Rosa's summer wanderings, by the authoress of 'Floreat Ecclesia' (R. Raine). Repr., with additions, from the Churchman's companion

IT is twilight, the twilight of a long winter evening; the ruddy flickering of the glowing blaze just makes darkness visible, and peoples the room with phantomlike shadows;-it is the very time for telling wonderful tales, and for listening to long recitals.

Now, as erst, long years agone, was wont to be done in a poet's home at Olney, we will

"Stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,"

and gather a ring of happy faces around the genial hearth. You, little girls, may bring your knitting, or your crochet, or any other easy work that can be performed in the starry firelight; for fingers need not be idle because ears are listening. And you, free-hearted thoughtless boys, leave the noisy albeit exhilarating pastimes of the hall, and take your places amid the attentive group, who have emerged from the "student's pensive citadel," not (as on other winter evenings) to ply the mimic occupations

1 Cowper.

of childhood, but to be instructed and amused by hearing pleasant stories about summer wanderings.

On a hot Monday in July, 1850, we began to move northward. We travelled (my dear father, my dear mother, and myself,) in an open phaeton, in order that we might thus be enabled to survey the towns and scenery through which we expected to pass and a large, good-tempered horse, named Elephant, drew the equipage. Departing from a pleasant town in one of the midland counties, we proceeded en route. The first pretty spot we met with was Rockingham, consisting of castle, church, and village, all highly picturesque, with flowers planted in front of the cottages beside the footway. I like to see flowers about the habitations of the poor; they seem to tell of industrious contentment and trustful cheerfulness; the heart is never wholly desolate where the hands have the will to cultivate flowers; for in the nature of fair blossoms there is a hopefulness that drives away despair:

They comfort man-they whisper hope
Whene'er his faith is dim;

For Whoso careth for the flowers

Will much more care for him.""

Uppingham was our sleeping place; it is a small country town; but on the evening of our arrival, the place had exchanged its usual quietness for a state of uproarious hilarity; for the "feast" was being held; this had called together a multitude of the rustics of Rutlandshire, for the purpose of enjoying the pleasures of swing, whirligig, and show: fortunately, the sight-seers had not invaded the best inn, and did not therefore in any way interfere with our rest. Uppingham was once the parish of Dr. Jeremy Taylor, author of "Holy Living and Dying," afterwards Bishop of Down and Connor, 1 Mary Howitt.

and of Dromore. The scenery around Uppingham is very pleasing; for Rutlandshire is a pretty county, diversified by undulating hillocks. Next morning we proceeded through Oakham, the quiet countytown of Rutlandshire, of which we are told "Oakham is remarkable for an ancient custom observed there; the first time any peer of the realm comes within the precinct, he forfeits a shoe from the horse he rides to the lord of the castle or manor, unless he chooses to commute for it; several horseshoes, gilt and of curious workmanship, are in consequence nailed on the castle-hall door, some of them being stamped with the names of the donors. Of its ancient castle there now remains only a part of the walls." We, without pausing at Oakham, went on to Melton Mowbray, which possesses the characteristics of a Leicestershire town, viz., red brick houses and pitched footways. Melton Mowbray stands in a famous hunting country. Ay! venturesome boys, do not prick up your ears and look so excited at the mere mention of the chase! Ere you suffer your imaginations to revel in anticipations of the (so-called) enjoyment of wearing a scarlet coat, mounting a fiery courser, and, at sound of the huntsman's horn, endangering life and limb by following the crying pack o'er fence and fosse, remember this is a sport

"That owes its pleasures to another's pain,
That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks
Of feeble nature, dumb, but yet endued
With eloquence, that agonies inspire,
Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs;
Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never find
A corresponding tone in jovial souls."2

Between Melton and Nottingham, we saw on our right, Belvoir Castle (the seat of the Duke of Rut2 Cowper.

1 Cary.

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Rosa's summer wanderings, by the authoress of 'Floreat Ecclesia' (R. Raine ...