This venerable old tree, which, till early in the present century, stood near the kennel for the royal harriers, in the south-eastern part of Windsor Little Park, was drawn by a Mr. Anderson, a few years before it was cut down; and has been immortalized by Shakspeare, and known by the appellation of Herne's Oak.

In The Merry Wives of Windsor, Mrs. Page recounts the traditionary story of Herne in these lines :

There is an old tale goes, that Herne the hunter,
Some time a keeper here in Windsor Forest,
Doth all the winter time, at still of midnight,
Walk round about an Oak, with ragged horns;
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And there be blasts the tree and takes the cattle,
And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shake a chain
In a most hideous and dreadful manner.

The traditional account is, that Herne was a keeper of the forest, in the time of Elizabeth, and having committed some offences which would have occasioned a dismissal from his office, took the desperate resolution to hang himself upon this oak. The credulity of the times may be supposed to have encouraged the story that his ghost haunted the spot; and consequently rendered it a fit scene of action to expose the cowardice of the lascivious knight.

The people of Windsor show their respect for this cele brated tree by the estimation in which they hold the little articles of furniture and ornament that have been formed from its remains.

THE GRAVE OF ABELARD AND ELOISA.

There are few lovers of poetry who have not read Pope's tender epistle from Eloisa to Abelard. The following extract forms the subject of the accompanying illustration, and delineates two lovers sympathising together over the grave of the ill-fated pair :

When fate shall thy fair fame destroy
That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy,

In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round!
From opening skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine!
May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages lience, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more,
If ever chance two wandering lovers brings,
To Paracletes' white walls and silver springs,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
Oh! may we never love as these have lov'd!
From the full choir when loud hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,