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,
Ere yet the moon with her attendant stars
Had crossed the azure portals of the night,-
A stranger, mounted on a gallant steed,
Rode neath the archèd gateway of an inn,
That stands 'twixt Warwick-town and Leamington.

It was an old, and venerable hall,

Where lived in times long past, the ancient lords
Of the fair manor-lands, that lay around
In wood, and pasture, many a hundred rood.
The windows in their stony casements faced
A garden full of sweets, and rosy blooms,
Looking through vistas of surrounding trees
O'er all the landscape, to the setting sun.
A flight of broken steps led to the door,
O'er which were blazoned sundry coats of arms,
In coloured spandrels, half defaced with age.
Two massy pillars, at the entrance-gate,
Surmounted by two couchant lions, stood;
And near them rose the sign-post of the inn;
A vulgar comment on this ancient pride.
The landlord was a burly Englishman,

With broad, red face, and belly big, and round.

His coat was woven in the looms of Leeds,
Drab-coloured; and the ample sleeves displayed
A mighty arm, with strong and bony hand.
His large buff vest was buttoned o'er his paunch,
Which shook like jelly, when he laughed or walked.
His legs were breeched in velvet to the knees,
And o'er his well formed calves, a Kendal hose,
Tight as his skin, was drawn; and his large feet
Spread ponderous in their silver-buckled shoes,
And made the old floors echo with their sound.
A roguish humour twinkled in his eye,
And played about the corners of his lips,
As if he loved his joke, and little cared
On whom the arrows of his wit did fall,
Or who was fooled, if he but got his laugh.
And as the stranger crossed the servants hall,
Where groups of labouring men were at their cups,
The landlord rose to welcome him; and begged,
If so it pleased his honour, he would join
His merry guests, beside the blazing fire.
The stranger, spurred and booted, whip in hand,
Eyed for a moment this rude company,
Then doffed his hat, and flung his weary limbs
Upon an oaken seat, beside the Host.

The shouting riot, that awhile before
Rang to the open rafters of the roof,
Was on a sudden hushed, and every churl
Stared at the stranger with his drunken eyes,

Then bade him drink, and swore when he refused.
The landlord winked; then cleared his husky

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!
This stranger gentleman is tired, you see;
So let him lie within your whitest sheets
That smell of rosemary, and lavender;

Thus shall his rest be sound, and sweet his dreams."

The wife who had a most profound respect
For gentlemen with carriages, and cash,
Looked with a glance professional to see,
If the tall stranger were a likely man

Το
carry a full purse; and when at length
Her mind was satisfied concerning him,
She dropped a courtsey to the very ground
And said she had a vacant room to spare,
Which she'd make ready for him; tho' she wished
It were her best, but that was occupied.

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,
Half grave, half comic, till he laughed outright.