that the hearers watching the prison without, whereof the sherife himselfe was one, with divers gentlemen moe, were constrained to shed out plentie of tears, as they themselves confessed." the power of forgiveness, the same excited oppo- | such heavenly talke was amongst them that night, nent of the old superstitions tore down the paper from the choir door, to which it had been fastened by the very reverend composer. Once more, when a hymn to "our Lady" was sung in the chapel, he testified his protestantism by the indecorous introduction of a counter verse, the opposite of what had been just repeated. There was also one Henry Filmer, who complained of the Vicar of Windsor's preaching, inasmuch as the latter had repeated idle and disgusting tales about the Virgin in the parish church. "So zealous to God's word was he, that he could not abide to hear the glory of Christ so defaced with superstitious fables." Another name, that of Anthony Pierson, is associated with these. He was a popular preacher in Windsor, and in his sermons exposed the sacrament of the altar and the popish mass. Of course, he became an object of suspicion and dislike to the advocates of the old system, who set spies to watch him in his ministry, to take down notes of his discourses, to report who went to hear him, and to record what might be said by the people at the elevation of the host derogatory to the claims of the real presence. All was communicated to Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, and dark clouds began to gather over these Windsor worthies. One other ought to be named. John Marbecke was the organist of the Royal Chapel, and composer of some of the chants still used in our cathedrals; he was also the first to compile an English Concordance. The study of his Bible could not but enlighten him as to the errors of the Church of Rome; and, having expressed opinions in sympathy with the persons we have already mentioned, he, with them and another called Benet, had to appear before certain commissioners at Windsor, on Palm Sunday, after which they were committed to prison. At length they were all tried at the sessions by a packed jury of farmers belonging to the college. The proceedings, reported by Foxe, are rather tedious, but they illustrate the idle charges brought against our reformers, the insufficient evidence on which they were condemned, and the bold language, as quaint as it was bold, and not always very proper, which they employed, but not without much excuse, against their ignorant and savage persecutors. Marbecke escaped, but the rest were doomed. Now the prisoners being condemned, says Foxe, "and had away, prepared themselves to die on the morrow, comforting one another in the death and passion of their master Christ, who had led the way before them, trusting that the same Lord which had made them worthy to suffer so for his sake, would not now withdraw his strength from them, but give them stedfast faith and power to overcome those fiery torments, and of his free mercy and goodnesse (with out their deserts), for his promise sake, receive their souls. Thus lay they all the night long, till very dead sleep took them, calling to God for his ayd and strength, and praying for their persecutors, which of blind zeale and ignorance had done they wist not what, that God of his mercifull goodnesse would forgive them, and turne their hearts to the love of and knowledge of his blessed and holy word: yea, "As The martyrs were lodged in the town gaol, which then stood in St. Alban's Street, near the Castle Hill. Thence they were led down, on the Saturday after the trial, to the meadow under the north terrace, where Travers College now stands. the prisoners passed through the people in the streets, they desired all the faithful people to pray for them, and to stand fast in the truth of the gospel and not to be moved at their afflictions, for it was the happiest thing that ever came to them." Arrived at the stake, Filmer said, "Be merry, my brethren, and lift up your hearts unto God, for after this sharp breakfast I trust we shall have a good dinner in the kingdom of Christ our Lord and Redeemer." And Anthony Pearson, pulling the straw about him, laid a good deal thereof on the top of his head, saying, 'This is God's hat; now I am dressed like a true soldier of Christ, by whose merits only I trust this day to enter into his joy.' And so yielded they up their souls to the Father of heaven, in the faith of his dear Son Jesus Christ, with such humility and stedfastness, that many which saw their patient suffering, confessed that they could have found in their hearts (at the present) to have died with them." Here, in this pleasant place, whither joyous parties now flock in the exuberance of their liberty, these three innocent persons were burnt to death, in open day, by the judgment of the law. It is a fact worthy of being remembered by all protestant visitors to the good town of Windsor. We know what may be said in palliation; we do not forget the bigotry of the times; but we must also express our indignation at a religious system which stimulated men to such atrocious proceedings, and has come down to posterity laden with the association of such crimes; inasmuch as by no act whatever on the part of its abettors, has that iniquitous system been purged from the stains of such enormous injustice and cruelty. Things of the past, not so unfamiliar to the many, will be noticed in the visit we now propose to pay to the royal castle on the hill, though we shall be on the look-out for what commonly does not occur to local cicerones, or may not be found recorded in the guide-books. We walk up the town till we reach Henry VIII's gateway-his own gateway, for he built it. It was erected in the first year of his reign, and the rose portcullis and the fleur de lis still decorating the front, are memorials of the Tudor origin of this stately piece of architecture. Once it was used for judicial purposes, for Stowe calls this gate the Exchequer of the honour, where had been, and yet continued, a monthly court, kept by the clerk George III caused it to be removed, and a new prison to be built, at the bottom of George Street. It is said that the monarch was induced to do this by the annoyance he received from the prisoners, who were in the habit of looking at him through the bars of their cells, when he came down from the Castle, and of crying out, "God save the King-God save the King; we wish your Majesty would let us out.” was believed at home that if Thomas behaved well, he would be his uncle's heir. This was his first home-coming, and his fourteenth birthday came round next month; but the two years of living in a large town, seeing shops and stage coaches, cotton spinners and people who came from London, had made a great man of Thomas, not only in his own eyes, but in those of the whole farm-house. of the castle for the pleas of the forest. And here through this gate, then in all its freshness, came the gay, pleasure-loving monarch, in the pride of his youth, on removing with his court from Greenwich to Windsor. "Then began his progress," we are told by Hall and Holinshed, “exercising himself daily in shooting, singing, dancing, wrestling, casting of the bar, playing at the recorders, flute, and virginals, and setting of songs, and making of Travelling was a tedious and expensive business ballads;" and also "he did set two full masses, at the time of our story. Goods were carried on every of them five parts, which were sung often-pack-horses, country people rode in wagons, the times in his chapel, and afterwards in divers other places." In the eleventh year of Henry, on the eve of the feast of St. George, we find him, attended by a brilliant cavalcade, entering his castle, to celebrate the annual festival of the garter. "At the castle gate," according to Ashmole, "the ministers of the college received the king with procession: the king and knights of the order at the church door took their mantles and entered the choir, and stood before their stalls, till the sovereign had offered and returned to his stall." And so, as the sun is going down that evening, we see the royal train winding up through the quaint little town, crossing the drawbridge over the moat, passing under the archway of the embattled tower, met by richly attired ecclesiastics on the other side, and then knights and sovereign vanish within the porch of the noble chapel opposite, at that time fresh and bright with the masonry of his father's reign. Such shadows of by-gone days create pensive feelings, and serve to remind us how "the fashion of this world passeth away." This gateway, too, is Henry VIII's in another sense. Here, tradition says, he came out to meet Anne Boleyn, when she entered the castle in the sunshine of his fickle favour, to be created, in the old presence chamber, a peeress of the realm, to wear the coronet of a marchioness, preparatory to putting on the diadem of a queen. TRAVELLING DICK. It is now nearly a hundred years since the summer of 1763, when Master Thomas Coulter came home on a holiday visit from his apprenticeship in Manchester. Thomas's father was a respectable farmer, and lived in an old-fashioned farm-house in the midst of his own fields, which stretched along a lone hill-side not far from the county town of Lancaster. There they sowed and reaped, baked their own bread, brewed their own ale, had Easter feasts, harvest homes, and merry doings at Christmas. Besides his good father and mother, there were two brothers and two sisters, all older than Thomas, some half dozen of servant men and maids, who, in the homely fashion of those times, worked together in house and field, and sat down together at the same table; yet Thomas was at once the gentleman and traveller of the family. He had been named after an uncle who lived in Manchester, owned what were then called muslinlooms, and had no children. Thomas was generally considered a clever boy; and this well-to-do uncle had taken him two years before as an apprentice, to learn his trade of muslin-weaving; but it roads were bad and frequented by highwaymen ; so that honest families, like the Coulters, never went many miles beyond their parish church; and though Manchester was not then as large as one of its suburbs now, a boy who had lived there two years was thought to have seen the world. Besides, Thomas had seen the wonderful cotton trade; it was a new thing then in England. The good people of Lancashire were not sure that the cotton did not grow on the sheep they had in America; but it was brought in ships which came to Liverpool every half year, wind and tide permitting, carried up to Manchester on the aforesaid pack-horses, spun by women on large old-fashioned wheels, woven on the hand-loom, bleached or printed sometime within twelve months, and all articles made of it were more costly than silk is in our day. Thomas could tell them how the cotton grew; for one of his uncle's men, who had been in the West Indies, told him it was planted and harvested just like their own beans. He had mighty tales, too, about the strong arms it required to card and rove the wool, when it came out of the closely-packed bags after the long voyage; how hard it was to spin into thread fine enough for muslin, and how his uncle's looms were stopped for want of yarn; by which the old man had a considerable loss, and Thomas a long holiday. He was discoursing on those subjects one evening when work was done, and the family sat round the fire in their best kitchen, which looked so bright with its sanded floor and shelves of glittering pewter. Two or three old neighbours had dropped in to hear Master Thomas's news, and a young man of very humble pretensions, who went about the country as a travelling barber, mending wigs, which then formed part of every gentleman's attire and every farmer's Sunday dress, and buying hair to make new ones from all the poor girls who could be induced to sell it. He was always welcome at the farm-house; for, besides being quiet and civil, ready to repair the farmer's wig, however worn with time and service, the barber brought all the news of the country, and could tell how markets went for forty miles round. Now, he was listening to Master Thomas, like the rest, and none of them seemed more attentive; but when the family and neighbours with one accord began to lament the great loss which Farmer Coulter's brother must sustain by the stopping of his looms, the young barber, who was known through all Lancashire by the name of "Travelling Dick," said in a hesitating manner : "Master Thomas, I have been often thinking of your uncle's inconvenience for want of yarn. They can't spin it fast enough, you see, and his are not the only looms brought to a stand by that: there is not a master weaver in Manchester who does not lose hundreds every year for want of yarn. That's what keeps cotton goods dear; yet I would venture to say, yarn might be made fast enough, and the finest muslins come down to half-a-crown or so a yard, if a certain machine I have been thinking and working at these five years were only set a spinning. But it takes money, Master Thomas, to get an engine properly made and put in working order. I am a poor man, and can't do it myself; but if two or three men of substance, like your uncle, were to subscribe a certain sum, the thing might be set going, and they would get their money out of it with good interest." The family thought "Travelling Dick" must be losing his senses to talk in that fashion; but he was too deep in the business to notice the general surprise. Thomas was the travelled man, and the master weaver's probable heir; so he moved to his side, took out of his pocket a few small sticks and bobbins, which he called the model of his machine, set them up on the kitchen table, and began to explain how the spinning was to be done. It is not easy for a boy to be listened to by a whole farm-house, without getting a little proud; and pride was the besetting sin of Master Thomas Coulter. He did not understand one of the mechanical principles which the barber laid down, but he had been used to see Travelling Dick" carrying about a bag of hair or mending old wigs, and Master Thomas believed that was the only business he could do. The bobbins and sticks amused him mightily. How he would make his uncle laugh at the barber's machine for bringing the finest muslin down to half-a-crown or so. There was a knowing wink given to his brothers; they would take it out of Dick; and he pretended to listen attentively for some time, till the barber began to speak of driving his engine by water power, like a corn mill, when Master Thomas burst into a loud laugh of derision; his brothers followed his example; and they all began to chaff the barber, one advising him to take a farm and grow cotton on it, and another to make himself a pair of wings and fly to the moon. The poor young man had not expected such a reception for his invention, and was evidently much displeased. He thrust his sticks and bobbins back into his pocket, would not be persuaded to stay for supper, and went away so much out of spirits that Farmer Coulter was vexed with his clever son, and the boys were told they must not talk of the machine when Dick came round again. Twenty years is a long skip, but it will pass with all that live, and it did with Thomas Coulter. He had learned his uncle's trade, behaved well, and became the old man's heir. His uncle had woven out the web of life and left him the muslin-looms. "Travelling Dick" had never sought his patronage after that evening in the best kitchen, but the barber's machine had been a standing joke with him and his acquaintances. Thomas had other things to think of now. He was a man of thirty-four, with a wife and two young children to provide for. His rent and taxes were heavy, bakers, butchers, and doctors had to be paid, and his looms were not paying him. Newer houses in Manchester could undersell his muslins and keep them out of the market. They had got up the new spinning frame invented by that man in Nottingham, whom the king had lately knighted, and people called Sir Richard Arkwright. Thomas had heard of the wonders it could do; he had seen it spinning; a wondrous engine of many wheels and spindles it was, all turned and driven by one great water-wheel, yet spinning the finest yarn in astonishing quantities, without the help of human hands, except to supply the raw cotton or to piece a broken thread. "I must have a spinning frame," said Thomas, "cost what it will; there is no getting on in the old way; I can't command more than half the money to pay for one just now, but they say Sir Richard is a liberal man: perhaps if I went to Nottingham, told him my circumstances, and offered him proper security, he would let me have a frame, and pay for it when I could." Thomas did go to Nottingham, and found the great inventor's office beset by men of greater wealth and standing than himself, but all in search of spinning frames. After waiting his turn, he was admitted to the room where the now impor tant man sat, with every requisite for business round him, at a table covered with papers and plans, and assisted by two clerks. He received him courteously, but as a stranger; yet Thomas had seen his face before, and stood almost dumb with astonishment and shame too. The sticks and bobbins set up on the kitchen table had a meaning in them which he did not understand twenty years ago; for Sir Richard Arkwright, the inventor of the spinning frame, was none other than Travelling Dick. Need we say that Thomas returned home a wiser man than he left it, and with his organ of self-esteem considerably subdued. THE MONTHS IN THE COUNTRY. JUNE. SPRING, in the fulness of her glory, melts into summer during the leafy month of June. In this month the fields and the woods put on all their greenery, and numbers of the early flowers of spring fade away or run to seed, while numbers more, buried alive in the tall grass and herbage, or overlapped by the abounding foliage of the bank, sink out of sight and notice. The hawthorn hedges now put on a rusty face, and every little bird that flutters through them shakes out the fading blossoms by thousands, and strews the pathways of the roadside and shady lane with their fragile forms. To the snowy hue of the blossom succeeds the unbroken hue of the full-formed leaf, and every hedge becomes a solid screen and rampart impenetrable to the view. And next come the summer flowers in the place of the spring blossoms; the dog-rose climbs over the fences, spotting them with its delicate flowers in all gradations of hue, from the purest white to tenderest carnation; tho mallow, the white dewberry, and the yellow night shade peep out from verdant nooks; the honey-decimation of the young colony. It is but a dismal suckle and the eglantine send forth their fragrance; and in dells and glades, on banks and hedge-sides, the stately foxglove rears its pyramids of bells. tall The leafing of the forest trees is now completed; even the oak has dressed his angular limbs in a bright green garb, and stands among his compeers conspicuous from the lighter hue of his vesture. The horse chestnut is not only in full leaf, but also in full flower, and disperses a tide of richest odours far and wide, from ten thousand upright cones of blossoms, showing like constellations in the dense green firmament of the forest background. The ash, though less conspicuous, flowers no less abundantly, and from every branch droop those clustering bunches of keys which are such a treasure and a mystery to childhood: the maple and the sycamore open their yellow florets, and among the twigs of the latter the cockchafer sleeps by day and drones with musical wing at eventide and night; the lime offers its treasures of honey to the working bees, and from dawn to dusk whole colonies of them are buzzing and humming over their incessant labours. The interior of the wood has now a rather monotonous appearance; for, with the exception of the light yellow foliage of the oak, and the dark black hues of the firs and pines, themselves tipped at the extremities of their branches with light green sprouts, all the trees of the forest are of one uniform shade of colour, and it is not easy at a distance to distinguish their several varieties. On the other hand, the surface of the soil is infinitely variegated with flowers of all hues and plants of all forms, and the busiest botanist has more work on his hands than he can hope to accomplish. The corn is now bursting into ear, the peas are in full bloom, and from the bean-field there is wafted an odour which justifies the assertion of the poet, that "Arabia cannot boast A fuller gale of joy than, liberal, thence Breathes through the sense, and takes the ravished soul." To add to all the charms of beautiful scenery, there comes in June the most delicious and exhilarating weather. The summer heats have not set in, and the clouds, which have not yet begun brewing their storms, send down soft and refreshing showers at intervals, filling the air with aromatic scents and a delicious balmy freshness. All nature is at this season a glorious pageant decked by a Divine hand, scattering bounty and beauty with equal abundance, and filling the world with evidence of His paternal care. If the birds are for the most part in song in the beginning of the month-and that will generally be found to be the case-they will yet lapse into silence ere June is many days old. As for our friends the rooks, they have by this time, in most of their settlements, undergone their annual persecution, which so woefully thins their ranks and swells their rates of mortality. For, no sooner are the young rooks big enough to hop out of their nests and flutter from spray to spray, than a tribe of summer sportsmen, hungering for rook-pie, come down upon them some fine morning with their guns, and begin the spectacle to witness this battue among a race who have not yet the right use of their limbs, or, therefore, a fair chance of escape; it is a sort of massacre to which, notwithstanding the savour of rook-pie, (and we confess a weakness in that direction,) we cannot accord our sympathies. The sight is too painful; the little fledglings, all unconscious of what is doing, hop about pertly and saucily, and seem to care nothing for the smell of powder or the whistling shot, and submit to their fate indifferently enough: but the agony of the old birds is distressing; they will not leave their young so long as the firing continues, but flutter and scream in circles above, testifying by their cries the bitter anguish they feel. Even if the young rooks are not shot down by the gun, they will get thinned by the village lads and schoolboys, who, first pelting them from the trees, will run them down and capture them by hand, while they are yet too feeble for a long flight. The rookery is now silent and deserted all the day long, both old and young birds being absent on foraging expeditions in all directions; their food is not now so plentiful as it was in early spring and during the time of incubation, and they have to wander far in search of it. About sundown you see them, like dim specks, near the horizon, making towards their home; soon the specks grow into a long sinuous train, then the dreamy caw-caw steals from far upon the ear, and grows and swells, as they approach, into a formidable din, which only subsides into silence when the last comer has settled himself for the night. The silence of the song-birds at this season may be referred to the amount of business they have now upon their hands. Nearly all have young families to attend to, and whose wants must be supplied. With so many mouths to feed, they have no leisure for singing; they are grubbing about for larvæ, rummaging for caterpillars, or on the watch for worms, or in hot chase after insects, all the day long, and it taxes the utmost industry both of male and female to fill the everyawning throats of their little ones. True, there is one bird who pipes as lustily in June as at any other time-indeed, his note is then clearer and fuller than ever; but that is the rascal cuckoo, who, like a vagabond that leaves his children chargeable to the parish, has delegated his paternal duties to some unfortunate sparrow or finch, and, having no household to provide for, can sing while others are at work for him. The cuckoo is the nearest approach to a do-nothing "gentleman," to be found among the feathered tribes. Perhaps the silence of the song-birds may also be referred to another cause: it is at this season that they are specially the victims of bird-fanciers, bird-dealers, fowlers, and mischievous boys and lads. Myriads of their nests are plundered and stolen from them every June, by these tribes of marauders, and the poor birds may well be silent while anxiously watching and tending their precious broods, with the consciousness that at any moment they may see them ruthlessly borne away. That they are thus conscious is pretty clear, from the pains which most birds are at to deceive and delude their spoilers. Some will feign to be wounded or crippled, and will flutter away on one wing, until they have led the pursuer sufficiently wide of the object of his search. Others will carry food ostentatiously into a bush where there is no nest, and creep out silently on the other side. Others, again, when the spoiler is near, will affect ignorance of his approach, and delude him to the wrong place by the cunning of simplicity; while some will feign to be dead when taken. We look upon all these devices as so many rebuking protests against the wanton cruelty of mankind. The plundering of birds' nests is an act of gratuitous barbarism, which, resulting in no kind of benefit to any one, wants even the semblance of an apology. When the children of our land shall have received the benefit of sound moral training, they will recoil from the cruelty of such a pastime. Down at Tangley all hands are busy enough just now, and the homestead is full to overflowing. The work of the dairy goes on assiduously; out of doors the field hands are weeding the rising crops; turnips are being sown; and David the shepherd, busy among the sheep, who are threatened by the fly, is preparing for the washing, which comes off directly, and for the shearing, which will follow, if the weather is favourably warm, a few days later. This sheep-washing business is one of considerable bustle and merriment, especially among the boys and lads, who are eager to have a hand in it. As Dobbs prides himself on the quality of his wool, he takes care that it shall appear in good condition in the market. This would not be the case were it washed in a slovenly manner, according to the custom of too many of our midland county farmers. In order that it may be done well, Dobbs has it done with care and deliberation. The washing place is a pool of rapidly-running water, formed by a branch of the trout-brook, where the stream cascades over a pebbly dam into the hollow below, the bottom being of clear gravel and sand, without a particle of mud. On either side of the stream a space has been inclosed with hurdles; in one of these inclosures the sheep are driven to await their turn to be washed, and into the other they are suffered to escape as soon as the ceremony is over. Instead of one man to wash the sheep, as is sometimes the case, Dobbs stations three in the water. The first stands in the deepest part, up to his arm-pits; the second a few yards higher up, and submerged to the middle; while the third stands in the shallows under the fall. As the sheep are thrown in, they plunge first into the deep water, and get well sodden and tumbled about, with all but their heads under the flood, by the first washer; when they have parted with most of their impurities, they are passed on to the man in the middle, who repeats the process in cleaner water, and again passes them on to the third man, who, in this case, happens to be David himself, who gives them a final rubbing under the clear water which rushes over the fall, and then allows them to escape up the grassy bank on the other side, into the fold prepared for them. The muttons do not well know what to make of it, and ap pear sometimes to have barely strength to stagger out of the bath when the process is over; in fact, some of them with heavy fleeces have to be helped up the bank, and it is not until they have shaken out some gallons of water from their saturated coats that they are able to walk with freedom. The fun of the business is all on the side of the unwashed party, who generally manifest decided objections to the ablution; and it takes a sturdy boy to force a stout sheep over the bank into the flood. The trial of strength that sometimes ensues is not always in favour of the biped, and many a confident youngster is laid sprawling on his back in the struggle; and then it is that peals of laughter ring out on all sides, and the hills around echo to the boisterous merriment. The shearing of sheep does not take place immediately after the washing. If it did, the wool would not be in a fit state for the purposes of the manufacturer, but would be hard and thready instead of soft and elastic. The sheep are kept in a dry clean spot for some days, until the natural oil of the skin again assimilates with the fleece: from five to seven days are sufficient for this purpose. ease. At Tangley, the shearing always takes place in the big barn, which is cleared out for the purpose. As the shearers have to kneel at their work, Dobbs has compassion on their knees; first littering down the floor with clean straw, and then nailing tight over that, one of the canvas awnings used to shelter the hayricks. This makes a sort of cushion of the entire floor, upon which the men can work at their The shearers are ranged round the sides, and each man, as he is supplied with a subject, commences operations by laying it on its back, and clipping away the short wool from the under part of the body. The shears used have sharp points, and are kept open with a spring, closing and cutting by pressure of the shearer's hand. They are dangerous-looking weapons, and in unskilful hands often inflict sad wounds on the poor sheep. When the under part of the animal is shorn, it is laid on its side, and the shears are worked rapidly bencatlı the wool, in repeated parallel traverses, beginning at the head and finishing at the tail, the operator holding the sheep in position with his left hand. One side being done, it is turned over, and the process repeated on the other, when the sheep is allowed to scramble clear of the fleece, which it will generally do without entangling or disturbing the wool, from which it has now been completely severed. The sheep submits to this operation with perfect quietness, rarely uttering even a plaintive bleat the whole time: when wounded by the shears it will wince, and shudder in every limb, but utters no sound. Such wounds do not arise so often from the unskilfulness of the shearer as from other causes; such as sudden and explosive noises, the report of guns, or the barking of dogs, which cause the timid animals to start, and thus render a wound almost inevitable. Dobbs, who is always present at the shearing himself, takes precautions against alarms of this kind, and will get his whole flock shorn, year after year, with nothing more serious than a scratch. It is an odd sight to witness the meeting of the |