the shield. My friend's copy was the first edition, with the feigned name; mine the seventh, when the ordeal was passed, and the true author restored to his rightful place. May Heaven avert from us the renewal of such prejudice and such injustice!

Wearied out with these conflicts, Mr. Holcroft retired first to Hamburgh, and then to France, where he resided many years, occasionally sending to England translations of popular foreign books. His last original work was one on France, of great merit. Few knew the people better, or could describe them so well. His stories are pleasant and characteristic:—

"My wife was one day buying some fish; while she was undetermined, the girl said to her, 'Prenez cela, car votre mari est un brave homme?' My wife replied, 'Oui, cela, se peut bien ; mais comment savez-vous qu'il est un brave homme?' 'C'est égal, answered the girl, 'cela fait plaisir à entendre.' This girl's maxim is sound morality wherever I have been in France.” This is characteristic, too, in the best sense; a charming mixture of goodness and grace .—

"A poor musician, who usually brought a small pianoforte in the afternoon to the Champs Elysées, and played that those who were pleased might reward him by a trifle, having played in vain one evening, was sorrowfully returning home. He was seen by Elleviou (a famous actor), remarked, and questioned. The poverty and ill success of the wandering musician moved the pity of the actor, who desired the instrument might again be put down; and, stepping aside, he said he would return instantly. His wife and friend had passed on, and he brought them back. It was nearly dark. Pradere, his friend, sat down to the pianoforte, and accompanied Elleviou, who began to sing, to the astonishment of numbers that were soon assembled. The men had drawn the hat over the brow; Madame Elleviou let down her veil, and went round to collect. The pleasingness of her manner, the little thankful curtsies she dropt to all who gave, the whiteness of her hand, and the extraordinary music they heard, rendered the audience so liberal, that she made several tours, and none ineffectually. Elleviou, however, could not long remain unknown; and finding themselves discovered, Madame Elleviou gave all, and it was supposed more than all, she had collected from the crowd to the poor musician. The sum amounted to thirty shillings,

and among the pence and halfpence there were crown pieces, which no doubt were given by the actors. The feelings of the man, as the audience dispersed, are not easily to be described. The unexpected relief afforded to him who was departing so disconsolate was great indeed; but it was forgotten in the charming behaviour of those who relieved him-in their almost divine music, and in the strangeness of the adventure. The surrounding people were scarcely less moved; so kind an act from a man in such high public estimation excited more than admiration; and the tears of gratitude shed by the musician drew sympathising drops from many of the spectators."

Mr. Holcroft wrote little verse; but, had he chosen that medium of thought, would probably have excelled in it. The story of "Gaffer Gray" has in common with many short poems of Southey, written at the same period, the great fault of setting class 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 :—

Gaffer Gray,

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 sixty-three; I fear, poor.

VIII.

AUTHORS ASSOCIATED WITH PLACES.

SITTING IN THE LANE.

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 hayfield 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 beech-trees 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

a

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 herb, the meadow-sweet, and the forgetme-not; now expanding into a wide quiet pool, now contracted into a mimic rapid between banks that almost meet; and so the little stream keeps us company, giving on this sunny day an indescribable feeling of refreshment and coolness, until we arrive at the end of the lane, where it slants away to the right, amidst a long stretch of water-meadows; whilst we pause to gaze at the lovely scenery on the other hand, where a bit of marshy ground leads to the park paling and grand old trees of the Great House at Beech Hill through an open grove of oaks, terminated by a piece of wild woodland, so wild, that Robin Hood might have taken it for a glade in his own Forest of merry Sherwood.

Except about half a mile of gravelly road, leading from the gate of the manor-house to one of the smaller farms, and giving, by its warm orange tint, much of richness to the picture, there is nothing like a passable carriage-way in the whole length of the lane, so that the quiet is perfect.

Occasional passengers there are, however, gentle and simple; my friend, Mr. B., for instance, has just cantered past on his blood-horse, with a nod and a smile, saying nothing, but apparently a good deal amused with my arrangements. And here comes a procession of cows going to milking, with an old attendant, still called the cow-boy, who, although they have seen me often enough, one should think, sitting underneath a tree writing, with my little maid close by hemming flounces, and my dog, Fanchon, nestled at my feet—still wilı start as if they had never seen a woman before in their lives. Back they start and then they rush forward, and then the old drover emits certain sounds, which it is to be presumed the cows understand; sounds so horribly discordant, that little Fanchon--although to her, too, they ought to be familiar, if not comprehensible-starts up in a fright on her feet, deranging all the economy of my extempore desk, and well-nigh