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 Energy usually displays itself in promptitude and decision. When Ledyard the traveller was asked by the African Association when he would be ready to set out for Africa, he immediately answered, "To-morrow morning." Blucher's promptitude obtained for him the cognomen of "Marshal Forwards" throughout the Prussian army. When John Jervis, afterwards Earl St. Vincent, was asked when he would be ready to join his ship, he replied, "Directly." And when Sir Colin Campbell, appointed to the command of the Indian army, was asked when he could set out, his answer was, "То-morrow,"—an earnest of his subsequent success. For it is rapid decision, and a similar promptitude in action, such as taking instant advantage of an enemy's mistakes, that so often win battles. "At Arcola," said Napoleon, "I won the battle with twenty-five horsemen. I seized a moment of lassitude, gave every man a trumpet, and gained the day with this handful. Two armies are two bodies which meet and endeavour to frighten each other: a moment of panic occurs, and that moment must be turned to advantage." "Every moment lost," said he at another time, "gives an opportunity for misfortune"; and he declared that he beat the Austrians because they never knew the value of time: while they dawdled, he overthrew them.

India has, during the last century, been a great field for the display of British energy. From Clive to Havelock and Clyde there is a long and honourable roll of distinguished names in Indian legislation and warfare,—such as Wellesley, Metcalfe, Outram, Edwardes, and the Lawrences. Another great but sullied name is that of Warren Hastings—a man


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 of dauntless will and indefatigable industry. His family was ancient and illustrious; but their vicissitudes of fortune and ill-requited loyalty in the cause of the Stuarts brought them to poverty, and the family estate at Daylesford, of which they had been lords of the manor for hundreds of years, at length passed from their hands. The last Hastings of Daylesford had, however, presented the parish living to his second son; and it was in his house, many years later, that Warren Hastings, his grandson, was born. The boy learnt his letters at the village school, on the same bench with the children of the peasantry. He played in the fields which his fathers had owned; and what the loyal and brave Hastings of Daylesford had been, was ever in the boy's thoughts. His young ambition was fired, and it is said that one summer's day, when only seven years old, as he laid him down on the bank of the stream which flowed through the domain, he formed in his mind the resolution that he would yet recover possession of the family lands. It was the romantic vision of a boy; yet he lived to realize it. The dream became a passion, rooted in his very life; and he pursued his determination through youth up to manhood, with that calm but indomitable force of will which was the most striking peculiarity of his character. The orphan boy became one of the most powerful men of his time; he retrieved the fortunes of his line; bought back the old estate, and rebuilt the family mansion. "When, under a tropical sun," says Macaulay, "he ruled fifty millions of Asiatics, his hopes, amidst all the cares of war, finance, and legislation, still pointed to Daylesford. And when his long public life, so singularly chequered with

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250 Plate XIV

118-119. Cassia obovata.

118. T. S. of the leaf showing epidermis.

Oc. 6 Com.; Ob. 8 mm. Ap.

119. Hair on the axis.

Oc. 6 Com.; Ob. 3 mm. Ap.

120-121. Acacia Senegal.

120. T. S. of the axis.

Oc. 6 Com.; Ob. 8 mm. Ap.

121. T. S. of the axis showing sclereids between the peri-cyclic stone cell groups.

Oc. 8 Com.; Ob. 8 mm. Ap.

122-124. Neurada procumbens.

122. T S. of the leaf.

Oc. 4 Com.; Ob. 8 mm. Ap.

123. Stoma on the leaf.

Oc. 6 Com.; Ob. 3 mm. Ap.

124. T. S. of the axis.

Oc. 4 Com.; Ob. 8 mm. Ap.

125. Ammania baccifera.

T. S. of the leaf.

Oc. 6 Com.; Ob. 8 mm. Ap.

126. Ammania desertorum.

T. S. of the leaf showing epidermis.

Oc. 6 Com.; Ob. 8 mm. Ap.

127. Trapa bispinosa.

T. S. of the leaf.

Oc. 4 Com.; Ob. 3 mm. Ap.

N.B.—To get the original dimensions multiply by 1·7.


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 good and evil, with glory and obloquy, had at length closed for ever, it was to Daylesford that he retired to die."

Sir Charles Napier was another Indian leader of extraordinary courage and determination. He once said of the difficulties with which he was surrounded in one of his campaigns, "They only make my feet go deeper into the ground." His battle of Meeanee was one of the most extraordinary feats in history. With 2000 men, of whom only 400 were Europeans, he encountered an army of 35,000 hardy and well-armed Beloochees. It was an act, apparently, of the most daring temerity, but the general had faith in himself and in his men. He charged the Belooch centre up a high bank which formed their rampart in front, and for three mortal hours the battle raged. Each man of that small force, inspired by the chief, became for the time a hero. The Beloochees, though twenty to one, were driven back, but with their faces to the foe. It is this sort of pluck, tenacity, and determined perseverance which wins soldiers' battles, and, indeed, every battle. It is the one neck nearer that wins the race and shows the blood; it is the one march more that wins the campaign; the five minutes' more persistent courage that wins the fight. Though your force be less than another's, you equal and outmaster your opponent if you continue it longer and concentrate it more. The reply of the Spartan farmer, who said to his son, when complaining that his sword was too short, "Add a step to it," is applicable to everything in life.

Napier took the right method of inspiring his men with his own heroic spirit. He worked as 18


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 hard as any private in the ranks. "The great art of commanding," he said, "is to take a fair share of the work. The man who leads an army cannot succeed unless his whole mind is thrown into his work. The more trouble, the more labour must be given; the more danger, the more pluck must be shown, till all is overpowered." A young officer who accompanied him in his campaign in the Cutchee Hills, once said, "When I see that old man incessantly on his horse, how can I be idle who am young and strong? I would go into a loaded cannon's mouth if he ordered me." This remark, when repeated to Napier, he said was ample reward for his toils. The anecdote of his interview with the Indian juggler strikingly illustrates his cool courage as well as his remarkable simplicity and honesty of character. On one occasion, after the Indian battles, a famous juggler visited the camp and performed his feats before the General, his family, and staff. Among other performances, this man cut in two with a stroke of his sword a lime or lemon placed in the hand of his assistant. Napier thought there was some collusion between the juggler and his retainer. To divide by a sweep of the sword on a man's hand so small an object without touching the flesh he believed to be impossible, though a similar incident is related by Scott in his romance of the 'Talisman.' To determine the point, the General offered his own hand for the experiment, and he stretched out his right arm. The juggler looked attentively at the hand, and said he would not make the trial. "I thought I would find you out!" exclaimed Napier. "But stop," added the other, "let me see your left hand." The left hand was submitted, and the man then


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302 become old and partially decayed, or when the land is poor, such shoots are not likely to attain any size. The best example I know of an oak wood produced entirely from stools is one below the approach to Carclew in Cornwall, which the late Colonel Tremayne showed me in 1902. Here the trees average 15 to 20 feet apart, and have clean boles 25 to 30 feet high, and are about 4 feet in girth.

Marsham's opinion on the growth of oaks, taken from a paper printed in the Philosophical Transactions, are so much to the point, and his personal experience was spread over such a very long period (from 1719 to 1795) that I quote him as follows: —

"In 1719 I had about two acres sowed with acorns, and from 1729 to L770 I planted oaks from this grove, always leaving the best plants standing for the future grove; but most of the transplanted trees are already larger than those that were not removed; the largest of which is now (1795) but 5 feet 6 inches 8 tenths in circumference; and the largest transplanted tree (which was planted in 1735) is 8 feet 8 inches 7 tenths, viz., near 38 inches gained by transplanting in 60 years. And in beeches from seed, in 1733, the largest is now (1795) but 6 feet 9 inches; and the largest transplanted beech is 7 feet 5 inches 1 tenth, viz., 8 inches larger, although the transplanted beech is eight years younger than that from the seed. This proves that it is better to plant a grove than to raise one from the seed. The expense of planting is inconsiderable, and the planted trees are full as good and handsome, and many years are saved, besides the extra growth of planted trees. But this extra growth will not prove near so great in groves as in single trees. The first grove I planted from these acorns of 1719, was in 1731. In 1732 I made another grove from them, and in 1735 I planted a third grove from them, and in 1753 the last considerable number of plants were taken from the grove, and these are very good trees: so thirty-four years may be saved. But I would by no means advise the planting trees so large, as the trouble and expense will be too much, unless where a shelter or screen is wanted.

"Whether a grove is to be raised from seeds or planted, it is advisable to shelter it round; if from the seed, with such sorts as will grow quicker; and if by planting, with larger and taller trees. The soil in Norfolk is unfavourable to elms; therefore in planting I will venture to recommend hornbeams, as they may be planted large trees. I planted some hornbeams (rather large) in 1757, and, disliking their situation, in 1792 I removed them when they were about three feet in circumference, and did not lose one tree; and they made shoots of near half a yard that year; but I ought to say I cut off their heads.

"Before I quit this subject, I will presume to recommend, if young oaks are unthriving, there is reason to hope they may be helped by cutting them down to a foot or six inches; for in 1750 I planted some oaks from my grove of 1719 into a poorer soil, and although they lived they were sickly; so in 1761 I cut most of them down to one foot, and then by cutting off the side shoots, in three or four years led them into a single stem, and most of them are now thriving and handsome trees, and you


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304 the time of planting to see that it was properly done; and after the ground was fully planted with acorns it was sown with haws, holly berries, sloes, and hazel nuts, drains were cut where necessary, and traps were set to catch mice, and persons attended daily to reset the traps and to keep off crows and other vermin."

Whether from subsequent neglect or not, the plantations thus formed were never thinned at all, but allowed to grow up like a nursery quarter. Although contrary to every theory of plantation management, it cannot be denied that they were in this bad soil successful in growing a heavy crop of oak timber on moderate land.

Denny Enclosure.—There are some very good examples of natural regeneration in places in this wood, which was reinclosed in 1870. A photograph was sent which contrasts the young growth inside the fence of the enclosure with the bareness of the outside where the cattle graze.

Salisbury Trench.—This plantation was made in or about the year 1700, and measures about 100 acres. It was thrown open under an order dated 20th August 1807. It is calculated that there are now left after frequent thinning about sixty trees to the acre. Two years ago it was reinclosed with a view to its gradual regeneration, and there is already a large number of young oak and beech coming up in the open spaces.

North and South Bentley.—These plantations were made about the same time, probably just before that of Salisbury Trench, and are of the same character, except that there is some beech here and there in North Bentley. During the past twenty years the trees felled in Salisbury Trench, being for the most part the poorest ones, have averaged 23½ cubic feet; and there now remain about sixty to the acre. In North Bentley they have averaged about 25 cubic feet, in South Bentley 29 cubic feet, and about sixty trees to the acre remain standing.

One of the best private oak plantations of which the exact age is known is on the property of Lord Kesteven at Banthorpe, near Casewick, Lincolnshire. It was made by Sir John Trollope, grandfather of the present owner, in 1800, with acorns which had to be sown a second time, as they were eaten by mice in 1799. It is on good soil, and, as near as I could judge by the eye, contains about sixty trees to the acre, straight for the most part, and clean up to 30 to 40 feet. In 1905 twelve average trees in the plantation had an average timber length of 34 feet, an average quarter girth of 18 inches, and contained 903 cubic feet without tops or branches, which would make my rough estimate of 5000 feet to the acre very nearly correct, and if profit alone were considered I should say that these trees had now reached the proper age for felling.

The late Mr. John Clutton, who valued timber for the Crown for many years, gave, in 1873, particulars of the size of oaks.


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 said firmly, "If you will hold your arm steady I will perform the feat." "But why the left hand and not the right?" "Because the right hand is hollow in the centre, and there is a risk of cutting off the thumb; the left is high, and the danger will be less." Napier was startled. "I got frightened," he said; "I saw it was an actual feat of delicate swordsmanship, and if I had not abused the man as I did before my staff, and challenged him to the trial, I honestly acknowledge I would have retired from the encounter. However, I put the lime on my hand, and held out my arm steadily. The juggler balanced himself, and, with a swift stroke, cut the lime in two pieces. I felt the edge of the sword on my hand as if a cold thread had been drawn across it So much (he added) for the brave swordsmen of India, whom our fine fellows defeated at Meeanee."

The recent terrible struggle in India has served to bring out, perhaps more prominently than any previous event in our history, the determined energy and self-reliance of the national character. Although English officialism may often drift stupidly into gigantic blunders, the men of the nation generally contrive to work their way out of them with a heroism almost approaching the sublime. In May, 1857, when the revolt burst upon India like a thunder-clap, the British forces had been allowed to dwindle to their extreme minimum, and were scattered over a wide extent of country, many of them in remote cantonments. The Bengal regiments, one after another, rose against their officers, broke away, and rushed to Delhi. Province after province was lapped in mutiny and rebellion; and the cry for help rose


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 from east to west. Everywhere the English stood at bay in small detachments, beleaguered and surrounded, apparently incapable of resistance. Their discomfiture seemed so complete, and the utter ruin of the British cause in India so certain, that it might be said of them then, as it had been said before, "These English never know when they are beaten." According to rule, they ought then and there to have succumbed to inevitable fate.

While the issue of the mutiny still appeared uncertain, Holkar, one of the native princes, consulted his astrologer for information. The reply was, "If all the Europeans save one are slain, that one will remain to fight and reconquer." In their very darkest moment—even where, as at Lucknow, a mere handful of British soldiers, civilians, and women, held out amidst a city and province in arms against them—there was no word of despair, no thought of surrender. Though cut off from all communication with their friends for months, and not knowing whether India was lost or held, they never ceased to have perfect faith in the courage and devotedness of their countrymen. They knew that while a body of men of English race held together in India they would not be left unheeded to perish. They never dreamt of any other issue but retrieval of their misfortune and ultimate triumph; and if the worst came to the worst, they could but fall at their post, and die in the performance of their duty. Need we remind the reader of the names of Havelock, Inglis, Neill, and Outram—men of truly heroic mould—of each of whom it might with truth be said that he had the heart of a chevalier, the soul of a believer, and the temperament of a martyr? Montalembert has said


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"The expenses of felling cannot be now correctly ascertained, but the topwood is not included in the above account of receipts, nor a great many trees which have been used on the premises from the year 1763 to the present time, and at a moderate estimate must have much more than paid for the expenses of the labour.— Morningthorpe, April 22nd, 1834.”

The Earl of Darnley showed me an oak in “Mount Meadow,” near Cobham, planted by Lady Elizabeth Brownlow, who was born in the year 1800, which therefore could not be much over 100 years old. It has a straight clean bole measuring about 40 feet by 12 feet 10 inches, and a small spreading top.

The following extract from a letter of Robert Marsham to Gilbert White is worth quoting, though I could not identify the tree when I visited the place recently.

“Stratton, 24th July 1790.—I early began planting, and an oake which I


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308 This shows an average number of trees per acre (omitting the oak poles) of about 125, and a value of £320 per acre.

Perhaps the greatest increase of girth on record in the oak is cited by Gadeau de Kerville of three oaks which were felled at Neauphe-sur-Dives (Orne) in Normandy in 1894. Their exact age was not possible to decide, as they were already trimmed and barked and part of the sapwood taken off, but the rings counted by M. de Kerville were 115 to 120, and the girths 6.16, 4.98, and 4.28 metres respectively. He thought that they might be from 150 to 200 years at most, and this would make the average annual increase of the largest, on the section measured, over 5 centimetres per annum.

The mass of information on the oak which exists in English literature, is so great, so scattered, and often so impossible to verify, that I have had great difficulty in making a selection of what is really valuable and authentic, and have preferred rather to speak of trees and woods that we have seen ourselves, and to quote from the letters of living correspondents, than to repeat what has been written by Evelyn, Hunter, Strutt, Selby, Loudon, and other writers, whose works can always be consulted by those desirous of more detailed particulars than our space. will allow.

Some of the most wonderful oaks of England, which we have seen and now figure, must be described more particularly, and among these I think the oaks of Powis Castle come first. Robert Marsham, in a letter communicated by Sir T. Beevor to the Bath and West of England Societies' Transactions, i. 78 (1783), says:—"The handsomest oak I ever saw was in the Earl of Powis' noble park by Ludlow in 1757, though it was but 16 feet 3 inches. But it ran straight and clear of arms, I believe, near full 60 feet, and had a large and fine head."

In April 1904 the Earl of Powis showed me some trees growing in his ancient park at Powis Castle, near Welshpool, Montgomeryshire, which I believe to be actually the champion oaks of Great Britain at the present time. They grow on a Silurian formation at about 300 to 400 feet elevation, with an east aspect, and are, as far as one can judge, perfectly sound in the butt, though one of them lost several branches during the dry seasons between 1893 and 1903, and another has a large decayed limb which, if not taken off, may cause the butt to decay.

The measurements which I give were made most carefully by Mr. W.F. Addie, agent for the Powis estates, who used a long ladder and a man to climb nearly all over them and take the length and girth of the principal branches down to 6 inches quarter-girth. I checked the height and girth of the trunks myself as carefully as possible, and believe that the following is a very accurate estimate,


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 of them that "they do honour to the human race." But throughout that terrible trial almost all proved equally great—women, civilians and soldiers—from the general down through all grades to the private and bugleman. The men were not picked: they belonged to the same ordinary people whom we daily meet at home—in the streets, in workshops, in the fields, at clubs; yet when sudden disaster fell upon them, each and all displayed a wealth of personal resources and energy, and became as it were individually heroic. "Not one of them," says Montalembert, "shrank or trembled—all, military and civilians, young and old, generals and soldiers, resisted, fought, and perished with a coolness and intrepidity which never faltered. It is in this circumstance that shines out the immense value of public education, which invites the Englishman from his youth to make use of his strength and his liberty, to associate, resist, fear nothing, to be astonished at nothing, and to save himself, by his own sole exertions, from every sore strait in life."

It has been said that Delhi was taken and India saved by the personal character of Sir John Lawrence. The very name of "Lawrence" represented power in the North-West Provinces. His standard of duty, zeal, and personal effort was of the highest; and every man who served under him seemed to be inspired by his spirit. It was declared of him that his character alone was worth an army. The same might be said of his brother Sir Henry, who organized the Punjaub force that took so prominent a part in the capture of Delhi. Both brothers inspired those who were about them with perfect love and confidence. Both possessed that


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310 these shows the tree in summer, the other in winter, and prove it to have been a tree of faultless shape and beauty, if not quite equal in bulk to the Champion Oak at Powis Castle. I visited the site of this tree in 1905, but the stump was no longer visible, and the soil, though a good deep red loam, did not show in the other trees any striking evidence of unusual fertility.

Its measurements, as given me by Messrs. Openshaw of Woofferton Court, to whom I am indebted for many particulars about trees in their district, were as follows:—

A record of the tree was sent me by Messrs. Stooke and Sons of Palace Yard, Hereford, as follows:—"The Hereford Monarch.—An Oak tree, containing 1200 cubic feet, felled in Tyberton Park, ten miles from Hereford, April 1877. Length of tree, cut off at 18 inches diameter, 88 feet. Length of butt only 293 feet. Height of tree when growing 130 feet. Circumference at 5 feet from the ground 22 feet 8 inches. Photograph taken of tree as felled, and showing the larger bough as shattered by lightning. Purchased by Messrs. R. and T. Groom and Sons, Wellington, Salop."

Mr. T.E. Groom of Hereford, whose firm bought it, informed me that though the tree would have been worth about £300 before it was struck, it did not actually cost them more than £200. It was felled in consequence of its having been disfigured by a stroke of lightning. Before this it was a perfectly sound tree with over 1500 feet of timber in it. It was still growing and might have become much larger. The butt was quartered and sold to a vat maker who cut it all into thin rims. At the end of the 30 feet of butt were two parallel spires each containing several hundred feet. The larger one was so much broken that it had but little useful timber left in it. The smaller was 60 feet long and about 2 feet in diameter at the top end. This was cut up into railway planking. The tree also made several thousand keys and trenails used on the railway.

Another immense tree was felled in Staffordshire on May 29, 1786, of which Messrs. Openshaw give me the following particulars:—"It grew in the middle of the Grove field on Bath farm, Chillington estate, and measured as follows:—


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188 must not yet publish to the world, for several reasons; 1. Because this was the time of preparation for his kingdom; the great thing now preached, was, that the kingdom of heaven was at hand; and therefore those things were now to be insisted on, which were proper to make way for Christ; as the doctrine of repentance; not this great truth, in and with which the kingdom of heaven was to be actually set up. Every thing is beautiful in its season, and it is good advice, Prepare thy work, and afterward build, Prov. 24. 27. 2. Christ would have his Messiahship proved by his works, and would rather they should testify of him than that his disciples should, because their testimony was but as his own, which he insisted not on. See John 5. 31, 34. He was so secure of the demonstration of his miracles, that he waved other witnesses, John 10. 25, 38. 3. If they had known that he was Jesus the Christ, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory, 1 Cor. 2. 8. 4. Christ would not have the apostles preach this, till they had the most convincing evidence ready to allege in confirmation of it. Great truths may suffer damage by being asserted before they can be sufficiently proved. Now the great proof of Jesus being the Christ, was, his resurrection; by that he was declared to be the Son of God,God - as per 1811 London edition [sic] with power; and therefore the divine wisdom would not have this truth preached, till that could be alleged for proof of it. 5. It was requisite that the preachers of so great a truth should be furnished with greater measures of the Spirit than the apostles as yet had; therefore the open asserting of it was adjourned till the Spirit should be poured out upon them. But when Christ was glorified and the Spirit poured out, we find Peter proclaiming upon the house-tops what was here spoken in a corner, (Acts 2. 36.) That God hath made this same Jesus both Lord and Christ; for as there is a time to keep silence, so there is a time to speak.

21. From that time forth began Jesus to shew unto his disciples, how that he must go unto Jerusalem, and suffer many things of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and be raised again the third day. 22. Then Peter took him, and began to rebuke him, saying, Be it far from thee, Lord: this shall not be unto thee. 23. But he turned, and said unto Peter, Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an offence unto me: for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men.

We have here Christ's discourse with his disciples concerning his own sufferings; in which observe,

I. Christ's foretelling of his sufferings. Now he began to do it, and from this time he frequently spake of them. Some hints he had already given of sufferings, as when he said, Destroy this temple: when he spake of the Son of man being lifted up, and of eating his flesh, and drinking his blood: but now he began to show it, to speak plainly and expressly of it. Hitherto he had not touched upon this, because the disciples were weak, and could not well bear the notice of a thing so very strange, and so very melancholy; but now that they were more ripe in knowledge, and strong in faith, he began to tell them this. Note, Christ reveals his mind to his people gradually, and lets in light as they can bear it, and are fit to receive it.

From that time, when they had made that full confession of Christ, that he was the Son of God, then he began to show them this. When he found them knowing in one truth, he taught them another; for to him that has, shall be given. Let them first be established in the principles of the doctrine of Christ, and then go on to perfection, Heb. 6. 1. If they had not been well grounded in the belief of Christ's being the Son of God, it would have been a great shaking to their faith. All truths are not to be spoken to all persons at all times, but such as are proper and suitable to their present state. Now observe,

1. What he foretold concerning his sufferings, the particulars and circumstances of them, are all surprising.

(1.) The place where he should suffer. He must go to Jerusalem, the head city, the holy city, and suffer there. Though he lived most of his time in Galilee, he must die at Jerusalem; there all the sacrifices were offered, there therefore he must die, who is the great Sacrifice.

(2.) The persons by whom he should suffer; the elders, and chief priests, and scribes: these made up the great sanhedrim, which sat at Jerusalem, and was had in veneration by the people. Those that should have been most forward in owning and admiring Christ, were the most blister in persecuting him. It was strange that men of knowledge in the scripture, who professed to expect the Messiah's coming, and pretended to have something sacred in their character, should use him thus barbarously when he did come. It was the Roman power that condemned and crucified Christ, but he lays it at the door of the chief priests and Scribes, who were the first movers.

(3.) What he should suffer; He must suffer many things, and be killed. His enemies' insatiable malice, and his own invincible patience, appear in the variety and multiplicity of his sufferings, (he suffered many things,) and in the extremity of them; nothing less than his death would satisfy them, he must be killed. The suffering of many things, if not unto them, is more tolerable; for while there is life, there is hope; and death, without such prefaces, would be less terrible; but he must first suffer many things, and then be killed.

(4.) What should be the happy issue of all his sufferings; he shall be raised again the third day. As the prophets, so Christ himself, when he testified beforehand his sufferings, testified withal the glory that should follow, 1 Pet. 1. 11. His rising again the third day proved him to be the Son of God, notwithstanding his sufferings; and therefore he mentions that, to keep up their faith. When he spake of the cross and the shame, he spake in the same breath of the joy set before him, in the prospect of which he endured the cross, and despised the shame. Thus we must look upon Christ's suffering for us, trace in it the way to his glory; and thus we must look upon our suffering for Christ, look through it to the recompense of reward. If we suffer with him, we shall reign with him.

2. Why he foretold his sufferings. (1.) To show that they were the product of an eternal counsel and consent; were agreed upon between the Father and the Son from eternity; thus it behoved Christ to suffer. The matter was settled in the determinate counsel and foreknowledge, in pursuance of his own voluntary susception and undertaking for our salvation; his sufferings were no surprise to him, did not come upon him as a snare, but he had a distinct and certain foresight of them, which greatly magnifies his love, John 18. 4. (2.) To rectify the mistakes which his disciples had imbibed concerning the eternal pomp and power of his kingdom. Believing him to be the Messiah, they counted upon nothing but dignity and authority in the world; but here Christ reads them another lesson, tells them of the cross and sufferings; nay, that the chief priests and the elders, whom, it is likely, they expected to be


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 Rules, how derived, 132

Rump Parliament, patents granted by, 50, n. 1; alluded to, 337 and n. 3; proceedings of the, 380 and n. 1; some account of the, 390. n. 2.

Rumps, burning of the, 392, n. 2.

Rupert, Prince, 105, n. 1; his drop described, 188, n. 3.

Russel, Sir William, Life, i.

Rye, 284.

Ryves, Dr Bruno, 14, n. 2.

Sabines, rape of the, 431 and n. 3; 432, n. 2, 3.

Sacrilege, 353 and n. 1.

Sacrum, 390 and n. 1.

St Dunstan, 236; particulars respecting, 236, n. 4.

St Francis, his stoicism under female temptation, 149, n. 7.

St George and the Dragon, 54, n. 4.

St Ignatius, 351 and n. 6.

St Martin's beads, 438 and n. 2.

St Paul's, Covent Garden, Butler buried at. Life, xiii; monument to his memory in, xiv.

Saints, 62 and n. 4; privilege of, 176, 177; scandals of the, 319 and n. 4; if named from blood, 322 and n. 3; surnames of, 340 and n. 3; precious and secret, 356 and n. 2; their houses and employments in heaven, 427, n. 1.

Saints' bell, 310, n. 1.

Salique law, 448 and n. 2.

Salt, cast on a woman's tail, 146 and n. 3.

Saltinbancho, 254 and n. 2.

Samson, his heart-breakers, 15.

Sancho-Panza, tossed in a blanket, 75 and n. 2.

Sand-bags, fight with, 329 and n. 2.

Sandys, remark of, 52, n. 2.

Sapiens dominabitur astris, explained, 29, n. 1.

Saturn, the god of time, 233 and n. 4.

Satyre Menipinée, Life, xx.

Scaliger, 219 and n. 1.

Sceptics, theory of the, 191 and n. 1.

School divines, satire upon, 10, n. 4.

Schweidnitz, the siege of, 52, n. 4.

Scire facias, 305 and n. 2; 328.

Sconce, enchanted, 275 and n. 4.

Scorpion's oil, 368 and n. 2.

Scots, declaration of the, 64, n. 1; to be treated like witches, 136, n. 1; their expeditions. 378 and n. 3, 4.

Scout, 278 and n. 4.

Screen-fans, 243 and n. 3.

Scrimansky. 52.

Scripture, interpretation of. 181 and n. 3.

Secrecy, obligation of, 152 and n. 2.

Sedgwick, a fanatical preacher, 231 and n. 3.

Seekers and Muggletonians, 183, n. 1.

Selden, his Marmora Arundelliana, Life, iv; his opinion regarding America, 44, n. 2.

Semiramis, the first maker of eunuchs, 162 and n. 2.

Set, 290; meaning of the word, 290, n. 4.

Setter, 441; definition of the term, 441. n. 3.

Shaftesbury, A. A. Cooper, Earl of, 342. n. 2; particulars respecting, 342, n. 3; his duplicity, 342, n. 4.

Shakspeare, allusions to his Plays, 19, n. 4; 78, n. 2; 90, n. 2; 95, n. 4; 131, n. 2; 135, n. 2; 136, n. 1, 2; 1.38, n. 2; 147, n. 3; 153, n. 2; 159 and n. 1; 160, n. 1; 195, n. 3; 205. n. 3; 2 16, n. 2; 248, n. 3; 252; 259, n. 2, 4; 274 and n. 3; 280, n. 1; 293, n. 3; 301 and n. 2; 317, n. 3; 343 and n. 4; 349 and n. 1; 366, n. 4; 399, n. 1; 419 and n. 1, 2.

Sherfield, Mr, mortgages his estate, 321 and n. 4.

Shooting at the moon, Des Cartes' notion about, 230, n. 2.

Shoe-tie, 275 and n. 1.

Shrews, female, custom of ducking, 202, n. 1.


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 I turned to him—"Albert, do you love me? are you willing to serve me?" "Aye, that I will, dear Miss, to the last drop of my blood." I then, without losing time, told him the plot designed against me, and what was determined with respect to himself. The good creature was struck dumb with surprise, but recovering himself, "By my soul, (cried he) I will save and serve you whilst I have breath, from such devils. My dear young lady be easy, I have a sister who lives at Lucerne, she will be proud to serve you; 'tis a long journey, but never fear, you can ride behind me, as you have often done in sport: I'll manage the business to-night, never fear—get up a little early in the morning and meet me here." We then concerted our whole plan, and I returned to the house with a lighter heart, and got to my apartment unobserved. I was soon after summoned to dinner; when I saw my uncle I turned faint, he flew to me with tenderness—"My dear Matilda, are you ill?" "Only a sick head-ach," (I replied, disengaging myself from him, and sitting


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 "A general silence of some seconds was the consequence of this declaration. The Marquis, at length, thought proper to interrupt it, declaring, that he would cheerfully accept the wager, and that he was firmly persuaded any one of the gentlemen present would render her that service instantly with the greatest pleasure. We all confirmed his declaration, and begged the Marchioness to choose her hero. She now surveyed the whole circle, and Don Antonio always turned pale when she seemed to be going to fix upon him. Her looks were, to his greatest joy, several times fixed upon me; yet poor Antonio had, at length, the misfortune to be singled out by her. The Chevalier being bound by his word of honour, could not but accept the charge, and thank her for her good opinion of him. Having once more stolen a clandestine look at his watch, and convinced himself that it was near two o'clock, he took his sword, and left us with a very martial air. Yet his cou-

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 rage failed him already at the door. Having inadvertently unfastened the red cockade of his hat, it fell into his face. He was violently frightened; but when we began to laugh, and declared that it was a bad omen, he collected himself again, and looking at us with an indescribable contempt, on account of our supposed timidity, flung the cockade into a corner. We took it up, resolving to make a good use of it. He had no sooner quitted the saloon, than the Marquis communicated his plan and measures to the company, asking the gentlemen which of them would act a part in the farce he was going to play? Don Joachim F******, a man like a giant, and Don Romero L******, who was rather of a dwarfish stature, offered instantly to act the principal parts. Our plan now was briefly concerted, and the company rose to follow the Chevalier at a distance, and, if possible, to get the start of him."

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 quality of tenderness which is one of the true elements of the heroic character. Both lived amongst the people, and powerfully influenced them for good. Above all, as Col. Edwardes says, "they drew models on young fellows' minds, which they went forth and copied in their several administrations: they sketched a faith, and begot a school, which are both living things at this day." Sir John Lawrence had by his side such men as Montgomery, Nicholson, Cotton, and Edwardes, as prompt, decisive, and high-souled as himself. John Nicholson was one of the finest, manliest, and noblest of men—"every inch a hakim," the natives said of him—"a tower of strength," as he was characterized by Lord Dalhousie. In whatever capacity he acted he was great, because he acted with his whole strength and soul. A brotherhood of fakeers—borne away by their enthusiastic admiration of the man—even began the worship of Nikkil Seyn: he had some of them punished for their folly, but they continued their worship nevertheless. Of his sustained energy and persistency an illustration may be cited in his pursuit of the 55th Sepoy mutineers, when he was in the saddle for twenty consecutive hours, and travelled more than seventy miles. When the enemy set up their standard at Delhi, Lawrence and Montgomery, relying on the support of the people of the Punjaub, and compelling their admiration and confidence, strained every nerve to keep their own province in perfect order, whilst they hurled every available soldier, European and Sikh, against that city. Sir John wrote to the commander-in-chief to "hang on to the rebels' noses before Delhi," while the troops pressed on by forced marches under


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 Nicholson, "the tramp of whose war-horse might be heard miles off," as was afterwards said of him by a rough Sikh who wept over his grave.

The siege and storming of Delhi was the most illustrious event which occurred in the course of that gigantic struggle, although the leaguer of Lucknow, during which the merest skeleton of a British regiment—the 32nd—held out, under the heroic Inglis, for six months against two hundred thousand armed enemies, has perhaps excited more intense interest. At Delhi, too, the British were really the besieged, though ostensibly the be siegers; they were a mere handful of men "in the open"—not more than 3,700 bayonets, European and native—and they were assailed from day to day by an army of rebels numbering at one time as many as 75,000 men, trained to European discipline by English officers, and supplied with all but exhaustless munitions of war. The heroic little band sat down before the city under the burning rays of a tropical sun. Death, wounds, and fever failed to turn them from their purpose. Thirty times they were attacked by overwhelming numbers, and thirty times did they drive back the enemy behind their defences. As Captain Hodson—himself one of the bravest there—has said, "I venture to aver that no other nation in the world would have remained here, or avoided defeat if they had attempted to do so." Never for an instant did these heroes falter at their work; with sublime endurance they held on, fought on, and never relaxed until, dashing through the "imminent deadly breach," the place was won, and the British flag was again unfurled on the walls of Delhi. All were great—privates, officers, and generals.


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thing happened in the days of the masters. There were masters of all sorts. There were those who were mindful of God and the hour of death, and dealt mercifully with their people, and there were curs who thought not of these things at all. But there were no worse tyrants than those who had been serfs themselves: from dirt they sprang, like Princes they sang! And living with them was the worst life of all.

An overseer of this sort was placed over the domain. There were serfs on the property. There was plenty of land there—good land—plenty of water, and of meadows and woods no lack. There was enough for all, enough for the master, and enough for the peasants, and the master set his house-serf from another estate over the whole. 127


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Tales from Tolstoi The overseer had the upper hand, and he sat on the necks of the muzhiks. He, too, was a family man; he had a wife and two married daughters, and he had earned money, and had wherewith to live upon, to live upon without sin; but he was envious and sunken in sin. He began by worrying the muzhiks on the estate till their life became a burden to them. He set on foot a brick-field, and there he ground down the muzhiks, women and all, and made them make and sell the bricks. The muzhiks went to Moscow and complained to the proprietor, but their complaint came to nought. He sent away the muzhiks unanswered, and did not withdraw his favour from the overseer. The overseer found out that the muzhiks had gone to complain of him, and he paid them out for it. The existence of the muzhiks became worse than ever. Among the muzhiks themselves, too, there were people without good faith, and they began to tell tales of their brethren and play the spy on one another. So there was a great confusion among the whole community, and the overseer raged like a madman.

And so matters went from bad to worse, and the overseer led them such a life that they began to fear him like a wild beast. If he walked about in the village they all hid themselves away as if he were a wolf, and whosoever met him dared not so much as raise their eyes to his face. And the overseer saw this and grew even more evilly disposed towards them because they feared him so. And he visited them yet more with stripes and tasks, and the muzhiks suffered many grievous plagues at his hands. 128


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Rh The muzhiks at last began to talk among themselves about these evil deeds. They met together, too, in some secluded nook, and the boldest of them said: "How much longer are we going to endure our tyrant? Let us fall upon him all together; 'tis no sin to kill such an one!"

Towards Easter the muzhiks had assembled in a wood; it was a wood belonging to their lord. The overseer had ordered them to clear it; they came together at the mid-day meal and began to talk.

"How is it possible to go on living like this?" they said. "He is destroying us root and branch. He is wearing us to death with work; neither night nor day does he give us or our wives any rest. Simeon died from his violence, Anisim is tortured in prison. What more must we look for? He will come here this evening and begin again to rate and revile us. Come, now, let us tear him from his horse and beat him on the head with our axes, and there's an end to the business. We'll dig a hole somewhere and chuck him into it like a dog, and we shall hear no more about it. Only let us be agreed, let us all stand together, let us keep our own counsel!"

It was Vasily Minaev who spoke thus. He had a bitterer grudge against the overseer than any of the others. For the overseer whipped him every week, and took away his wife to make her his cook.

So the muzhiks talked about it, and in the evening came the overseer. He was on horseback, and immediately began scolding them for the way they were clearing the wood. He hit upon a group of lindens.

"I did not tell you to clip the lindens," said he. 129


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Tales from Toltoi "Who has been clipping them down here? Speak, or I'll flog the whole lot of you!"

They began inquiring among themselves within whose portion of work the lindens fell. They pointed out Sidor. The overseer struck Sidor till his whole face was covered with blood. He also flicked Vasily with his Tatar whip because his piece of work was bad, and so went home.

In the evening the muzhiks met together again and Vasily began to speak:

"Ugh! a nice lot of people ye are! Ye are not men, but sparrows! 'We'll be ready! we'll be ready!' ye cry; the moment comes, and whew! ye are all safely beneath the thatch! Thus do the sparrows band together against the hawk. 'Don't give in! don't give in! be ready! be ready!' The hawk comes flying, and they are all behind the thistles in a twinkling, and the hawk takes what he will and is off with it. The sparrows all flit off: 'Chee-week! chee-week!' not one of them remains. 'Tis just like you. 'We won't give in! we won't give in!' Why, while he was rounding on Sidor you might have brought him to the ground and finished him: 'We won't give in! we won't give in! we'll stand firm! we'll stand firm!' He comes flying up, and immediately you are off among the bushes!"

Then they fell a-talking more and more, and the muzhiks agreed at last to put the overseer out of the way. On Good Friday the overseer ordered the muzhiks to get the land ploughed up ready for the oat-sowing by Easter Day. This seemed an abominable thing to the muzhiks, and they assembled 130


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312 photographs were taken (Plates 86 and 87), which give a good idea of the remarkable size and height of the trees. The soil is a good deep loam on the red sandstone formation. The grove is unfenced and has been open to cattle for many years, and there is no visible evidence of the trees having been drawn up by beech. The majority of them are of the sessile variety, though some are pedunculate oaks, as proved by specimens kindly sent me by Mrs. Baldwyn Childe and by the observation of her very obliging agent, Mr. J.W. Openshaw, who found six trees of the pedunculate to about twenty-four of the sessile form. Sir Hugh Beevor speaks of them as sessile, and at the time I was there it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. As to their age, Mr. Openshaw writes that he could not count the rings because they were so minute, but from the evidence of Habingdon's History of Worcestershire, written in the time of Queen Elizabeth, they must be very old. Habingdon says:—"The Parcke of Cure Wyard is not to be shutt up in silence, for it is adorned with so many tall and mightie oakes as scarce any ground in England within that quantity of akers can showe so many." Most of these trees do not show decay in their tops like so many of our great park oaks, and may thrive for centuries to come.

Sir Hugh Beevor's measurements of their height agree very fairly with my own, but exact measurements of the heights of such trees are difficult to obtain, and they are not so remarkable for their girth as for the way in which they run up with clean stems to a great height. The two tallest are certainly over 130 feet by my own measurements in 1907. Sir Hugh Beevor gives 78 and 79 feet as the first length of two, and one which was blown down in 1897 was 82 feet to the first limb, though only 16 inches in quarter-girth, and with no measurable tops. These trees show very few burrs, but some have large buttresses at the base. The largest, according to Mr. Openshaw, has a stem 83 feet long by 17 feet 8 inches in girth at 5 feet, and contains 1031 cubic feet of timber. Fourteen of them contain over 600 feet, and the smallest tree in the grove has 97 feet, which is considered a big oak in many districts. The tree I] have figured (Plate 86), with Kyre House in the background, is on the outside of the grove, and of different type from most of them. It is the third largest tree in contents, having 694 cubic feet in the butt and 150 cubic feet in the tops. I made it 115 feet high by 18 feet 6 inches at 5 feet, and it looks vigorous and is growing fast. The other tree figured (Plate 87) is 85 feet to the first limb, 13 feet 6 inches in girth at 5 feet, and contains 604 feet in the butt, and 112 in the tops. The measurements given below, taken by Mr. Openshaw, may be thoroughly relied on. They were taken in the usual way by strap, and good allowance made for taper. The heights were taken with the help of a long pole; and both Mr. Openshaw and his father, who has probably as much experience in measuring big oaks for sale as anyone in England, are confident that the grove contains more than they have estimated, though no doubt a quantity of the timber would be broken in falling if cut. Of this, however, there is not the least risk in the lifetime of the present owner, who is much interested in, and very proud of her trees.


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314 ancient oak near by, called the Gibbet Oak, on which tradition says that criminals were formerly hung in chains.

Of the difficulty and risk of removing some of these immense trees when steam traction engines were not in use by timber merchants, Mr. Openshaw gave me an excellent instance which he actually saw himself. A very large oak was felled in a field near Woofferton and sold to a naval timber buyer at Exeter. It was so long and heavy that two of the largest timber carriages were fastened together, and 28 horses brought to get it away. In rolling it up on to the carriage one of the chains got round a horse's leg, but they dared not stop to clear it, and the horse was killed. Mr. Openshaw saw the carriage coming down the road with the log on it, and, believing that it could not pass through the turnpike gate, warned the woman who kept it, to get out of the house, as if the log touched it the house would certainly come down. The man in charge of the team, however, ran on in front and steered the leaders so accurately through the gate that, with an inch to spare, it got past in safety.

It seems probable that many of the great oaks in England which are now decayed, owe their lives to the cost and risk of converting and removing them in the days when there were no railways, and good roads were scarce or absent.

The Nunupton Oak.—The remains of a very large fallen oak, not, however, so big as the one at Croft Castle, is described in the Transactions of the Woolhope Naturalists' Field Club, 1870, p. 307. It had long been hollow, and was large enough to contain forty-two sheep at once. It was alive and covered with leaves up till about 1851, when it was set on fire by accident, and was felled soon afterwards, with what object I do not know. In 1870 it was 60 feet long and 26 feet 8 inches in girth, and was still lying in much the same condition when I visited it in 1904.

According to the late Mr. Edwin Lees, whose knowledge of the botany of Worcestershire was very accurate, and whose sketches of old trees, some of which I have, through the kindness of his widow, been allowed to copy, the finest old oak in the county known to him in 1867 stood in a field near the Severn, below Holt, and was known as the Boar Stag Oak. It measured about 34 feet in girth at 3 feet from the base, and might be roughly calculated at 800 years old.

Other remarkable oaks in Worcestershire were described and figured by W. G. Smith, in the Gardeners Chronicle, 1873, p. 1497. They grew in the Lug Meadows, near Moreton, and were known as Adam and Eve. When the Shrewsbury and Hereford Railway was made, Eve, which measured 25 feet in girth, and was quite hollow, was converted by the navvies into a residence: the top was thatched in, a brick fireplace built, and a door fitted, and for months after the line was opened this tree was the only residence of the stationmaster, and was afterwards converted into a lamp-room and so used for fourteen years.

The finest oaks that I know of in Somersetshire are at Nettlecombe Court, the seat of Sir Walter Trevelyan, Bart. When staying at Dunster Castle, in March 1904, Mr. Luttrell was good enough to give me an opportunity of seeing them. He told me that at a previous time, which, from the information received from the agents for the property, I gather to have been about 1847, but Mr. Luttrell thinks it was


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316 grove of limes which I shall describe later, in a position which makes it difficult to photograph. This tree measures about 100 feet high by 23 feet in girth, and has a fine clean bole of 40 feet. It contains, according to Mr. A.C. Forbes's estimate, about 950 feet of timber.

The finest oak I have seen in Devonshire is in the park of the Hon. Mark Rolle at Bicton, a place long celebrated for its arboretum and for its avenue of Araucarias, which I have elsewhere described. It measures about 78 feet high by 24 feet 8 inches girth at 3 feet, and has a spread of branches of 103 feet in diameter. There are some fine but not extraordinary oaks at Powderham Castle and at Poltimore in the same county.

Near Mottisfont Abbey, Hants, there is a very thick but short pollard oak on the banks of the Test, of which a photograph, by Mr. J. Bailey, Southampton, has been kindly sent me by Mrs. Meinertzhagen, who long resided at Mottisfont. It measures 32 feet in girth and spreads considerably, and, though evidently of very great age, is full of healthy foliage. It must have been frequently flooded, as it stands close to the river.

Near Bramley, Hants, by the road leading to "The Vine," is an oak, which Henry measured in 1905, 100 feet by 22 feet, and which seems quite sound. There are, so far as I know, no oaks now living in the New Forest which are remarkable for their size as compared with the trees I have mentioned.

Of the historical parks of England I know none which contains so many fine oaks as Bagot's Park, near Rugeley, Staffordshire. This must be one of the oldest parks in England, for though Lord Bagot cannot tell me the exact date of its enclosure, he states that it belonged to his family long before 1367, and that in the "Peregrinations of Dr. Boarde, temp. Henry VIII.," printed at the end of Hearne's Benedictus Abba, p. 795, "Baggotte's Park" is mentioned in the list of Staffordshire parks. It is generally said to contain 1500 acres within the pale, but varies from time to time, as land has been added in some places and taken out in others for planting, to be again restored when the woods are grown.

This practice seems to be well worthy of more general adoption, for no one who is acquainted with the condition of the trees in many of our oldest parks can have failed to notice, that they are as a rule going back; and as trees cannot be successfully raised to a great height if deer are not excluded—unless enclosures of considerable size are made about once in a generation, in which trees can be properly drawn up to a sufficient height, before they are thinned and the deer admitted—the time must come, and in some cases already has come, when nothing but wrecks are left, and the singly planted trees, though protected by iron or wooden guards at great cost, are a mere mockery of their predecessors.

The soil in Bagot's Park is poor and cold, being a moist gravelly loam upon a clay or marl bottom, and Lord Bagot says it is not worth 10s. per acre at the present time. It affords, however, an excellent proof of the fact that land which is not valuable from an agricultural point of view, may often be of great value for planting. The woods extend over many hundred acres and consist almost wholly of oak, mostly, I believe, of the pedunculate variety. Many of the trees are of great age, being mentioned by Dr. Plot in 1686 as full-grown timber.


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318 remainder, including the bark, estimated at £14 per ton. Near it is a tree of great height, leaning at an angle of about one in four to one side, though quite firm in the ground; and it seemed to me that all the trees in this grove owed their great height and clean stems to their having been drawn up by beech trees, many of which are now dead or dying. Close to the Park Lodge are three very curious and picturesque old trees, one of which is called the Venison Oak, because King John is supposed to have dined under it; another, which we christened the Beer-barrel, is an immense burry shell 10 or 12 feet high and 28 feet round, with hardly any branches; a third we called Gouty Toes, because of a huge swollen root, like a gouty foot, on one side of it.

Dr. Plot, in his Natural History of Staffordshire, p. 213, after speaking of different species of trees growing together, among which were an oak and an ash near Chartley, hollies and oaks at Bagot's Park, and an oak and thorn at Drayton Basset, goes on to speak of trees "that grow so conjoynd that they seem (after the manner of some sort of animals) to prey upon one another," and says: "But the most signal example of this kind is the large fair birch, about the bigness of one's thigh, that grows on the bole of an oak in the lane leading south from Adbaston Church, which has sent down its roots in six branches perpendicularly through the whole length of its trunk and fastened them in the ground, which might be seen in a hole cut in the bottom of the oak; having eaten out the bowells of the old tree (as all the rest will doe) that first gave it life and then support. All which are occasioned, no doubt, by the seeds of those trees dropt by birds in the mould on the boles of the others that lyes commonly there, and is made of the annual rottings of their own leaves."

He goes on to speak of another great oak, "lying near the Lodge house in Ellen Hall Park, of so vast a bulk that my man upon a horse of 15 hands high, standing on one side of it, and I also on horseback on the other could see no part of each other "; and also of an oak that "was felled about twenty years since in Wrottesley Park which, as the worthy Sir Walter Wrottesley (a man far from vanity of imposition) seriously told me, was 15 yards in girth."—"How much less in bigness and number of tuns the oak might be that grew in the New Park at Dudley, and made the table now lying in the old hall at Dudley Castle, is not remembered, but certainly it must be a tree of prodigious height and magnitude out of which a table all of one plank could be cut, 25 yards 3 inches long and wanting but 2 inches of a yard in breadth for the whole length, from which they were forced (it being so much too long for the hall at Dudley) to cut off 7 yards 9 inches, which is the table in the hall at Corbins Hall hard by, the ancient seat of the Corbins."

In the park at Merevale Hall, Warwickshire, the seat of W.F.S. Dugdale, Esq., are a quantity of very fine and tall oaks, which rival those at Bagot's Park, and are, according to Sir H. Maxwell, of the sessile variety, though when I saw them they were not in leaf. They stand at a considerable elevation, on a dry and seemingly rather shallow red sandstone. Many of them are 100 feet and more in height, with clean trunks of 40 to 60 feet long.

The best that I could find measured as follows:—112 feet by 13 feet, with a


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320 10 inches in girth. For this tree Mr. Simmons told me, £100 was offered to make the keel of a ship forty or fifty years ago. It should live for many years, and may perhaps become the finest timber oak in Windsor Forest.

Mr. Menzies gives an excellent explanation of the old custom of pollarding oaks and beeches, which has produced the picturesque veterans which are so common in most of our really old parks. For the support of the deer in winter it was customary to lop off the boughs of the oak and beech. The law required that no bough should be cut larger than a buck could turn over with its horns, and after they had been stripped by the deer these branches became the perquisite of the keepers, under the name of "fireboote," or "houseboote." Any timber fit for the navy could not be cut without the sign manual of the King, a rule yet extant; but in times of civil war, and in royal forests which were granted to favourites in the times of the Stuarts, the keepers often cut and sold as timber or firewood a great deal more than the deer needed; and notwithstanding that these matters were investigated by James I. with his national and personal thriftiness, and that the surveyors whom he employed were spoken of by the country people as "shroade and terrible men," these abuses increased to such a point that the growing scarcity of naval timber was a common complaint for centuries.

There is no doubt that browse or lop, being the natural winter food of deer in hard weather, is more suitable for them than beans and maize, which is now given in so many places probably to save trouble. I find in my own park that ash and elm are the favourites, and beech the next best lop for deer, and only give hay when the ground is frozen or covered with snow; but many parks are so overstocked with deer and with cattle in summer that in February and March the former must have some extra food, or a heavy death-rate follows.

Gloucestershire is not famous for fine oaks, though the Boddington Oak, near Tewkesbury, now gone, must have been an exceptionally large tree. The Newland Oak, near Coleford, is an immense pollard, with a short burry trunk no less than 43 feet in girth. An excellent photograph of it has been published as a postcard by Mr. J.W. Porter of Coleford. There are some fine ones in the Winchcombe Valley, near Sudeley Castle, one of which is 25½ feet in girth; but in the Vale of Gloucester elms are commoner than oaks, and I know none of special note, though Mr. J. R. Yorke tells me of a large tree still standing near Forthampton Court.

The largest I have seen are in Witcombe Park, the seat of W.H. Hicks-Beach, Esq., a small but picturesque park lying under the steep Birdlip Hill. Here on fertile clay soil, facing north and west, are a number of very fine trees, which, judging from the rings counted on one of the largest which has recently been felled, are not so old as they appear to be. This tree, which measured about 90 feet by 17½ feet, and contained 4oo to 500 cubic feet, was only about 210 years old, and beginning to fail in the upper branches, which were dying off. The largest tree, in a very exposed position, has lost some of its biggest limbs, and measures 25 feet in girth at about 5 feet from the ground, and 50 feet round the roots at the base. A very tall, well-shaped, handsome tree, with its bole clean and straight


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 Wentworthe, Peter, of Northants, arm. , matric. 13 March, 1617-18, aged 16, fellow ., B.A. 8 June, 1621 (incorporated at Cambridge 1623), M.A. 14 Dec., 1624, B.D. Trinity Term 1631, licenced to preach 1632, D.D. 16 July, 1633 (s. Thomas 1584); rector of Risehome, co. Lincoln, 1633-7, dean of Armagh 1637-41, archdeacon of Carlisle about 1645, rector of Great Haseley, Oxon, 1660; died at Bath 22 July, 1661, aged 60. See Fasti, i. 471; Lansdowne MS. 986, f. 17; & Foster's Index Eccl.  Wentworth, Peter, y.s. William, of London, eq. aur. ., matric. 29 April, 1692, aged 16; of Henbury, Dorset, equerry to Prince George of Denmark, Q. Anne, George I., and Q. Caroline; died 10 Jan., 1738-9.  Wentworth, Philip, s. William, of Wentworth, Yorks, bart. ., matric. 8 Dec., 1626, aged 16; B.A. from. 7 July, 1629, as eq. aur. fil.; M.A. from. 6 July, 1632; died in 1634; brother of George 1626, and Matthew 1622.  Wentworth, "Ruisshee", y.s. George, of Cleve, Kent, eq. , matric. 27 March, 1667, aged 15; of Sarre, isle of Thanet, Kent; student of Inner Temple 1669; licenced 20 March, 1679-80, to marry Susannah Ady, of Provender, Kent; M.P. Aldborough, Yorks, July, 1678, to Jan. following, and Liverpool 1678-81; died 8 June, 1686, buried at Nutstead, Kent. See Foster's Parliamentary Dictionary.  Wentworthe, Thomas, of Oxon, arm. ., matric. 30 Oct., 1584, aged 16; bar.-at-law, Lincoln's Inn, 1594, treasurer 1621 (s. Peter, of Lillingstone Lovell, Oxon), recorder of Oxford 1607, and M.P. 1604-11, 1614, 1621-2, 1624-5, 1625, 1626, and 3 March, 1627-8, until his death about 1628; brother of Walter. See Ath. ii. 414; & Foster's Judges and Barristers.  []

Wentworth, Thomas, baron Wentworth, of Nettlestede. ., matric. entry 12 Nov., 1602, aged 11; 4th baron, created baron Wentworth and earl of Cleveland 7 Feb., 1625, captain of the band of gentlemen pensioners; died 25 March, 1667; brother of Henry 1602.  Wentworth, Thomas (Watson), s. Edward, baron Rockingham. , matric. 14 July, 1683, aged 17; born 4 Aug., 1665, assumed the name and arms of Wentworth; M.P. Bossiney March-Nov., 1701, Higham Ferrers (Nov.) 1703-13, Malton 1713-22, Higham Ferrers 1722-3; died at Harrowden 6 Oct., 1723, buried in York minster. See Foster's Yorkshire Collection.  Wentworth, Thomas, s. Mat., of Bretton, Yorks, bart. ., matric. 28 Jan., 1709-10, aged 16; brigadier-general in the army, and a colonel of foot..

Wentworthe, Walter, of Oxon, arm. ., matric. 30 Oct., 1584, aged 15; of Castle Bytham, co. Lincoln (s. Peter, of Lillingstone Lovell); M.P. Tavistock 1601; died 1627; brother of Thomas 1584. See Foster's Parliamentary Dictionary.

Wentworth, William, (2nd) earl Strafford. , matric. 21 March, 1641-2, aged 15, (son of Thomas 1st earl beheaded 12 May, 1641), restored to all his father's honours; died 16 Oct., 1695, buried in York minster.
 []

Werden. See also.

Werdon, James, s. Henry, of Preston, co. Lancaster, pleb. ., matric. 21 Feb., 1672-3, aged 16, B.A. 1676, M.A. 1679.

Werden, Sir John, bart., created D.C.L. 22 May, 1683, bar.-at-law, Middle Temple, 1660 (as son and heir of Robert, of Barton, Cheshire, esq.), created a baronet 28 Nov., 1672, M.P. Reigate Jan., 1673, till void same month (28th), re-elected (Feb.) 1673-78, and 1685-7, secretary to the duke of York, and a commissioner of customs temp. James II. and William and Anne; born at Cholmeaton, Cheshire, Lady Day, 1640; died 29 Oct., 1716, buried 7 Nov. in St. Martin's-in-the-Fields. See Foster's Judges and Barristers.

Werden, (Sir) John, s. Joh., of London, bart. , matric. 23 Jan., 1697-8, aged 15; 2nd bart., student of Inner Temple 1700, died 13 Feb., 1758. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.

Werden, Richard, of. 1614 (as Weeden), B.A. 2 July, 1618, as Warden. See O.H.S. xii. 365.
 []
Werden, Robert, s. John, of Chester (city), arm. , matric. 30 June, 1637, aged 15; M.P. Chester (Feb.) 1673-8, and 1685-7, colonel of a troop of horse for the king, was declared a traitor by the parliamentary party and a price set on his head; he joined Charles II. in exile, but returned on the restoration, and died 23 Jan., 1690; father of Sir John 1683.

Werdnam, Robert, B.A. sup. 18 June, 1573. See O.H.S. xii. 30.

Werge. See also.

Werge, John, s. Richard, of Nailston, co. Leicester, cler. ., matric. 2 Dec., 1674, aged 16; B.A. from. 1678; vicar of Kirk Newton, Northumberland, 1681. See Foster's Index Eccl.>

Werge, Richard, pleb. ., matric. 16 June, 1642, aged 17, serv., B.A. 1 July, 1647, created M.A. 15 April, 1648 fellow 1648, by the parliamentary visitors; born at Witney, Oxon (son of a shoemaker), rector of Nailston, co. Leicester, 1658, and of Gateshead-on-Tyne 1679, until his death 1687; father of John. See Ath. ii. 854; Burrows, 553; & Fasti, ii. 112.
 []
Wergley, John, of Bucks, cler. fil. ., matric. 5 July, 1587, aged 25.

Weriot, William (Warryat), fellow. 1521-9, from St. Stephen's in Bristol, B.A. 9 March, 1525-6. See O.H.S. i. 356.

Wescomb, Clement, of Devon, gent. ., matric. 19 Nov., 1596, aged 19; B.A. from. 24 April, 1601, M.A. 12 April, 1605, B. and D.Med. and licenced to practice 3 July, 1615, practiced at Exeter, where he died in 1652. See Fasti, i. 363.

Wescomb, George, of Devon, gent. ., matric. 11 July, 1606, aged 18, student of Middle Temple 1608, as son and heir of Thomas, of Barnstaple, Devon, gent. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.

Wescombe, George, mercatoris fil. , matric. 24 Oct., 1606, aged 17.
 []
Wescombe, John, of Somerset, pleb. ., matric. 1 Dec., 1581, aged 18.

Wescombe, John, s. Henry, of Hill Farrance, Somerset, pleb. , matric. 26 Nov., 1624, aged 19.

Wescombe, Justinian, s. Henry, of Hill Farrance, Somerset, pleb. , matric. 13 April, 1632, aged 18, B.A. 11 May, 1633, M.A. 26 Jan., 1635-6.

Wescombe, Martin (Westcombe), B.A., and a monk of the University of Toulouse; incorporated 26 Jan., 1637-8; M.A. from. 20 April, 1638; incorporated at Cambridge 1639. See Ath. ii. 675; & Fasti, i. 498.
 [ 1599 ]


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 Wescombe, William (Westcombe), B.A. from. 13 Dec., 1642.

Wesden, Anthony, of Sussex, pleb. ., matric. entry 2 July, 1585, aged 12.

Wesley', Samuel, of, 1711. See.

West, Ambrose, of co. Lincoln, pleb. , matric. entry under date 28 May, 1580, aged 16, B.A. 8 Feb., 1582-3, M.A. 3 July, 1585. West, Bellingham, gent. , matric. 19 Nov., 1650; bar.-at-law, Gray's Inn, 1660, as son of Thomas, of Woodmancote, Sussex, gent. See Foster's Judges and Barristers. [] West, Christopher, of Devon, gent. ., matric. 22 Oct., 1602, aged 17, B.A. 20 May, 1606, M.A. 20 June, 1609; incorporated at Cambridge  1614; rector of Willingham All Saints, Suffolk,  1619. See Foster's Index Eccl. West, Edmond, s. Edmund, of Marsworth, Bucks, minister. ., matric. entry 6 Dec., 1622, aged 14; student of Inner Temple 1624,  M.P. Bucks (Nov.) 1645-53, also Wendover circa  Nov., 1646, preferred Bucks. See Foster's Parliamentary Dictionary. West, Edward, gent. , matric. 2 Oct., 1652, B.A. 11 Oct., 1655; M.A. from  15 June, 1657; nonconformist  preacher (son of Thomas, of Northampton), rector  of Wittenham Abbotts, Berks, 1658, until ejected  for nonconformity 1662; died 30 Jan., 1675, aged  41; brother of Richard 1633. See Ath. iii. 1059; Foster's Index Eccl.; & Calamy, i. 296. West, Edward, s. Ric., of Creton, Northants, cler. ., matric. 10 Dec., 1697, aged 15, B.A. 1702; M.A. from, Cambridge,  1722; rector of Arthingworth, Northants, 1707,  until his death 12 March, 1707-8; brother of  Richard 1689, and Thomas 1684. See Rawl. iv. 281; & Foster's Index Eccl. West, Francis, s. Fran., of St. Forsters, London, gent. ., matric. 28 June, 1710, aged 18, B.A. 1714, M.A. 1718, B.D. 1724, D.D.  1729; born 13 Jan., 1693, admitted to Merchant  Taylors' school 1693, third (1720), and second  under-master (1722-6); vicar of Albrighton, Salop,  1726, until he died 15 Jan., 1748. See Robinson, ii. p. 11; & Foster's Index Eccl. [] West, George, subscribed 30 April, 1613; B.A. from  29 Jan., 1616-17; student of  Inner Temple 1618, as of Basingstoke, Hants,  See Foster's Inns of Court Reg. West, George, "Bibliopola," s. Thomas, of Ascot, Oxon, privilegiatus 3 May, 1662, aged 23 "subs.  bookseller." West, Henry, demy. 1560, fellow 1565-79, B.A. 29 July, 1566, M.A. 24 April, 1570,  sup. for licence to preach 14 Jan., 1574-5. See Bloxam, iv. 160. West, John, B.A. 24 Oct., 1525, M.A. supd. 20 Feb., 1527-8, B.D. sup. Nov., 1533. West, John, B.A. from ., Cambridge, 1572-3, M.A. 1579; incorporated 11 July, 1586; vicar of Cholsey, Berks, 1581. See Foster's Graduati Cantab. [] West, John, born in Hampshire, Baronis fil. ., matric. 17 Feb., 1608-9, aged 18, B.A. 1 Dec., 1613; brother of Thomas, 3rd Lord  Delawarr. West, John, s. James, of Banbury, Oxon, pleb. ., matric. 20 June, 1628, aged 17, B.A. 3 June, 1630, M.A. 11 May, 1633; perhaps rector  of Thwing, Yorks, 1640. See Foster's Index Eccl. West, John, s. John, of Hampton Poyle, Oxon, arm. , matric. 19 Feb., 1663-4, aged 17; student of Inner Temple 1663, licenced 14 March,  1669-70 (then a widower), to marry Anne Portington, widow. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg. West, John, 6th Lord Delawarr; created D.C.L. 27 Aug., 1702 (son of Charles, 5th lord); died 26  May, 1723. West, John, s. Peter, of Tiverton, Devon, gent. ., matric. 17 July, 1708, aged 18. West, Lewis, s. Lewis (4to.), of York (city), gent. ., matric. 30 March, 1702, aged 15; bar.-at-law, Lincoln's Inn, 1710 (his father bar.-at-law, Gray's Inn, 1679, bencher 1706, as son of  Lewis, of Salkeld, Cumberland, clerk, deceased). See Foster's Judges and Barristers. [] West, Lewis, s. Tobias, of Grinton, Yorks, cler. ., matric. 12 Feb., 1707-8, aged 19, B.A. 8 June, 1709; his father vicar of Grinton 1673, etc. West, Matthew, of Yorks, pleb. ., matric. 22 June, 1610, aged 15, B.A. 31 Jan., 1615-16, M.A. 4 Nov., 1618. West, Miles, s. Charles, of London, gent. ., matric. 16 April, 1706, aged 17, B.A. 6 March, 1709-10; M.A. from. 1713; rector of Elmley and of Harrietsham, Kent, 1723. See St. Paul's S. R. 67; & Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus. West, Peter, of Devon, gent. ., matric. 11 May, 1615, aged 18; student of Middle Temple 1617, as son and heir of John, of Tiverton,  Devon, gent. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg. [] West, Reginald, B.D. Oct., 1543; vicar of Takeley, Essex, 1534, and of Bedford St. Paul, Beds, 1550,  rector of St. Margaret Pattens, Middlesex, 1562. See Foster's Index Eccl. West, Richard, demy. 1557-61, fellow 1561-72, from diocese of Winchester, B.A.  10 July, 1562, M.A. 9 July, 1567; rector of Woking  1571, and of West Horsley, (both) Surrey, 1582. See Bloxam, iv. 152; & Foster's Index Eccl. Weste, Richard, of Devon, pleb. ., matric. entry under date 3 Dec., 1575, aged 21. West, Richard, s. Thomas, of Northampton (town), sacerd. , matric. 15 Feb., 1632-3, aged 18, B.A. 3 May, 1636, M.A. 19 June, 1639  (incorporated at Cambridge 1641), created D.D.  1 Dec., 1660, student 1633, until ejected by the  parliamentary visitors; rector of Shillington,  Dorset, 1649, canon of Combe (4) Wells, 1664,  and rector of Durweston, Dorset, 1664, until his  death 22 May, 1690, buried at Shillingston; brother  of Edward 1652, and father of Richard 1682. See Fasti, ii. 243; & Al. West. 104. West, Richard, s. Ahaliadis (Aholiab), of Banbury, Oxon, gent. , matric. 9 April, 1641, aged 15; of Hillmorton, co. Warwick, ancestor  of Roberts-West, of Alscot House, co. Warwick. West, Richard, gent. , matric. 29 Oct., 1657, B.A. 1660; M.A. from ., Cambridge, 1664; rector of Creaton Magna,  Northants, 1663; father of Edward 1697, Richard  1689, and Thomas 1684. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus. [] West, Richard, s. Lewis, of Sawkeld, Cumberland, minister. ., matric. 22 July, 1664, aged 18. West, Richard, s. John, of Warwick (town), p.p. ., matric. 6 April, 1674, aged 17, B.A. 1677; vicar of Exhall, co. Warwick, 1685. See Foster's Index Eccl. West, Richard, s. R., of Shillingstone, Dorset, S.T.D., matric. 22 Feb., 1681-2, aged 16, B.A. 1685; M.A. from. 1688; perhaps vicar of Weare, Somerset, 1705, until his death in  1712. See Foster's Index Eccl. \n, [ 1600 ]


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 enters] Send me Don Trino. Tell him to drop whatever he is doing and come immediately. [The goes out] If there is a riot, if the people rise against me, let him who is without a wife cast the first stone.

. What is the use of talking about riots? The people are like women. They need a man of character to dominate them, by force if necessary.

. Why didn't you begin with that proposition?

. You'll be saying next that you never do anything but what I tell you; that I am the real Governor.

. No, no! What have I to say anyway? Let us not begin another discussion.

. What does the señora wish?

. It is not the señora, this time it is I. Sometimes it has to be I. Sit down.

. If it is nothing very urgent, sir, I should like to finish the shield and the towers

. What shield and what towers?

. The coat of arms of the province, sir, which I am constructing entirely of flowers—to be placed in the middle of the table at the supper this evening, Your Excellency's initials on one side and those of your worthy spouse on the other. Very beautiful, sir, very beautiful!

. Did you do all that yourself, Don Trino? It is a pity to put you to so much trouble.

. If one possesses talent, señora, it is his duty to display It when occasion requires. You have guests to-night from Madrid, and I am anxious that they should see that here, too, we are lovers of art.

. Sit down, Don Trino. I shall be ready to dictate in a moment. Then you can finish the towers.

. It won't detain you long.


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. Yours is the only handwriting that is legible in the house.

. True, Your Excellency, though self-praise does not become me, but the seventy-two governors who have occupied the Palace during the twenty years I have lived in it, have always valued my services highly. I say nothing of their wives, who continually send me presents. When it comes to a question of repairing umbrellas, or mending china, or any little handiness about the house, or entertaining the children with the latest toys, or preparing a special kind of starch for the wash, a secret which I had from some nuns, who as a particular favor passed it on to an aunt of mine, who brought me up, a sister of my father, sir, who is now in glory, God keep him, sir

. Don Trino, this is a very urgent matter.

. I beg your pardon, but since the señora was listening with such interest…

. I? I was thinking of something else.

. You will never find me backward with the pen.

. Don't construct so many bouquets for yourself.

. As you say, sir. Ah! before I forget it; the refreshments

. What is the matter? Haven't they come?

. Sí, señora. But the fact is they were ordered from the Café of the Four Nations

. As is usual.

. I beg your pardon. As is usual during liberal administrations, for the proprietor is a leading liberal; but during conservative administrations the order is always placed with the Café de Europa, whose proprietor is a conservative, and he has taken great offense, in my judgment with good reason, sir. for he has made many sacrifices for the party.

. I didn't know that when I gave the order.


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. Of course, you didn't know—as is usual!

. Come, come! Let us not begin another discussion over refreshments.

. I hope not, sir. With your permission—although without consulting you—I knew I might count upon your approval—I have effected a compromise. I have ordered the ices from the Café of the Four Nations, and the creams from the Café de Europa, so that in this way I have established a precedent, for in my opinion, sir, subject to your approval, a political question ought not to be made out of the serving of ice-cream. You will dictate when you are ready, sir.

. Who is coming at this hour?

. So early, my dear? And alone?

. [Weeping, Hinging herself into the arms of Josefina] Oh, Josefina! I am utterly miserable!

. What is the matter with you?

. What has happened? [To ] Just a moment, just a moment…

. Have you had another tiff with papa and mamma?

. I have no papa, I have no mamma, I have nobody in all the world, but you!

. My child!…

. Nonsense! Up to her old tricks.

. [To , who pays no attention to him] If you don't mind, sir, if you don't mind, I think I might finish the shield and the towers…

. [Absorbed] Yes, yes… Of course!

. [To ] But what is the trouble? How is it that you are alone?


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 most extraordinary thing that ever happened to me was my going back to town on that day. I am a reasonable being; I do not do such things. I was on a bicycling tour with another man. We were far from the mean cares of an unremunerative profession; we were men not fettered by any given address, any pledged date, any preconcerted route. I went to bed weary and cheerful, fell asleep a mere animal—a tired dog after a day’s hunting—and awoke at four in the morning that creature of nerves and fancies which is my other self, and which has driven me to all the follies I have ever kept company with. But even that second


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 self of mine, whining beast and traitor as it is, has never played me such a trick as it played then. Indeed, something in the result of that day’s rash act sets me wondering whether after all it could have been I, or even my other self, who moved in the adventure; whether it was not rather some power outside both of us ... but this is a speculation as idle in me as uninteresting to you, and so enough of it.

From four to seven I lay awake, the prey of a growing detestation of bicycling tours, friends, scenery, physical exertion, holidays. By seven o’clock I felt that I would rather perish than spend another day in the society of the other man—an excellent fellow, by the way, and the best of company.

At half-past seven the post came. I saw the postman through my window as I shaved. I went down to get my letters—there were none, naturally.

At breakfast I said: “Edmundson, my dear fellow, I am extremely sorry; but my letters this morning compel me to return to town at once.”

“But I thought,” said Edmundson—then he stopped, and I saw that he had perceived in time that this was no moment for reminding


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 me that, having left no address, I could have had no letters.

He looked sympathetic, and gave me what there was left of the bacon. I suppose he thought that it was a love affair or some such folly. I let him think so; after all, no love affair but would have seemed wise compared with the blank idiocy of this sudden determination to cut short a delightful holiday and go back to those dusty, stuffy rooms in Gray’s Inn.

After that first and almost pardonable lapse, Edmundson behaved beautifully. I caught the 9.17 train, and by half-past eleven I was climbing my dirty staircase.

I let myself in and waded through a heap of envelopes and wrappered circulars that had drifted in through the letter-box, as dead leaves drift into the areas of houses in squares. All the windows were shut. Dust lay thick on everything. My laundress had evidently chosen this as a good time for her holiday. I wondered idly where she spent it. And now the close, musty smell of the rooms caught at my senses, and I remembered with a positive pang the sweet scent of the earth and the dead leaves in that wood through which, at this very moment, the sensible and fortunate Edmundson would be riding.


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The thought of dead leaves reminded me of the heap of correspondence. I glanced through it. Only one of all those letters interested me in the least. It was from my mother:—

“,—I have wonderful news for you. Your great-uncle Sefton has died, and left you half his immense property. The other half is left to your second cousin Selwyn. You must come home at once. There are heaps of letters here for you, but I dare not send them on, as goodness only knows where you may be. I do wish you would remember to leave an address. I send this to your rooms, in case you have had the forethought to instruct your charwoman to send your letters on to you. It is a most handsome fortune, and I am too happy about your accession to it to scold you as you deserve, but I hope this will be a lesson to you to leave an address when next you go away. Come home at once.—Your loving Mother, 2em

“P.S.—It is the maddest will; everything divided evenly between you two except the house and estate. The will says you and your cousin Selwyn are to meet there on the 1st September following his death, in


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 presence of the family, and decide which of you is to have the house. If you can’t agree, it’s to be presented to the county for a lunatic asylum. I should think so! He was always so eccentric. The one who doesn’t have the house, etc., gets £20,000 extra. Of course you will choose that.

“P.P.S.—Be sure to bring your under-shirts with you—the air here is very keen of an evening.”

I opened both the windows and lit a pipe. Sefton Manor, that gorgeous old place,—I knew its picture in Hasted, cradle of our race, and so on—and a big fortune. I hoped my cousin Selwyn would want the £20,000 more than he wanted the house. If he didn’t—well, perhaps my fortune might be large enough to increase that £20,000 to a sum that he would want.

And then, suddenly, I became aware that this was the 31st of August, and that to-morrow was the day on which I was to meet my cousin Selwyn and “the family,” and come to a decision about the house. I had never, to my knowledge, heard of my cousin Selwyn. We were a family rich in collateral branches. I hoped he would be a


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 reasonable young man. Also, I had never seen Sefton Manor House, except in a print. It occurred to me that I would rather see the house before I saw the cousin.

I caught the next train to Sefton.

“It’s but a mile by the field way,” said the railway porter. “You take the stile—the first on the left—and follow the path till you come to the wood. Then skirt along the left of it, cater across the meadow at the end, and you’ll see the place right below you in the vale.”

“It’s a fine old place, I hear,” said I.

“All to pieces, though,” said he. “I shouldn’t wonder if it cost a couple o’ hundred to put it to rights. Water coming through the roof and all.”

“But surely the owner”

“Oh, he never lived there; not since his son was taken. He lived in the lodge; it’s on the brow of the hill looking down on the Manor House.”

“Is the house empty?”

“As empty as a rotten nutshell, except for the old sticks o’ furniture. Any one who likes,” added the porter, “can lie there o’ nights. But it wouldn’t be me!”

“Do you mean there’s a ghost?” I hope I


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 kept any note of undue elation out of my voice.

“I don’t hold with ghosts,” said the porter firmly, “but my aunt was in service at the lodge, and there’s no doubt but something walks there.”

“Come,” I said, “this is very interesting. Can’t you leave the station, and come across to where beer is?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” said he. “That is so far as your standing a drop goes. But I can’t leave the station, so if you pour my beer you must pour it dry, sir, as the saying is.”

So I gave the man a shilling, and he told me about the ghost at Sefton Manor House. Indeed, about the ghosts, for there were, it seemed, two; a lady in white, and a gentleman in a slouch hat and black riding cloak.

“They do say,” said my porter, “as how one of the young ladies once on a time was wishful to elope, and started so to do—not getting further than the hall door; her father, thinking it to be burglars, fired out of the window, and the happy pair fell on the doorstep, corpses.”

“Is it true, do you think?”

The porter did not know. At any rate


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 there was a tablet in the church to Maria Sefton and George Ballard—“and something about in their death them not being divided.”

I took the stile, I skirted the wood, I “catered” across the meadow—and so I came out on a chalky ridge held in a net of pine roots, where dog violets grew. Below stretched the green park, dotted with trees. The lodge, stuccoed but solid, lay below me. Smoke came from its chimneys. Lower still lay the Manor House—red brick with grey lichened mullions, a house in a thousand, Elizabethan—and from its twisted beautiful chimneys no smoke arose. I hurried across the short turf towards the Manor House.

I had no difficulty in getting into the great garden. The bricks of the wall were everywhere displaced or crumbling. The ivy had forced the coping stones away; each red buttress offered a dozen spots for foothold. I climbed the wall and found myself in a garden—oh! but such a garden. There are not half a dozen such in England—ancient box hedges, rosaries, fountains, yew tree avenues, bowers of clematis (now feathery in its seeding time), great trees, grey-grown marble balustrades and steps, terraces, green lawns, one green lawn, in especial, girt round


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 with a sweet briar hedge, and in the middle of this lawn a sundial. All this was mine, or, to be more exact, might be mine, should my cousin Selwyn prove to be a person of sense. How I prayed that he might not be a person of taste! That he might be a person who liked yachts or racehorses or diamonds, or motor-cars, or anything that money can buy, not a person who liked beautiful Elizabethan houses, and gardens old beyond belief.

The sundial stood on a mass of masonry, too low and wide to be called a pillar. I mounted the two brick steps and leaned over to read the date and the motto:

The date was 1617, the initials S. S. surmounted it. The face of the dial was unusually ornate—a wreath of stiffly drawn roses was traced outside the circle of the numbers. As I leaned there a sudden movement on the other side of the pedestal compelled my attention. I leaned over a little further to see what had rustled—a rat—a rabbit? A flash of pink struck at my eyes. A lady in a pink dress was sitting on the step at the other side of the sundial.


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I suppose some exclamation escaped me—the lady looked up. Her hair was dark, and her eyes; her face was pink and white, with a few little gold-coloured freckles on nose and on cheek bones. Her dress was of pink cotton stuff, thin and soft. She looked like a beautiful pink rose.

Our eyes met.

“I beg your pardon,” said I, “I had no idea” there I stopped and tried to crawl back to firm ground. Graceful explanations are not best given by one sprawling on his stomach across a sundial.

By the time I was once more on my feet she too was standing.

“It is a beautiful old place,” she said gently, and, as it seemed, with a kindly wish to relieve my embarrassment. She made a movement as if to turn away.

“Quite a show place,” said I stupidly enough, but I was still a little embarrassed, and I wanted to say something—anything—to arrest her departure. You have no idea how pretty she was. She had a straw hat in her hand, dangling by soft black ribbons. Her hair was all fluffy-soft—like a child’s. “I suppose you have seen the house?” I asked.


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She paused, one foot still on the lower step of the sundial, and her face seemed to brighten at the touch of some idea as sudden as welcome.

“Well—no,” she said. “The fact is—I wanted frightfully to see the house; in fact, I’ve come miles and miles on purpose, but there’s no one to let me in.”

“The people at the lodge?” I suggested.

“Oh no,” she said. “I—the fact is I—I don’t want to be shown round. I want to explore!”

She looked at me critically. Her eyes dwelt on my right hand, which lay on the sundial. I have always taken reasonable care of my hands, and I wore a good ring, a sapphire, cut with the Sefton arms: an heirloom, by the way. Her glance at my hand preluded a longer glance at my face. Then she shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“Oh well,” she said, and it was as if she had said plainly, “I see that you are a gentleman and a decent fellow. Why should I not look over the house in your company? Introductions? Bah!”

All this her shrug said without ambiguity as without words.


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“Perhaps,” I hazarded, “I could get the keys.”

“Do you really care very much for old houses?”

“I do,” said I; “and you?”

“I care so much that I nearly broke into this one. I should have done it quite if the windows had been an inch or two lower.”

“I am an inch or two higher,” said I, standing squarely so as to make the most of my six-feet beside her five-feet-five or thereabouts.

“Oh—if you only would!” said she.

“Why not?” said I.

She led the way past the marble basin of the fountain, and along the historic yew avenue, planted, like all old yew avenues, by that industrious gardener our Eighth Henry. Then across a lawn, through a winding, grassy, shrubbery path, that ended at a green door in the garden wall.

“You can lift this latch with a hairpin,” said she, and therewith lifted it.

We walked into a courtyard. Young grass grew green between the grey flags on which our steps echoed.

“This is the window,” said she. “You see there’s a pane broken. If you could get