Wood," of about four hundred acres in extent. In some parts of this immense range, the ground was much broken. It was rugged, craggy, and stony, with, here and there, yawning chasms and deep hollows, as though a mountain-torrent had torn itself through the spot, and left behind the marks of its headlong, desolating course. It was a fearful spot, presumed to be haunted-certainly shunned by every one. It was extremely difficult of approach, and very rarely visited even by the old woodman himself, who, according to village testimony, had seen awful sights there, had heard unearthly sounds at nightfall-screams of intense suffering, wails of lamentation, and groans of horror. Here, even at mid-day, there was a heavy gloom about the place, rendered deeper and more impressive by densely-entangled boughs, interspersed with dark yews, and thick ivy matted and coiled in every direction. It was a spot dreaded by all. Its only inhabitants were foxes and badgers: these wood-burghers had long fixed their habitations there, and held undisputed possession.

In the most intricate part of the scene, fit for the incantation of Der Frieschutz, Tom Barrow fixed his home. He made a sort of wigwam against a cave-like hollow in the rock; and there, like any other wild animal, he made his lair and took up his abode, and became fox or badger-which you like. But, amid all his desolation-ruined prospects and blighted hopes-cut off from all association with his fellowmen and the common ties of humanity-shunned by every one, and held in hatred or fear-he had still one comfort left: his dog Jerry stuck to him with increased faithfulness. He became, in fact, more deeply attached to his master; and if anything could, under these circumstances, move the heart of Tom Barrow-even to tears, as was at first the case-it was the conviction that Jerry felt the position in which his master was placed as deeply as did his master himself, and became, if possible, more faithful, and certainly more alive to the approach of danger, and therefore doubly watchful. As for Tom himself, in his calmer moments, he vowed vengeance against any one who dared to try either to apprehend or expel him. Tom Barrow was a man who kept his word; and when it became known that he had turned to a savage state of life, the very spot where he had made himself a home was shunned by every one, and his very name was a terror to the whole district around.

Thus, isolated from society, and thrown upon his own resources, Tom Barrow was the monarch of all he surveyed. No one disputed his right; and he was literally "lord of the fowl and the brute." And there, as in "Hiawatha," he sat at the door of his wigwam-not, however, "making arrow-heads of jasper," but regulating his wires, cleaning his gun, or sharpening his butcher's knife; while at his feet lay Jerry, listening to the approach of danger, and ready to act in case of any emergency or attack whatever. The character of the scene by which he was surrounded, though highly interesting to the lover of the picturesque, particularly of woodland scenery, had no influence on the mind of Tom Barrow. The long-drawn, cathedral-like aisles of the 66 ridings;" the chequered sunbeam, which, lancing its way through the intervening branches, fell around and trembled at his feet; the waving masses of foliage which rolled above; the hosts of flowers which bloomed beneath in many a bog, and creek, and cove; the floating grace of leaf, the arch of bough, the curve of

tree-top, or swell of underwood-these formed no attractions to him. But the shout of the woodpecker, the chatter of the jay, and the gabble of the magpie, were duly noted; particularly the cockle of the pheasant near hand, and the call of the partridge on the margin of the wood. Than Tom Barrow, indeed, no man was better acquainted with the habits of game of every sort. He had, too, an unerring shot; and whatever came within the range of his gun, was doomed. He was ardently attached to the healthy excitement of sporting; and it had to him the greatest, because the most profitable, charm. To roam unrestrained by either gamelaw or keeper, yet with the incessant watchfulness peculiar to the wild mode of life which he had adopted-a watchfulness, by the way, which increased his vigilance and alacrity as to game-became, at first, peculiarly suited to his taste and his disposition. And as his means of existence now entirely depended upon his own skill, he was more than usually energetic and persevering, yet more cautious withal. If, too, the remembrance of the past was not followed by cheering hopes of the future, he had within himself a stout heart, and in the woods and fields by which he was surrounded, the means of an exciting, yet dangerous mode of existence. The continual thought of his own position-leading a savage life, and surrounded by those who, though they might personally fear him, would, of course, avoid coming in contact with him-made him as quickly alive to danger or attack, as can possibly be conceived. Not a sound smote his ear, but he could instantly tell from whom and from what it proceeded. He could accurately discriminate not only the call-notes of every winged dweller in the wood, but whether they were uttered under a state of security, or whether danger was approaching. His greatest enemies were the carrian crows. Their extraordinary watchfulness he knew to his own cost, and was fully aware, also, that they had been the means of discovering a poacher when all other modes had failed. Perched on high, nothing can possibly stir without their observance, and their harsh croak is heard in every direction. If a lurcher runs down a hare or rabbit; if a fox is stealing along the ridings, especially if laden with a fowl, a pheasant, or a goose, to add to his own larder; if a foumart or weasel is chasing its prey, or has proved successful; if a rabbit has been trapped, or a hare caught in the wire; even if the squirrels are holding a cabinet council, and discussing the hazel-nut or beech-nut question; still that croak, significant that something unusual is astir, proves that the woodland detective force is on duty. Nor could even Jerry make his appearance in the ridings, without the fact being immediately announced by the croak of alarm. Tom Barrow cursed that croak, and vowed vengeance against the whole black fraternity, many of which, in the irritation of the moment, he laid low.

It may be readily imagined, that, with his close observation of every matter and thing by which he was surrounded, he coupled a degree of skill and adroitness rarely surpassed. Than himself, no man knew better how to set a snare, with a wide span or a narrow span, according to circumstances, not only in the "smuce," but in all other positions. For instance, he would bend down an ash sapling over the "run hare, and peg it securely to the ground, with the snare attached. When puss was caught, the peg was set at liberty-up went the sapling with the hare, literally hung on high. This was what Tom called the

of a

"silent system." What with wires and traps, purse nets and gate nets, and his own gun, he was enabled to secure a good supply of game of all descriptions; and when the wood, where he had fixed his home, began to fall short, he did not hesitate to visit the neighbouring covers and preserves, during the night, accompanied by his dog Jerry, and seldom failed in returning with a heavy booty. It may be asked, how did he dispose of his plunder? Nothing was easier. Regularly, every Saturday evening, he left his wigwam, laden with game, and bent his steps, by the least frequented paths, to the nearest market town, where he opened a connexion and found a ready market-a beer-house, in fact, where hares, rabbits, and pheasants, as well as partridges and wood-pigeons, were disposed of by raffle. In the height of the season, he acquired by this means far more money than he could possibly earn as a day labourer. With the receipts from this source, he purchased those common necessaries which he required-bread, bacon, a large flaggon of ale, and other articles which he deemed requisite, including second-hand clothes, and occasionally, in severe weather, "something short."

Although, however, Tom Barrow made free with game, he never, in one instance, committed a robbery either on the hen-roosts or the pigeoncotes of the neighbouring farmers. This fact became generally known, and formed the subject of remark. Indeed, Tom was rather pitied than condemned. This was particularly the case on the part of the owner of the estate, who felt confident, that, left alone, he would soon change this wild mode of life to one more suited not only to his own wants, but the wishes of those with whom he was acquainted. The very fact of never being interfered with worked a change in Tom's feelings and views; and he began to be weary of leading this isolated life, and felt desirous of some change as soon as possible. He had not, indeed, sufficient excitement to keep his courage strung up to the pitch of which it was capable; and the time began to hang heavily upon his heart and mind. But he had no immediate hope of bettering his condition; and in the loneliness and silence of night, especially in bad weather, he sighed for a change, and old animosities had gradually subsided. Even Jerry, who watched the countenance of his master, as though he felt conscious that something was wrong, seemed equally desirous, by his pitiful whines, of a change of scene.

A few months passed away, and Tom Barrow had not been seen by any one. It was at first conjectured that he was dead in his cabin. The infant Rumour soon grew into the giant Certainty. Curiosity was awakened, and longed to be satisfied. At length, four men of the village, to whom he was well known, determined to visit the place of his retreat on the following Sunday morning, and set the matter at rest. They accordingly met for that purpose, and proceeded to Rookworth Wood-not free from apprehension, however, that some disaster might possibly arise out of this perilous undertaking. They entered its denser part with great caution; and had considerable difficulty in finding the path which led to the wild and unfrequented spot. They knew the fearless and desperate character of the old poacher in resisting any invasion of his territory, and therefore kept as close together as they possibly could. But the approach was so intricate, that only one of them could advance in front. The scene becoming

more intricate and difficult, as well as darker and darker, they paused: they called, but there was no answer: they whistled, but there was no reply. There was no indication of man or dog in any direction. They shouted" Tom Barrow-Tom Barrow!" But the echo alone threw back the answer-"Tom Barrow!" They were now certain that he was dead; and pushed forwards with more resolution, yet casting their gaze in every nook and corner, in the momentary expectation of some one of them being laid prostrate. They rushed into the open space immediately in front of, and entered the wigwam, or rather cave. But, contrary to expectation, found it tenantless. The bird had flown. They examined every hole and corner; but found little beyond some dried fern and heather which had been appropriated as a bed. Nor did the interior, in other respects, present those appearances which might have been expected after the spot had been so long the home of an outcast. The mystery was partly solved; and the conviction prevailed that Tom Barrow had fled the district.

Several years passed over, and nothing was heard of Tom Barrow; and though his name was not entirely obliterated from the remembrance of those who had formerly known him well, he had ceased to excite much interest. At length, however, news was received in the neighbourhood where he had once led so strange a life, that he was dead; and all that could be correctly ascertained was, that he had obtained employment with a relative of one of his former poaching companions; that he had forsaken all his old habits; that he had turned a religious character, and died an altered man, in the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty-two. Without saying that historical rhetoric is more dangerous than historical romance, there is some justification in coming to the conclusion, that so long as, according to Macaulay, the classical histories may almost be called romances founded on fact, the life and habits of Tom Barrow may be safely placed under the same designation.

COUNTRY

AND TOWN.

BY HARRY HIEOVER.

I should somewhat surprise many of my readers were I to enumerate the numbers of men I know, whose chief pursuits were those to be found only in the country, who now exclusively reside in London. The life is so distinct in the two localities, that at first it would appear impossible that a denizen of one or the other could so change all his habits as to be able to endure the transformation or transplanting. It is very rarely we see the London trader satisfied, content, or happy, in his retirement to the country, if the distance from London exceeds a shilling fare by an omnibus. While this is the case, he can once or twice a-week visit his old shop, see business going on, and, if he is on intimate terms with the present

possessor, should the shopmen be busy, he whips behind the counter, voluntarily weighs a few articles for the customers, and feels himself happier than he has been since he quitted Russell-street, Covent Garden, and became an inmate and possessor of Waterloo Cottage or Plantation House, as the case may be. The summum bonum of his life is the coming round of Sunday, when he invites his former fellowlabourers in the vineyard to a jolly good dinner, which he and they perfectly understand, with the produce of some vineyard, in which his and their palates may be of more questionable character. He recommends the port as sound stuff, none of your wishy-washy French or German wines; adding, "But I can give you a bottle of claret, if anyone prefers it." They all decline, with the exception of a young man with an imperial on his chin, one of her Majesty's liege servants in the Excise; he would trespass on his host's offered hospitality, and try a bottle; port was too potent for him. So, secretly disliking the claret, or any claret, he sips it; and if he does make at times a wry face, it is nothing to the wry faces he probably will make an hour or two after drinking it. "It was not so, Wilkins, when we were young 'uns," said Goodenough, a highly-respectable cheesemonger at table, father to the hopeful aspirant to be something quite beyond "his governor." At this Wilkins perpetrated a pun, by replying: "No; when you gave me a bottle in those days, I always found you and your wine Goodenough to please any man; so here's your health."

In the intervals of these réunions, Wilkins sports a kind of shootingjacket and white hat; strolls down to the butcher's, provisions the house, talks to the butcher about the state of trade, and looks at the scales with a fond eye, as reminding him of the happier part of his life. But is Mrs. Wilkins and the Misses Wilkins equally ennuyé of the country? Far from it; they have their friends to call and be called on; but poor Wilkins's friends are during the day all at their shops (I beg pardon-at business), which, with a feeling and sensation closely bordering on a sigh, he wishes he had never left. But Wilkins has a daily, or rather nightly, pleasure to look forward to through the day, several of his friends patronise the coffee-room of "The Gun,' close by there, of an evening, with "go's" of gin-and-water. He smells, in idea, the shop; and who, though not knowing them, could but, in their general looks and manners (figuratively speaking), smell the same thing? Mrs. Wilkins, good woman! had conceived that Wilkins being no longer in business, but having taken his chaumière charmante in, as she conceives it to be, the country, the whole family would take a leap up at once, and thus find a standing among aristocracy. She finds, however, the prestige of John Wilkins, grocer, has preceded him; and though families of the gentry might originally visit his shop, and thus give a call on his shopmen, they will not pay a morning visit to his family. Why is it that women are more aspiring in their thoughts and projects than men? It is not any culpable feeling that renders them so. No, it is but justice to the mind and ideas of woman to say they lead them to what is more refined, better, and more elegant than what their lot in life has thrown them in contact with. Wilkins would probably have been content to still superintend the weighing out of bohea, selling coffee with or without chicory (the