imitation and nature are blended; for individuals in every state of society are more or less injured by the mixture, and it is in examining the inflections used in polished society that the difficulty of discerning nature from imitation becomes great. Did this accuracy of discrimination exist, should we so often hear a Somersetshire character personified with the Lancashire dialect, or an Irishman who had never gone beyond the sight of his own potato field, represented as speaking in the inflections of a native of Scotland or Staffordshire? Such murdering of characters is, to a correct taste, offensive in a private room, but intolerable in any public performance.

The evils which it is the design of a systematic study of Elocution to remove, begin in the nursery. The child mispronounces-the error is suffered; bad habits are formed. From the nursery he is removed to the school-room-he is desired to read; he does so, of course, improperly: he is then corrected by the master saying, "Read as I do." The boy imitates, but having no rule, he is like a person singing by ear-nothing is certain; after this, the boy passes into a youth, engages in some occupation of life, becomes a member of some Literary Institution, joins an Elocution Class, learns and recites a piece of poetry, hears it criticised, and soon displays his talent before his friends. Now, although a great deal of good, in an elocutionary point of view, is unquestionably gained by such a Class as that just alluded to, yet we must here apply the principle before mentioned, generallyto Elocution Classes in Institutions particularly: if much good be already done, how much more might be done? Let the student learn after the manner of nature; let him begin with the beginning, and go gradually and steadily on to the end; let him make himself acquainted first with the letters, then with the syllables, and then the words of his art. Does such a road appear tedious? The eminence to which it leads commands a lovely prospect-is surrounded by a pure mental atmosphere, where every faculty of the soul will derive vigour and strength. Does the race here pointed out appear long? Let the student reflect that success, in a degree, is certain, and that the laurels which will crown every winner, shall be ever fresh and green; and let him reflect that, however deep he may have to dig for the knowledge here glanced at, he will be certain of finding mines more valuable than those of Peru and Mexico. If, in conclusion, the few hints here hastily thrown together shall be the means of creating among the members of Elocution Classes an inquiry, whether it is not possible to lay their foundations more deeply in elementary and systematic study, and thereby to rare a fabric more useful, more noble, and more worthy the approbation of their friends, the time employed in penning these pages will be amply recompensed.

C. G. R.

WALKS ROUND LONDON.-No. I.

HIGHGATE.

THERE are few places that possess more of the various kinds of picturesque beauty than the country within a few miles around the metropolis. Though it has not, like many other parts of the kingdom, any spots noted for their sublime scenery-any vast and magnificent mountains, whose hoary heads are enveloped in clouds-any noble falls, where the light spray throws up its beautiful corruscations in showers of silver stars, in the warm sunlight-or any vast sea-views, where the eye wanders over the distant void till it aches for an object on which to repose-still it abounds with beautiful scenery! Its charms are of another character to these: they are of the soft and gentle kind, that steal on the feelings of the heart with their sweet and quiet beauty. Its mountains are the "sister hills" of Hampstead, and Highgate, and the ever-lovely Richmond; its water prospects are the mighty Thames, and the smaller streams of the Lea and the Wandle; but in sylvan scenery it is particularly beautiful. It has the wild and rugged glories of the old Hainault and Epping Forests, and the sweet sylvan scenery of Richmond and Norwood. And its rich heaths, scattered in clusters all around-its sweet specimens of cottage gardening, girding the sides of all the great roads that strike through it in every direction-its many rustic farms and sylvan homesteads, with here and there fair footpaths through the softly undulating meadows, or graceful and picturesque lane scenes, where the old elms and chestnuts show forth their vigour but more than all, the great historical and social associations connected with every foot of land around the great metropolis, call vividly upon the imagination. And where is the individual who, pent up in the heart of the huge city, catches a glimpse of the mellow sunlight gleaming between high red-brick walls, or, may be, hears the faint twitter of some light sparrow for a moment by his window, ere it soars into the blue air on its warm pinions, but sighs for the wild wood, or the boundless heath, where no brick walls and lofty chimnies hide the pure blue vault of heaven from his enraptured gaze, and where his feet are as free as the bird that wings its way through the pure serene? Who is there whose heart has not leapt within him, as after many weary months have passed he finds himself some warm spring morning bounding with wild-heartedness over the rugged broken heath-his breast expanding, his cheek glowing, and his sparkling eyes speaking of the rapture of his soul? To all persons whose minds are a-kin to nature we would address ourselves, and lead them to some of the fair walks that skirt the metropolis, culling the beauties of the landscape, and meditating on the historical and poetical reminiscences that those scenes call into the mind; not forgetting the wild legends and rustic traditions that are associated with such scenes.

The historical associations connected with Highgate are not of a very extensive character. It was always a rural village; no feudal lord ever raised his blood-stained castle on that fair hill. It has no

sieges or encampments to tell of-nay, one of its chief reminiscences of the olden time is of a particularly jocular character. In times long since gone by, when travellers were very few, and even Highgate was rarely visited by a solitary wanderer, some notable Boniface of the Horns Tavern, with more wit and attention to business than is often shown, with the aid of the loungers of the inn, the village smith and a few rustics, waylaid every passenger as he travelled the old road, and refused to let him pass till he took a kind of oath, which seems to have had peculiar charms for the rustic revellers. The oath-taker proceeded to declare that he would never drink small beer when he could get strong, or eat brown bread when he could get white, unless he liked the small beer and brown bread best. There can be no doubt that this custom of swearing-in at Highgate had a great tendency to increase the business of the jolly Boniface-as all oath-taking is rather dry work, and when the traveller once stopped it was very probable that he would take a stirrup-cup before he wended on his way. Time, however, has laid a heavy hand on the merry mummeries of our ancestors: we are every day becoming a more money-making people; and the wild and boisterous wassailing of our ancestors has given place to sober plodding.

The old road to Highgate originally was only a bridle-way, and its position is between the Kentish Town and Holloway roads. But when these new roads, as they then were, were made, the old bridleway fell into disuse. It became choked up with grass and weeds, and with slow and stealthy hands the landed proprietors whose meadows skirted its sides have encroached upon it, till it is almost impossible to trace its course, the hand of the spoiler having left but few fragments to tell of the whereabout of the old Saxon Hagbushlane. The chief of it is between the Brecknock Arms Tavern and the Holloway road, and is a singularly sequestered spot.

It is bordered on each side by a row of rich old elms, which, combining above into a dense mass of verdure, form a pleasant and secluded archway—a cool retreat, when the summer sun shines with glowing splendour in its lofty blue domain-whilst every here and there, its warm rays bursting through the light green spray, brighten up the small tufts of moss and golden lichens on the rich brown stems, or sweetly bring to light some small and modest violet that lies half hid in some shady nook 'midst dock and ground-ivy. This old bridle-way is memorable as having in days of yore been the scene of a contest between the adherents of an Archbishop of York and a Bishop of London.

It was early on a bright summer's morning that a boy, drest in a coarse woollen gaberdine, was seen wending his weary way up Highgate hill; he had a stick thrown over his shoulder, to which was suspended a small bundle, whilst the dust on his feet and his flushed cheek told that he had come some considerable distance. There was a small hillock on the road-side, where he stopped and sat himself down-he wiped the perspiration with his hand from his face, then looked down the road he had come up, and across numerous fair meadows and rich corn-fields, till his bright eye rested on the distant dusky town. He saw the lofty Gothic spire of St. Paul's, like a guardian spirit looking down on the city under its care.

But

a soft wind begins to blow up the hill, bringing sweet scents from the neighbouring meadows, and a faint sound as of the pealing of merry bells in the distance is heard. With a heavy heart he thinks of the cold home he had deserted in the city beneath; the prospects of the future are sad-his walk has tired him. But, hark! the merry bells strike up a louder peal; he listens-he leaps up on his feet and places his hand to his ear; visions of glory begin to gleam before his eyes: Yes-No.-Yes! those bells seem to say "Turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London!" Again his vivid fancy combines those words in the merry sound of the distant bells-all his heaviness of heart and weariness of body have passed away;-he seizes his bundle and hastily trudges down the hill. Time waves a few circles of his wand of years, and the foot-sore boy sits in the Civic Chair of the Great City.

I well remember the day, when a little youngster, I went on an expedition of discovery to Whittington's stone, and my exultation as I stood by that stone and looked on the fair scene around. I thought of the golden hopes he had formed-of his disappointment-his flight; and when, turning my head, I caught a view of the Alms houses built to record the feeling that the peal of bells had raised in his heart, the landscape became doubly attractive. Then, making for the meadows at the top of the hill, I sat down under a clump of beechen trees that have long since been removed, and looked upon the glorious landscape. Below me lay rich meadows, lit up with the warm rays of the afternoon sun, where the hay-makers were busy at their health-inspiring labour, whilst a troop of young children and merry maidens were rolling and tumbling about the sweet-scented hay, and laughing till the merry fields echoed with their wild freshness of heart. Beyond were a few corn-fields, then some more meadows with their hedge-row elms; then, covered with a warm and purple mist, the great city; whilst, further still, the hills of Kent and Surrey, like a huge cloud-bank, closed the distant horizon.

At the foot of Highgate-hill, towards Hampstead, are several large ponds, some of which are in Caen-wood. The views around those ponds are particularly pleasing and rural. The clearness of the waterthe bold and undulating swell of the meadows-the rich clumps of trees in the wood-the rustic cottages-the rows of old elms-the cockney fishers, and, surmounting all, the light spire of the church rising above a cluster of fine trees, combine to render this one of the sweetest bits of landscape.

One summer afternoon, whilst reclining on the soft grass beside one of these ponds, I fell into conversation with an old man who was watching some boys fishing. "That pond," he said, "that is now so quiet and beautiful, once closed over the head of a broken-hearted woman:" and, on questioning him, I heard one of those simple but sad tales that shed a halo of feeling round some of the fairest scenes. It appeared that some years since the small cottage beside the pond was inhabited by a young couple who had come to live there on their marriage. The man was an agent in some line of business that necessitated him often to absent himself for weeks. He was harsh and stern in his manners, whilst she was one of those quiet and gentle beings who, from their delicacy of organization and want of firm

ness of mind, are ill able to bear the brunts of this rough life. After living there some time, a pensive melancholy came over her, and it became to be observed that she was more cheerful when he was away than when at home, at which period a gloom seemed to overshadow her; she scarcely spoke to her husband, and then it was in a low timid voice, as if afraid of its own sound. She had become that worst of all slaves, a wife-slave.

Broken-hearted with the stern ill-usage of her husband, she seemed to dread him still more and more. One day, as usual after his long absence, he wrote to say that he should return on the next day. "It was about eleven o'clock that evening," said the old man, "I was returning home from Hampstead, across the meadows, when I saw her in her night-dress deliberately walk into the pond till it reached her waist, when she gave one glance up to the moon and threw herself in. As soon as possible I gave the alarm and got her out of the water, but the pulsation of the heart had ceased for ever."

Highgate is holy ground-it is sacred to the Muses of Poetry and Philosophy; for here the author of "Christabel" and the "Ancient Mariner" closed his blameless life, and it was at the end of Hagbushlane, near the archway, that the great Lord Bacon met with the cause of his untimely death. Riding out on a winter's day with a friend, and conversing about the various means of preserving flesh, the idea suggested itself to him that it could probably be preserved by means of frost. Accordingly, stopping at a cottage at the corner of the lane, he purchased a fowl and proceeded to stuff it with snow, during which operation a chill went through him-he was taken suddenly ill, and being removed to Lord Arundel's, close by, died shortly afterwards. Thus dying as he had lived, a lover of experimental philosophy-a true sage.

ANAX,

THE DEAD.

THE dead! the dead! they neither weep,

Nor smile, nor suffer woe;

Theirs is a stern and silent sleep,

Which nought can break below.

Go, deck the grave with this world's bloom,
There let it fade to dust:

Go, place its trophies round the tomb,
There let them idly rust.

Go, bind the victor's laurel wreath
Around the dead man's brow;

Go, greet him with th' applauding breath,-
It cannot move him now.

The dead ! the dead ! they slumber on,

Nor heed they what befalls,—

What thrones are lost, what lands are won,

Or whom the bond enthralls.

The dead! the dead! from care are free,

Let joy or grief ensue;

And oh, I wish that I could be

As free and careless too.

J. B.