are told when mosses vegetate, and when insects first appear and disappear. There are also remarks with regard to fish and other animals; with miscellaneous observations and memoranda on various subjects. For instance, we are told that on the 21st of June, house-martins which had laid their eggs in an old nest, had hatched them, and that, when this is the case, they get the start of those which build new ones by ten days or a fortnight. He speaks with some degree of triumph of having ricked his meadow hay in delicate order, and that Thomas had seen a pole-cat run across his garden. He records the circumstance of boys playing at taw on the Plestor; and that he had set Gunnery, one of his bantam hens, on nine of her own eggs. He complains that dogs come into his garden at night and eat his gooseberries, and gives a useful hint to farmers and others, when he says that rooks and crows destroy an immense number of chaffers, and that were it not for these birds the chaffers would destroy everything. In addition to his remarks on natural history, Mr. White recorded in his diaries the visits which were occasionally paid him, and carefully notes down the births of his various nephews and nieces (amounting to about sixty-three at the time his diary closed), as they respectively came into the world. He 'chronicled his ale and beer, as they were brewed by his man Thomas, who appears to have been his valet, gardener, and assistant naturalist. He takes notice of the quantity of port wine which came to his share when he divided a pipe of it with some of his neighbours; and he makes frequent mention of his crops, his fine and early cucumbers, and the flavour of his Cardilliac peas-he evidently passing much of his time in his garden. The appearance of his neighbours' hops, the beginning and ending of their harvests, their bees, pigs, and poultry, are also noticed in succession, and appear to have added to the interest he took in rural life." Perhaps the above passage supplies us with a better idea of the man than could be derived from any other source.

In 1768 Gilbert White commenced the remarkable series of letters which make up the "Natural History of Selborne"-letters which, as all the world knows, are matchless for the graphic minuteness of their details, and the naïve simplicity of their style. It was with much difficulty that he could be prevailed upon to publish them; and had it not been for his brother Thomas, to whom he was indebted for many suggestions, and who promised to review them in a friendly way, and did so in the Gentleman's Magazine," it is very problematical whether, owing to the author's fear of the ordeal of criticism, they would ever have seen the light. The habits of Gilbert White were uniformly temperate, his temper was cheerful and social, and his conversational powers are said to have been inimitable. He lived to a good old age, dying in his seventy-third year, on the 26th of June, 1793.

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Starting from Salisbury, whither we had been for the purpose of looking at Stonehenge, with the result of which excursion the reader of the "Leisure Hour" is already acquainted,* our route to Selborne lay through Winchester, whence we were fortunate enough to find a conveyance to Alton, over a rather mountainous country. Resting for the night at

* See "A Visit to Stonehenge," No. 91.

Alton, we set forth early the next morning, and ascending a gentle elevation at the back of the town, pursued a foot-path through the fields and farmsteads, which at length landed us in the carriage-road leading to Selborne, at about half the distance between that village and Alton. The nar row dusty road runs almost in a straight line from its junction with the field-path down into Selborne. As we approach within a mile or so of the village, the eye is prepared to appreciate its picturesque seclusion, by the spectacle, which gradually rises into view, of the bold hills crowned with massive foliage, which in a manner overhang the basin in which it lies concealed from sight.

The immediate approach to this charming place lies through a deep ravine in a rocky bank, at the bottom of which a clear stream of water flows across the road, which was formerly rendered pass able to pedestrians by a rustic foot-bridge, while the bed of the brook was also the crown of the causeway for cattle and vehicles of all descriptions. Very lately, however, the stream has been arched over, and the road-way elevated some dozen feet, by which the artistic effect has been utterly destroyed-to the immense advantage and conveni ence, there is no gainsaying, of the few who ride or drive in and out of Selborne. The village itself is a model of rural repose and snug-looking rustic comfort, of the good old-fashioned order. It abounds in cottages, each a picture, with roofs of ponderous-looking thatch, pierced with shaded casements, and with low brick-built tenements, clustered round with climbing roses and creeping plants, and rarely rising far above the flowers and greenery among which they seem embedded. Along what may be termed the main street, these humble dwellings, mingled with others of a better class, stand in delightful irregularity, together with barns, sheds, and outhouses. Some of them are on a level and flush with the road; others retire to a distance behind gardens crammed with a profu sion of flowers and ripe currants; and others again are perched upon high banks, whence they overlook their humbler neighbours.

On turning to the left, after ascending the hill from the brook, we enter the Pleystow, or Plaistor, a neat open space, where, upon a seat beneath a spreading tree, we look round. "This Pleystow," says Sir W. Jardine, "appears to have been left as a sort of redeeming offering by Sir Adam Gordon, in olden times an inhabitant of Selborne, well known in English history during the reign of Henry III, particularly as a leader of the Mountfort faction. Mr. White says: As Sir Adam began to advance in years, he found his mind influenced by the prevailing opinion (need we say, a vain and unscriptural one) of the reasonableness and efficacy of prayers for the dead; and therefore, in conjunetion with his wife Constantia, in the year 1271, granted to the prior and convent of Selborne all his right and claim to a certain place, placea, called La Pleystow, in the village aforesaid, ' in liberam, puram, et perpetuam elemosinam' (for free chari table purposes). This pleystow, locus ludorum, or play-place, is in a level area near the church, of about 44 yards by 36, and is known by the name of Plestor. It continues still, as it was in old times, to be the scene of recreation for the youths and children of the neighbourhood; and impresses

an idea on the mind that this village, even in Saxon times, could not be the most abject of places, when the inhabitants thought proper to assign so spacious a spot for the sports and amusements of its young people."

On the other side of the road fronting the Pleystow, and a little to the left, is the house of Gilbert White-a substantial but unpretending edifice, which, after being the abode of many successive generations of his family, has at length passed into the hands of a new proprietor. It is a modest but handsome cottage of two storeys, well shrouded in flowers and foliage, and lying a little back from the road, but from this point of view presents little to attract the attention of the stranger. On the other side of the Pleystow stands the Parsonage, a new and rather handsome building with three white gables fronting the view: it has the misfortune, however, to be quite out of keeping with its neighbours, and looks as though it had been transported bodily from a London suburb, and condemned to a temporary rustication for some breach of good behaviour.

Passing the Parsonage, we enter the churchyard, a shaded and tranquil spot, studded over with the graves and grave-stones of many a vanished generation. The church, with its low square tower, is apparently remarkable for little save its extreme simplicity and absence of ornament both within and without. The buttresses which support the outer walls are just so many magnified flights of the stone steps seen at rural inn-doors, by the aid of which fat farmers mount their nags when they ride home after market; and the principal decoration within is whitewash, the grand and universal panacea of rustic churchwardens. There is, however, a rather remarkable altar-piece, in three compartments, astonishingly like the works of Albert Durer, though how it came there we were unable to learn; and there is further, among other mural tablets, one to the memory of Gilbert White, which we shall be excused for not transcribing here. At the back of the church, and close to the wall of the building, there is a regular row of graves, marked only with a foot-stone to each, all of which are supposed to contain remains of members of the White family. The stones are so overgrown with cryptogamic moss and lichens, that it was with difficulty we could decipher the characters, now barely legible:

G. W. 26 June, 1793.

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Near the porch of the church stands a magnificent specimen of the yew, such as we do not recollect to have seen elsewhere. White himself describes it in terms which might have been written yesterday, so true is the portrait at the present moment. "In the churchyard of the village," says he, is a yew tree whose aspect bespeaks it to be of great age. It seems to have seen several centuries, and is probably coeval with the church, and therefore may be deemed an antiquity. The body is short, squat and thick, and measures twenty-three feet in the girth, supporting a head of suitable extent to its bulk. This is a male tree, which in the spring sheds clouds of dust, and fills the atmosphere around with farina."

Returning through the Pleystow, we pursue our

way through the village, and crossing some rising grounds on the right, clamber up a rather rude ascent to the "Hanger," an abrupt precipitous hill overgrown with beech trees. A winding path of easy ascent leads us gradually to the top, through the deep gloom of the overhanging foliage, which rustles in noisy chorus as the branches nod gracefully to a strong breeze. At intervals, as we ascend, we remark that the timber has been felled to open out a view of the valley beneath, and at each opening circular seats have been erected for the accommodation of the wayfarer. We pause at the loftiest point of view, and while sketching the village as it lies asleep in the sunshine below, are startled by the sudden apparition of a huge kestrel hawk, which, hovering over the abyss beneath us, as motionless as though he were stuffed in a glass case, hangs for a moment or two in mid-air, and then swooping downwards like a dart, is lost in the thicket below. The majestic hunter of the air was doubtless in search of a dinner; and so soon as our sketch was completed, we too set forward on a similar quest.

We had the good fortune to find the landlord of the village inn on the point of sitting down, with his wife and charming "pigeon-pair" of laughing children, to the good old English fare of roast beef and pudding. Without more ado we invited ourselves to the entertainment, and being immediately installed in a seat at the table, did ample justice to the excellent cooking of the establishment. After dinner we took a stroll in the landlord's garden, where the fruit in tempting clusters supplied an excellent dessert. From conversation with our host, we learned that Selborne is now not so much a terra incognita to the rest of the world as it once was. Since the railway has reached to Alton, scarcely five miles off, London has sent down her visitors to the quiet village; and artists and authors are finding it out, and passing days and weeks in prying and sketching about the neighbourhood.

On parting with our host, we made for the residence of Gilbert White, with a view of inspecting, if permissible, a place so interesting to his admirers. The gentleman we sought was from home, but by the courtesy of his gardener, an intelligent Scotchman, we obtained admission to the grounds, and a view of the inner and real front of the residence. Humble as is the appearance of this abode when seen from the village street, its aspect on the other side is that of a perfect paradise. Neither art, good taste, nor expense have been spared in laying out the grounds and maintaining them in order; the grassy sward of the extensive lawn is smooth as a drawing-room carpet; rare plants and exquisite flowers delight the eye, and their fragrance fills the air; groups of noble trees adorn the landscape; and in the back-ground rises the lofty brow of the Hanger, swathed in an unbroken mass of rich foliage. About a furlong from the house stands a cluster of tall maple trees, beneath which was the favourite seat of Gilbert White, and leading towards them from the gravelled walks is the brick path which was laid down by Gilbert's father, that in his old age he might be able to walk into the fields in the early morning without wetting his feet. Though this walk was laid down more than a hundred

the first word I ever pronounced was "pambo," the vernacular term for snake. I presume my native wet-nurse must have instilled into me a due terror of what this word signifies, for it would appear that I sat up one night, bolt upright in bed, and screamed out at the pitch of my voice, "pambo! pambo!" At first no notice was taken of this warning note; but my mother, at length, laying hold of me in her arms to quiet me, took up the pillow to shake it well before replacing me, and there, sure enough, and to her inexpressible terror, she discovered a small carpet snake, carefully coiled up, being one of the most poisonous species after the cobra in all India. The only way in which I can solve this enigma is, that the snake must have crawled over and awoke me, and that being daily terrified by the threat of a pambo if I was naughty, or would not go to sleep, I had at once, young as I was, guessed that the snake had no business there.

Let not the reader, however, imagine that the fact of finding a snake in your bed, or in the house at all, must be of very rare occurrence. Unfortunately, it is in some places an every-day incident, especially during the monsoon months, when frogs hop into the lower chambers, and snakes, like detective officers, follow them, and instead of hauling them out, save all such trouble by gobbling them up on the spot. In such seasons it is no uncommon thing for an officer to find, when he turns out at four o'clock in the morning for parade, that a snake has taken possession of one boot and a scorpion of another. But, living in a country where such things are of frequent occurrence, makes people wary, and the native servants are always careful to shake a boot well before giving it to their masters.

I remember well a flood occurring at a place called Peramboor, in Madras, where the waters of the river had overflowed the banks, and communication from house to house was entirely cut off. We were all driven to inhabit solely the upper storey of the house; for though the lower one was pretty well elevated, the waters had risen so high that we were in momentary expectation that they would overflow and submerge the lower apart ments. Never before or afterwards in my life have I witnessed such destruction of life among birds, beasts, and reptiles, as occurred in these few days. The lower rooms of the house, where the doors and windows had been left open expressly to admit of the water (should it rise so high) flow ing through without impediment to its force, were a perfect caravanserai of beasts, birds, and reptiles, which had crept in, under cover of night, to exchange one painful death for another. A billiard table, which was too heavy to be moved, was a fine roosting-place for the feathered tribe. On it were partridges, quails, sparrows, hawks, and I know not how many other poor birds that had sought refuge from the torrents of rain and the gathering of waters, and whose nests were many feet below water. Some rooms were full of hares, some of mongooses, and all were replete with snakes, toads, and other reptiles. It is needless to say, that the latter were most unhospitably received; but in the universal fear that reigned around, and though doubtless oppressed with hunger, not even a snake had attempted to swal

low a frog. Many of the birds and hares we fed and supported on charitable allowance till the waters abated, and they could again go forth and cater for themselves. Some, however, more timid than the others, rushed into the water and were drowned, or else flew away, and met with an equally dismal fate; but not one snake, or centipede, or scorpion, would budge an inch; they seemed in a torpid state, and I should be almost afraid to mention, even did I recollect correctly, the exact number of these venomous creatures that the servants destroyed during the time that our ark-like house was surrounded by deep waters. Soon after this flood, I remember having my attention attracted by a violent chirruping amongst the sparrows that were flitting about from bough to bough, on a huge india-rubber tree close to my bed-room windows; and on going near to ascertain the cause, I discovered a poor cock-sparrow, dangling in the air, suspended by what appeared to me to be a piece of green tape. The bird was fluttering violently when I stretched forth my hand to undo the knot, and loosen the poor thing from its captivity. Judge, then, of my astonishment at seeing it whipped up into the tree in the twinkling of an eye. Looking up in amazement, I expected fully to see some urchin in the tree, who had been trapping the unhappy bird; in lieu of this, however, I saw what equally surprised me, a beautifully-coated green snake, at least a yard and a quarter in length, gliding noiselessly through the leaves, from which it could with difficulty be distinguished, with the unhappy sparrow dangling from its mouth. A stone or two soon made the felon drop his prize, but not before it had entirely deprived the wretched bird of sight, and sucked its brains out. These green snakes, which are very plentiful at Madras, are harmless with regard to men, but a most deadly enemy to the feathered tribe, concealing themselves, as they do so artfully, amongst bushes, and invariably making an unerr. ing aim at the eyes of their victims.

I have witnessed the effects of fear, caused by snakes, on tigers, horses, dogs, cats, and antelopes, and the most courageous of these in facing and attacking a serpent is undoubtedly the cat, especially if she consider her young to be in danger. A friend of mine, in the civil service at Chittoor, had a pet tiger which he kept in a strong iron cage. Billy, as the tiger was called, would sometimes get so noisy and obstreperous that nothing would appease him but a good bambooing, and to inflict this was both a difficult and a dangerous task. At last some one by accident threw a freshly-slain cobra at his cage, which, getting entangled amongst the bars, hung gloomily suspended. The tiger was so dreadfully alarmed at the appearance of this unwelcome neighbour, that he trembled from head to foot, and slunk into the furthest corner of his cage. Nor was this all; with his fore-claws, stuck out like spikes to receive the enemy, he carefully guarded his head, nor could he be induced to move one inch until the snake was removed. A monkey of mine, at Cochin, actually went into fits, fainted away, and became to all appearance dead, from excessive alarm at having a dead cobra (a cruel experiment, it must be admitted) fastened to its collar whilst asleep at night. I shall never forget the pallor of fear that overspread jacko's face, on