Yet the

selves at our expense in the matter of names, but we must tell them that the laugh is not all on their side. To say nothing of the Shoreditch, the Pall Mall, the Crutched Friars, the Petticoat Lane, the Houndsditch, etc., of London, one must make up all manner of mouths to pronounce some of the country names. They bear no trace of Grecian muse, vale, or isle. They are thoroughly and purely English. history of England and all her institutions is written in her names. This is singularly instanced in the city of Rochester. Its original name, derived from the swift river on the banks of which it stands, was Dourbryf, softened by the Romans into Durobrovis, roughened by the Saxons into Hroffe, to which add the usual castrum, or caestre, as a Roman station, and you have the modern name. "Brasenose" is certainly a most astounding title, though borne by one of the colleges at Oxford. Tradition and record both assert that Alfred's habitation at Oxford was divided among the three ancient literary societies which now constitute University, Oriel, and Brasenose Colleges, the first claiming his school, the second his church, and the third his palace, especially that part of it which was occupied as the brasinium, or brasin-huse, or brew-house. Oxford itself does not suggest now, except to the orthographist, its original title of Oxenford.

To sum up the natural attractions of England, there is its hoary age, which clothes every stone and hill-side with venerableness. The old bell on Chester Cathedral, which bears date, A. D. 606, is some centuries younger than the walls and ruins upon which it looks, in that ancient Roman town. Here and there a yew-tree or an oak stands as an ancient land-mark of divisions, the partners to which are now unknown. The plough and the pick-axe turn up curious remains of every age since the flood. The scathed hills show the progress of centuries, and in some single field shall be found the vestiges of countless species of animals, insects, and vegetables. There is age but not exhaustion on the face of nature there. The green ivy is as ancient as the ruin which it binds while it disjoins. The oaks still cling to the soil where they have grown for centuries, and though they now grow no longer, they still find nurture there. Each generation of animal and vegetable life comes forth fresh to its appropriate sphere, and the rain and the dew still fall in fruitful abundance; and yet the face of nature seems in England to wear a more venerable aspect than in any other land. Its pleasant fields look green in winter, but even in summer they wear the mantle of age. Its hills and valleys seem to slope with lovelier curves than elsewhere, and the land is trod by brave and honest men, and supports hospitable hearts.

Now, to all these riches and attractions which nature has accumulated upon England, are to be added all its associations as a scene of human life for so many ages. Wandering tribes made it their resting-place, and its oldest relics are those of their worships. It has seen invasion and conquest, recovered freedom, foreign colonization and civil strife, the wars of petty chiefs and of great parties, violent changes in government, and intervals of confusion and anarchy, rebellion, restoration, and revolution, kingcraft and queencraft, the sway of regents, the dominion of Lord Protector and the dictation of a militia. It has been the land of Romans, Danes, Picts, Saxons, and Normans, and though its present possessors glory above others in ancestral pride, their blood is mingled from more races than that of any other nation upon the earth. Of all these masters and events it has traces.

It has produced more learned men in every department, has made more valuable inventions and discoveries, and has tested by hard proof, and purchased at a severe cost, more principles of morality, religion, and government, than any other nation on the globe. Of all its great men, too, it has memorials either in fable, tradition, or richly storied literature. All its inventions and discoveries have been there put to their fullest known use. The principles which it has tested, and earned by blood, have been put into exercise and made to draw forward in slow, but visible progress, the best interests of society. We believe that if every human being in England were exterminated, and every structure there razed to the level of the earth, enough would remain beneath the surface of the soil, in vast foundati ons, artificial works, inscribed corner-stones, and sepulchral records, to tell what the nation once was.

With all these treasures of antiquarian lore, these vestiges of great and humble men, and relics of by-gone customs and feelings, there is a mine of interest opened there for literature, whose riches are inexhaustible. Never did we form a just estimate of that frame of soul which brought our ancestors over to these lands, till we beheld the land which they left [England]. The question which the luxuriant beauty and the peaceful happiness of English fields first suggested to our mind was, how could those who could best appreciate it, whose hearts must have loved it most, thus turn their backs upon the graves of their fathers, and take a last look of so dear a home! True, we shall be told that England was not then what it is now, but neither was America then what it is now, but what Cromwell called it, "a black, howling wilderness." However, the fact that they did leave it, cheerfully, and with an unfainting heart, proves what the energies and reaches of that heart were. But their strug

gles have added one more tale of interest to the chronicles of that land whence they came out. They, too, were Englishmen.

Scattered thickly over England, are spots consecrated by the important deeds which have been acted there, or the great men, in themselves a host, who there saw the light, or passed their days, or are making their long resting-place. Trivial incidents, too, from the mere perpetuity of their traditions, have clothed many scenes with interest. Standing upon the beach at Southampton, your feet will be wet with the same tide which humbled the majesty of Canute, and gave such a deep-toned rebuke to his flatterers. In New Forest, a stone now marks the spot where stood the tree from which glanced the arrow, from Sir Walter Tyrrell's arrow, upon the devoted Rufus. The forest of Sherwood still has traces and traditions of Robin Hood, and in Hathersage, Derbyshire, is seen the grave of his companion, Little John. All over the land are battle-grounds and monumental pillars. Each dale has its historic narrative, each wood its wild story, each hill its tale of the olden time. Here is a village which rejoices in the remembered pageantry of a royal visit; the neighbouring castle still preserves undefiled the state-bed in which the monarch rested, and perhaps he condescended to quaff a goblet at the old ale-house. Dorking in Surrey rejoices in the fame of its large fowls, with five claws on each feet. In the absence of more interesting associations, George Fox still lives among the fields where he exercised his gifts. Gad's Hill will never lose the fame which Shakspeare has given to it as the scene of Falstaff's exploits.

Dunmow, in Essex, and Whichenovre Manor in Staffordshire, will ever have a lamentable interest to every married pair, as the places where so many unsuccessful claims were advanced to the flitch of bacon, promised to those who in a married state lived happily together for a year and a day. The chair in which victorious competitors were carried at the former place, is still preserved in the church. There are records of successful claimants of it, from the time of its institution in the reign of Henry III., and there are even vestiges of the custom. That so many who claimed it were put by, is of course to be explained by the difficulty of the conditions, and the institution seems well to have served the purpose for which it was designed, viz., "to convince the nuns of the priory that marriage was not such a state of felicity as was fondly conceived by unmarried people." In the Spectator, Nos. 607 and 608, are some curious extracts from the records in the other place where the custom prevailed, and they offer a truly melancholy commentary on the matrimonial state. But two couples were successful during the first

century; the husband in one case was a seacaptain, who had been absent from his wife from the day of his wedding to the day of his claim. The wife in the other case was dumb. One couple who received the bacon by perjury, lost it the next moment by disputing how it should be dressed. Another 'found a secret compunction rising in his mind," when he came to that clause of the oath which declares, that were he sole and his wife sole, he should take her before all the women in the world. Another thought that, having fulfilled the conditions between first loving and marrying, he was entitled to the reward. Happy was Joceline Jolly, in having a slice allowed him for good behaviour during "the space of the first month, commonly called the honey-moon." We may well conceive that the highway rung with mirth, as the rustic pageantry passed to do honour to any successful pair. Those must have been neighbourly times, to say nothing of the provocatives to scandal. This is but one among many of the local observances which have attached interest to particular hamlets.

In Ludlow Castle, Milton's Comus was first performed, with all dramatic effect, In Donington Castle, in Berkshire, Chaucer resided and wrote. With the beautiful scenery of Wilton before him, Sir Philip Sydney composed his Arcadia. In Kenilworth was acted the superb pageantry, the detail of which gives such a halo of the olden time to the novel. In Fotheringay, the luckless Mary was confined and executed. At Chertsey, in Surrey, Cowley and C. J. Fox both occupied those delightful residences, which now bear their names. At Woolsthorpe, in Rutlandshire, where Newton was born, he saw the apple fall, which revealed to him the great law of nature. Of course the curious who now inspect the identical apple, think that they too, under the same circumstances, should have discovered the law.

Stoke Pogeis Churchyard, near Slough, where Gray is buried, is the scene of his in comparable Elegy. Turn where we will, and wander where we may, we can never in Eng land be more than one hour's distance from some spot which has seen men or events that have influenced the whole world. The detail of them would fill a volume. Oxford glories in having on its soil the ashes of martyrs, Cambridge in having been the favourite abode of Erasmus, and both in having nurtured giants in every walk of literature, religion, science, and polity. The little timber and plaster, white and black, structure, in Henly Street, Stratford upon Avon, as being the humble shed beneath which Shakspeare was nursed, contains in the album of its visitors more noble and honoured names than could probably be gathered from the books of the Herald's College. The plain

edifice which fronts the market-place at Litchfield, with its copper kettle swinging over the doorway, is the desecrated birthplace of Dr. Johnson, whose shape the kettle seems to parody. Ancient manor-houses and rustic cottages are associated with the names of the great statesmen, divines, philosophers, historians, and poets of England. The biographer ransacks the musty village records to trace the humble parentage, and date the birth, baptism, and school-days of those who have risen from the obscurity of a peasant's life. Happy is he who in such a search can connect a distant and faint trace of artificial nobleness with the descendant of a farmer or day labourer. But such researches most generally mock all pride of family and name. Huntingdon and its free grammar-school claim the birth and education of the Lord Protector. The little cottage standing in the churchyard of Wrington, Somersetshire, sheltered the infancy of John Locke. Bristol claims Sebastian Cabot; Chatterton, Hannah More, Southey, and Coleridge, among its children. It shows in its old church tower the oaken chests which the hapless poet has immortalized; in its choir, the armour of Admiral Penn, and behind its altar, a masterpiece of Hogarth. On the shady banks of the Cam, and among the time-honoured fabrics of its university, in a house since known as the "Bull Inn," lived an humble barber and his wife, who there hailed Jeremy Taylor as their son. Gibbon was born and Pitt died at Putney, in Surrey. Of the latter, Stratford Manor-house was the birth-place. The village of Islip, in Oxfordshire, claims Edward the Confessor. A cottage still standing in Elstow, and the jail a mile distant, in Bedford, witnessed the birth of John Bunyan, and the composition of his immortal work. Malmesbury gave a surname to the famous William, and birth to him and Hobbes. The learned Alcuin was a native of York; Selden, of Salvington, in Sussex: Alfred and Doctor Butler first saw the light at Wantage, a market-town in Berkshire; Doctor Watts, and Pococke, at Southampton; and Wareham, in Dorset, claims the honour of giving Horace Walpole birth. Long as this list might be made, it would for the most part exhibit the names of great men, and of humble places. London indeed gathered together one by one all whom we have mentioned, and many more. Within its own smoky walls and crowded tenements were born, Blackstone, Byron, Camden, Colley Cibber, Cowley, Gray, Hogarth, Holcroft, Ben Jon son, Milton, Lord Chancellor More, Pope, Spenser, etc. With its purlieus or parks, its tottering garrets or palaces, are associated undying names, How many roof trees, throughout England are thus made beautiful and imposing, even with their thatch and tiles. England, too, has its rural churchyards, its tombs, lowly or beautified, the storied

walls and pavements of its holy places, and its georgeous sepulchres, which cherish the dust of its great men, whose fame has made their last resting-place so many shrines. In Durham Cathedral, rest St. Cuthbert, and the venerable Bede; in Worcester Cathedral, Prince Arthur, King John, and Bishop Gauden; Canterbury, besides the shrine of Becket, has the tombs of Edward the Black Prince, Henry IV., and his Queen. Winchester, among many of Saxon monarchs, encloses the dust of Queen Boadicea, Alfred the Great, St. Swithin, and Izaak Walton.Evelyn is buried at Wotton, in Surrey; Gib bon, in Fletching church, Sussex; Byron, in Hucknall church; Bacon, at St. Albans ; Pope, at Twickenham; Blackstone, at Wallingford. And London, too, has gathered from afar the dust of many mighty men, to consecrate its abbey, its cathedral, its churches, and cemeteries. Two elements of greatness are recognised in these sacred repositories, peace and genius, fortune and toil. The noble are sure of their memorial; the worthy, even if not wishing for, may be confident of theirs. The tablets of Ben Jonson, Chaucer, Milton, and Addison, are mean when compared with the sculptured monuments of the titled by birth, but the worn pavement shows where most steps are turned. Certainly one would think a theme was offered by all these restingplaces of the great and the renowned, which should give birth to livelier and deeper meditations than are uttered in the tasteless pages of Hervey.

THE AUCTIONEER,

A SKETCH.

ELOQUENCE, true, stirring eloquence, is as necessary an attribute of a successful auctioneer, as of a counsellor, a clergyman, or a politician. As the counsellor must watch the current of feeling in the jury he is addressing, and range " from grave to gay, from lively to severe," to achieve the most for his client; as the clergyman must adapt his exhortations to the character of his convertite, pouring forth the voice of terrible warning to the soul, yet halting between the broad and the narrow path, and whispering in hopeful, cheering, and soothing tones to the abject and despairing; as the politician must touch the chords that surest thrill upon the sense of popular feeling, and, now denunciatory of his foes, now urgent with his listeners, propel the wrapt and fettered crowd to the grand climax of self-abandonment, when the sway of thousands is yielded to the dominion of the voice; so the auctioneer must garnish the stereotyped phrases of his vocation, by soft flattery of his audience, by judicious praise of the article under the hammer-judicious, we say, for the attribution of unreal merits, unskilfully made, is a vain and disgusting drawback

and by an appeal in the nick of time, to

him, whose perplexed and anxious countenance proclaims him to be halting between doubt and desire to make a second bid. Oh, how sales drag, and bids hang heavily, with him who is not gifted with a fluent tonguewhose vocabulary ventures no farther than a tiresome repetition of the last bid, alternate with an everlasting "going," and interlarded with an occasional "say no more!" And, on the other hand, how brisk is the bidding, with him who is rich in anecdote and humour, and knows how to beguile tedium and weariness, and make his listeners bid in very spite of their convictions and their purses!

A rich specimen of this latter class, is BELL, auctioneer, of Fulton Street. We have not the pleasure of his acquaintance, but have no doubt he has often railed at us for an unprofitable subject; for we delight to forget fatigue or ennui in listening to his sales. It is as good, as the country people say, as going to the playhouse. Two or three specimens of his powers linger in our memory, and i'faith, we'll prent 'em!"

A sofa was under the hammer, on which sat a pretty boy. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I now offer to you a sofa, No. 43, fresh from the maker's hand. We do not warrant it, as nothing was said to us about that, no doubt through an entire oversight in the manufacturer when he brought it here; but this I will venture to say, on my own responsibility, that if it shouldn't answer the expectations of the purchaser, he has but to come here again, and we shall undoubtedly have a sofa on hand, which we shall be happy to sell him at the lowest current auction prices; and will also thank him for the opportunity to sell the unfortunate article for him at the usual commission, to some less fastidious customer. What is bid to start it at? Eighteen dollars-nineteen-twentyDon't flatter yourselves that the cherub upon it is to be included in the sale. Oh, no! were those blue and radiant eyes, those ruddy cheeks, and that smiling mouth purchaseable, I myself would out-bid you all ;-I would not be deterred by the suspension of a thousand banks, from the possession of so charming a bud, that should flourish under my fostering care! I congratulate its happy mother. Going, at twenty dollars-twenty-one-and a half all done-all done-gone!-to Mr. A.; and a shameful sacrifice of property it is! I cannot get as much for new as for second-hand ones. I'll fix it. Gentlemen, here is another entirely new sofa, warranted second-hand!"

A piano was put up-" Ladies and gentlemen," said he, "I beg your serious attention for a few moments. If you look on the front of this piano, you will find it to have been made by Osborne-the lamented Osborne. It is seldom that an instrument of his valued make is offered for sale, and I therefore expect a brisk competition for the one before us. You all know Osborne's melancholy fate. He

was.

killed himself-and I will tell you how it He was continually exercising his genius in plans for the improvement of his instruments; and one night, a glorious vision flashed upon him all at once, of something so unique, so magnificent, that it would be a wonder to the world—yes, sounds were to be produced by this new arrangement, so hea. venly in their melodious softness, that the angels in heaven would all throw down their golden harps in disgust, and play upon Osborne's pianos as an accompaniment to their celestial songs! Overcome by the overwhelming enthusiasm of the thought, unable to support the exstacy of the idea, he leaped from a third-story window, and, as you may suppose, made pianos no more! The verdict of the jury should have been, 'Died of too much music! Ah, Mr. B., I'm glad to see you! You are one of those who can delight the soul by the concord of sweet sounds. Now just sit down at this piano, and illustrate a little upon its tone, that its excellence may be appreciated, and you will have the delicious satisfaction that you have not spent the day in vain! There, isn't that superb? Now, what is bid?"

OUR DOCTOR.

BY ANN S. STEPHENS.

I HAVE had a delicious dream, in which I have lived over a few hours of pleasure. With it was combined much of the poetry of sickness-much to make the heart thankful. There was pain, too, but it did not seem as such, for the sufferings of childhood may pass for the pleasures of riper age. The atmosphere was no longer moist with the morning dew, and the old oak cast its shadow along the front of our house, darkening the thick rose-bushes, and forming a cool nook for my sister's play-house, while the sun fell brightly through its outer branches, and quivered over the short grass in the foreground, like threads of flexible silver weaving themselves into a ground-work of emerald green. A soft breeze was stirring, such as might draw colour to the lips of an invalid without chilling his frame, while the river, as it washed its banks, and the green trees, as they swayed gently to the whispering wind, gave out a soft sleepy sound, calculated to soothe even pain to quietness.

My father took me in his arms, and bore me carefully out into the shadow of the oak. I was in the blessed sunlight, for the first time, after six long, long weeks of illness. Oh, how deliciously the bland air came up from the river, and swept over my languid temples! What a blissful tremor ran through my form, as I was placed in the easy-chair which my mother had carefully arranged for me! A sensation of new life thrilled every nerve. I was as one lifted from the grave into the beautiful light of heaven, the first breath of pure air came to my cheek with so sweet a touch. It seemed as if a cloud of

invisible spirits were fanniug me with their wings. The sluggish blood started in my veins, and thrilled me with a sensation of exquisite pleasure. The atmosphere seemed imbued with a new and more subtle property. My brain quickened-my senses drank in the perfume of the flowers that flushed the river's bank, and responded to the hum of the summer insects which haunted the rosethickets and the honeysuckle vines, with a capacity for enjoyment which I had never experienced before. My mother carefully folded me in a cloak, and kissing me, exclaimed "See, how the colour is coming to her poor, thin cheeks."

My father met her glance of congratulation, and smiling a happy, grateful smile, looked affectionately upon me, and well he might, if he loved his child; for while yet scarcely entering into my girlhood, I had been stricken down with a violent and dangerous illness, which had desolated many a neighbouring hearthstone. For weeks I had trembled on the brink of the grave; a long feverish dream, full of delirium and pain, had been before me, and I was but just recovering from it. With gladsome faces and half-uttered blessings, my parents left me to the enjoyment of the scene. I looked eagerly abroad upon the valley. The green, heavy foliage of the pine-grove across the way, shivered and thrilled to the morning air, and a whispering melody stole out, low and sad, as if the dying flowers were breathing a requiem underneath the trees. Above was the blue sky, but to my feeble vision, it seemed an ocean of silvery billows floating in dazzling masses far overhead. The brightness pained me, and I turned my eyes to the earth again. How refreshingly green it was! -and the noise of the waterfall near-how cool and melodious was its splashing music! Strange that its monotony should so have pained me during my fever!

My sisters brought out their playthings, and heaped them on the grass before me, all the while laughing and chatting so happily as they assorted them, congratulating themselves over and over that I was well enough to come out with them once more! Now and then they would look up from their playthings, dwell anxiously on my face, and ask if I were tired, or if they should play something else; then one would insist on raising the pillow a little, and would smooth my hair so kindly, while the other rang out among the rose-bushes, and tearing off the great blossoms with merciless prodigality, brought them for me to look upon. Dear sister, she little knew how faint and strengthless I was; the very roses were oppressive as they lay breathing out odour and unfolding their damask hearts in my lap.

On the opposite side of the river, a little up the rugged bank, was rooted a slender

ash, and on one of the topmost boughs was just distinguishable, among the delicate leaves, a dark object which I knew to be one of the purse-like, hanging nests, built by the English Robin. The owner birds were fluttering about the tree with their brilliant plumage flashing in the sunlight like a pair of tiger-lilies adrift on the wind. They are scarce and beautiful birds, the very gems of the air-these English robins. I am not ornithologist enough to know if they have any other name. Their plumage is of a vivid scarlet, changing now and then, in a strong sunlight, to a flower-like tint, as if the feathers were tipped with powdered gold.

There was a spot, just beneath the tree, on which my eyes dwelt with longing intensity. It was one of those cool little hollows which we often see on a broken hill-side; the grass, to a little distance around, was delightfully green, and I could just distinguish the sparkle of waters as they leaped from a little rocky basin, and trickled down the bank, giving freshness and life to the herbage in their pathway. It was for that bright water which I thirsted with an absorbing desire. There it was, leaping and flashing, as if in mockery before my eyes: I could almost hear it murmuring under the grass with that soft liquid flow which seems almost to quench thirst with itsvery melody, and yet it was forbidden to me.

Our doctor was a man of much knowledge -a successful practitioner, but, possessed of inveterate prejudices, he strictly prohibited water in all cases of fever. He was as stubborn a water-hater as Mr. Willis' Tomaso ; one would have thought that, like him, he suspected, that "since the world was drowned in it, it tasted of sinners," and that his patients might be tainted with it. Be this as it may, he would as soon have administered a dose of prussic acid, as a spoonful of the pure element to one suffering under the disease that was ravaging our neighbourhood. Through six long weeks of parching fever, had tasted water only once. That once, it almost makes me smile to think of it-the girl, in her haste to obey a summons from my sick room, had placed a brimstone ewer on the carpet. All day I had been praying for water. One drop-one little drop was all I asked, but it was denied to me. alone, burning with thirst, restless with feverish pain, and there, a few yards from me, stood the forgotten ewer, with the coveted moisture dripping drop by drop over its sides. In the phrenzy of desire I crept from my bed and dragged myself along the floor till the delicious beverage was gained. I lifted my reeled head, seized the vessel, and drankoh, with what intoxicating delight! Could I have coined each drop into a diamond at the moment, I would not have thus enriched myself. I remember it all as a dream, but it was a moment of delicious pleasure. I would

I was