for presentation to the national museum should be exempt, but that he must pay the customary tax on all the others. This unjust decision exasperated Waterton to such a degree, that he resolved never to make known his discoveries in Natural History, or his invaluable modes of preparing his specimens. Time, however, cured him of his indignation, and these " Wanderings" and "Essays" are the result of his forgiveness. I cannot speak too highly in praise of the strong and vigorous, yet simple Saxon style, in which these books are written. They are both redolent of the forest and the field, and bear upon them the impress of Nature's own seal and commission. Indeed, the "Wanderings," were composed in the depths of the South American woods, and the facts and experiences recorded in them, were dotted down whilst they were fresh in the memory of the wanderer. There is no mistaking these books for the performances of a dilletante penman. There is life in every line; bold, wild, and stirring life, daugerreotyped as it were, from the actual features of the forest. The Essays, which constitute the last book Waterton has given to the public, appeared originally in Mr. Loudon's Magazine of Natural History, and are rare things in their way; full of anecdote and information, and exhibiting, when a theorist has to be hunted down, a keen scent and much critical acumen. His defence of the Vulture's nose is one of the cleverest papers in the book, and shews how skilful Waterton is in the lawyer's fence, and with what terrible backwoodsman's vigour he can demolish an opponent. Mr. Waterton is still alive, and I hope well, although he had a severe fall last winter, from a tree in his park, which threatened at one time to put an end to his victorious life. The game and wild animals, with which Walton Park abounds, are well preserved; not for the selfish love of sport, but to enable Mr. Waterton to observe more closely their haunts and habits. It is very seldom that the sound of the gun is heard in this well guarded and sacred domain; whilst it is fenced round, as I learn, with a high wall to prevent his favourites from doing damage to the neighbouring farms.— The birds are regularly fed in the park; and woe to the man who shall dare to injure them! I notice, indeed, throughout the whole of the Wanderings, what a kind and benevolent heart beats under the rough exterior of the naturalist. He will kill any bird or animal for the purposes of science, but not for the world would he injure either for wanton sport. And this same merciful disposition is manifest in the arrangements of Walton Park, where the beautiful and eloquent, though speechless creatures, so beloved by the venerable naturalist, have a safe and joyous dwelling-place. Praying the reader to procure, if he can, the Wanderings and the Essays of this extraordinary man, I must now conclude this rambling and imperfect memoir. THE VIRGIN LADY. A LEGEND OF WARWICKSHIRE. One summer evening, in the twilight hour, It was an old, and venerable hall, Where lived in times long past, the ancient lords With broad, red face, and belly big, and round. His coat was woven in the looms of Leeds, The shouting riot, that awhile before Then bade him drink, and swore when he refused. throat, And asked his guest if he should stay the night; Who answered "Yea," and ordered straight his bed. Whereat, mine host, with his Cyclopean lungs, Bawled for his wife, whose scolding tongue was heard, Long e'er she shewed her face before her lord; And when she came, she banged the inner door, And with imperious voice demanded who, And what, were wanted. bed," "Faith! good dame, a The unmoved husband answered; "and be quick! Thus shall his rest be sound, and sweet his dreams." The wife who had a most profound respect Το The stranger said, it mattered not to him So that the room were airy, clean, and neat ; And then the dame withdrew. The landlord smiled; And shrugged his shoulders with mysterious air. The peasants smoked in silence, hung their heads, And seemed as if a sudden blight had come And quenched their boisterous humour; whilst the host Looked at his stranger guest, a dubious look, |