a future day, and not sully its beauties by making them the stepping stone to our main object. But, remember, we are pedestrians, and it would disgrace our pretensions to ride all the way. We will then go by way of Isleworth, and passing Kensington, Hammersmith, Turnham Green, and Brentford, we at length pause at a turning a little beyond the turnpike, and tread the earth with a feeling of independence. It is well to put the thoughts of the country out of your head till now, when the city-like omnibus passes away, and with it fly all thoughts of smoky London; but the sweet scent of the wallflowers, so plentiful in the gardens for miles on the road, bave well prepared us for the full enjoyment of the perfumed breeze. Summon up your energies, my kind companion, and let us go joyously along the road; we meet with some dust, but the hedges are green and greener as we advance. We feel a difference in the air. It is more balmy, and our spirits begin to dance within us. See that country-house: its hospitable hall, with door wide open; and see the vista through the glass door at the end, the true old-fashioned comfortable garden. We could well stop short here, and pass away the day on the smooth-shaven lawn, listening to the hum of the bees, and breathing the fresh air redolent of sweet odours. Alas! we know not the owners, and yet the door is so invitingly and unsuspiciously open! Are we only eight miles from London? I thought I was a hundred. On, on ! We are at Twickenham. How far to Hampton Court? Four miles, if you go through Bushy Park. Let us push on. Twickenham has many claims on us, say you. Let us stop an hour, and view the villa of the poet. No, no, kind reader. Remember we are on a voyage, and have no liberty to stop. We set sail from Isleworth, bound to Hampton, having been towed out so far by the Omnibus. No stopping, or the captain is responsible ;—we are the captain, and you must obey orders. Here we arrive in front

of Bushy Park, the channel by which we approach our haven. The fields have been growing greener and greener as we approach, and here we burst upon a glorious avenue. A wide gravel walk, in length the full third of a mile, flanked on each side by magnificent chesnuts, and then by treble ranks of fine wych elms. And see, on the left hand beyond the elms, that long line of ancient hawthorns, glorifying the fern among which the deer are grazing. Let us sit down on this bench. We can go no further; for our souls are rapt in the melody that resounds from every tree; each is peopled with birds rejoicing in the beauty of spring: their voices awaken sweet respondent chords in the breast, and we feel the harmony of nature.

But we must yield no longer to this enchantment: proceed we up the avenue. Ha! what is this? We cannot call it a lake, yet can we offer so great an indignity to a circular piece of water, in whose centre, perched on an antiquated (not an antique) pedestal, a gilded goddess proudly lifts her head, the guardian of the-pond, we must term it, albeit it savours of the bathos.

But we have arrived at one of the gates of Hampton Court. Grim lions grin upon the pillars, but we undauntedly pass on. Yet hold. See where, all benignantly, the sign of the King's Head invites us. Our walk has made us hungry; let us, unless you have providently stored your pockets with "provant," prove the good cheer of mine host, and, thus refreshed, pass onward rejoicing.

Bushy Park, in the full summer season, often presents a scene of much pleasant merriment and enjoyment. It is lawful then to spread the sylvan feast, the laughter-inspiring pic-nic; and here resort the citizens of all degrees,-some in the dignified barouche, bearing with them cold chickens and champagne; others, in more humble vans, contenting themselves with bread-and-cheese and porter. But there they all take up their rest under the greenwood tree, and pleasantly disport themselves on the soft turf; and when the feast is done, as they repose in the cool shade, and watch the moving shadows as the gentle summer wind wafts to and fro the light boughs above their heads, while the full chorus of birds makes glorious music, the kindly feelings of their hearts are stirred, and we doubt not that many a man has forgiven an enemy, moved by the sweet influences of the beauty of nature. If such be the effect upon the cold and stern, what is it on the young and tender heart? Soft whispers, "wood-notes wild," have often been murmured in those shades, and low sweet voices answered to the plea, Many a marriage dates from Bushy Park. But all this while we are forgetting Hampton.

We enter the gardens of the palace by the iron gates, and proceeding through the walks, pass by a door in the wall to a broad gravel-walk, running immediately before the eastern front of the palace, and extending from the Kingston road on the north to the banks of the Thames on the south. Before we go in, let us walk down towards those gates which open on the road. They are called the Flower-pot Gates, from those carved vases of fruit and flowers, supported by naked boys, surmounting the gate-posts. The carving is light and elegant, and the figures well proportioned and natural: we have no trace of the artist, but his name is surely worthy of remembrance. Turning up this soft turf-walk, let us repose for a few moments in this alcove. It is of iron work, and elegantly designed; it looks out upon a beautiful avenue, leading down to the central approach to the palace. On one side is a narrow Dutch-like canal, which extends for a considerable distance, winding and turning among the walks and grounds; on the other is a sunken alley of smooth turf, evidently once a bowling-green; beyond, a straight line of flower-beds, bordering the grand terrace walk. The whole garden is planned by line and square, and those