scenes and by-gone times? never heard voices babbling by thy hearth that are now silent? nor heaved a sigh for the past? Oh, no! there is no one, girded within the green hills of England, without this feeling; the very savages will shed their blood to defend the graves of their fathers. ed Whence spring these emotions? Are the charms which memory throws around our home and our early days wholly imaginary? Are these associations merely enriched by fancy, made pleasing or melancholy because they have passaway for ever? My answer would fill pages, and I leave it to the hearts of my readers to reply. How much do I pity the ignorance of those who have beaten their brains to prove that the heart and mind are only affected by some chain of regularity which they find in the scenery of nature, some fixed property that is either high or low, rough or smooth, curved or straight, and can be almost reduced to a yard and foot measurement to come at their beauties. If we are struck by the particular beauty of a picture, do we pause to reduce it to a system, to look at it bit by bit, and endeavour to discover some peculiar spot in which its great charm lies? Or do we, when gazing upon a lovely face, endeavour to fix upon an eye or lip alone, as if there the whole spell centered? Or, when the mind is carried away by some delicious melody, seek afterwards for one particular note, as if all the effect was found there? No! we do none of these foolish things: the objects naturally arrange themselves before the imagination, the sounds come home at once to the feelings, and that internal perception which belongs to our nature is instantly kindled. Volumes have been written upon this subject, and argument upon argument advanced, which rather perplex than make plain the truth of the matter. On none of these shall I comment, but give a simple sketch of my own early days; when I first awoke to a perception of the beautiful in nature, leaving my readers to draw their own inference from my limited experience, and only advancing such facts as bear upon the present subject, trusting that what may seem wanting in modesty in thus alluding to myself, will be excused for the sake of the truths which I shall record. When a boy I was fond of solitude, and knew no greater happiness than to wander alone among hills and woods, or by the wild and unfrequented banks of rivers. The same feeling clings to me now; and I can tell those who are so ready to sneer at the scenery around London, that there is many as lovely a scene within two hours' walk of this big city as ever skylark carolled over. I am no cockney, but, until the last five years of my life, passed the whole of my days in the country; was nurst in the very heart of hills and woods, and have travelled on foot through almost every county in England when I went in. quest of employment; yet I do here contend, that (excepting mountains) there is as much beautiful scenery within two hours' walk of London on the Surrey side as ever the hand of God created. Pure English pastoral scenery, hills, and woods, and streams, verdant valleys and green uplands, and all that the heart of man can wish for in rural scenery. All I regret is, that not one out of an hundred who live in London know anything of these sweet places. they have never gone in search of the many pleasant footpaths that lead to this beautiful scenery. Oh! that my pen had but the power to arouse its tens of thousands of inhabitants out of their smoky alleys, to look upon the lovely landscapes that stretch in every direction around them. Why slumbers the genius of the metropolis? there is more than one true-bred cockney among its literary men better able to picture the beauties of the country around London than I am. Why is it not done? We have plenty of twopenny-halfpenny "Guide-books" which contain no more poetry or spirit than a farthing rushlight; let there be something fresh and green got up for the amusement and instruction of the thousands who are walled within this huge city; something that would do more than tell the inhabitants where Jenkins and Smith and Hickinbottom live; something, I mean, that will take hold of their hearts. If what I have here advanced may by some be considered wrong, it is nevertheless what from my soul I believe. But to return to myself, (a subject which too many men shrink from in these days, because fashion brands it as egotism,)-I was passionately fond of these solitudes. There could be no pride, no affectation in it; a poor ragged boy, such as I then was, with a crust in his jacket pocket and a book under his arm, could only do these things because his soul loved them, for he neither knew the world, nor cared a straw for its opinions. One spot in particular I loved in my boyish days, even long before I knew that Shakspeare had fixed upon it for its singularity: it was within an hour's walk of my birthplace. It was that very spot which caused a dispute between Hotspur and Glendower, in the First Part of Henry IV, when the map of England is produced, and Mortimer points out the "three limits," into which the Archdeacon had divided it. Hotspur says, "Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here, In quantity equals not one of yours; It shall not wind with such a deep indent, To rob me of so sweet a bottom here." The "silver Trent" no longer winds like a 66 huge halfmoon;" the "monstrous corner" is cut off, and the river at this hour runs "fair and evenly" through that neck of land which caused the vessels to make a circuit of nearly five miles, within the memory of man, without drawing an hundred yards nearer the end of their voyage. A sailor has been known to throw his hat across this narrow isthmus, and after having traversed the whole line of banks, around the immense bend, pick it up as he passed, the distance he had thrown it being all the space he had gained after his long journey. Such an unnecessary circuit was, of course, a great grievance to those who navigated the river, especially the "haulers," men employed to tow up the vessels by ropes; and one winter, when the river had overflowed its banks, and inundated the neighbouring marshes, it tore through a great portion of this narrow neck of land. Help, as may be expected, was near at hand, and it is rumoured that the work of one night made a channel navigable for vessels. I have heard mention made of the name of the first man who sailed through the new channel, and of those who assisted in that night's great work. But it was many years ago long, I believe, before my time; but if I err not, there are those living now who could, if they choose, say much on this matter, and who have looked upon the "monstrous corner," and seen many a white sail gliding around it. But the ancient villages of Burton and Bole no longer stand by the side of the "silver Trent," as they did in Shakspeare's time: the river now rolls nearly two miles away from them; it is long since their grey church-towers looked down upon their shadows in the water. The bed of the river is dry. I have peeled osiers in its deep and ancient channel, and spent many an hour in hunting for the nest of the plover on its wild and sedgy banks. 1 I know not how such scenery might affect others, but to my boyish fancy there was something strangely wild and pleasing in traversing the bed of that ancient river,in planting my foot on a spot where, for hundreds of years, the waters had rolled, even, perchance, from the day when the Omnipotent said, "Let there be light." To think that the ancient Briton might have paddled his wicker boat above my head; that Alfred might have sailed along the "hundred-armed Trent," and passed over the spot where I then stood, when he came unaware upon the rude abodes of the savage Danes, startling them by the sight of his oared fleet, as they stood, half-robed and half-affrighted, peeping between the wild willows; or that, in a period more remote, the tramp of Roman soldiers might have affrighted the bittern from her nest, and sent her booming above their ranks. Then I had but to ascend from the green bed of the river and climb its sloping banks, to look over the loveliest of landscapes, hill and wood in the distance, grey, or green, or cloud-like, just as the face of Heaven turned thitherward, and uplifted or let fall its many-coloured veil of clouds. My reading at that time was every way as confused as my thoughts. Poor Mrs. T-! where is now the remains of that old library of thine,—those ragged and tattered volumes, which even the very rats seemed to have forsaken? Dear old lady! many a time have I come trembling when I have owed thee a penny, fearing that I should be refused the perusal of another armful of odds and ends. Many of thy venerable tomes had lost numberless pages, and sometimes whole chapters. Vol. I. had never seen Vol. II. for many a year, and Vol. III. had often no predecessor; and fine work was it for the fancy to fill up these huge gaps, and to give such a beginning and an ending to the works as the author himself never dreamed of. A |