at dinner and supper, with which the neighboring town of Pool supplied him. At the upper end of the room stood a small table with a double desk, one side of which held a church Bible, the other the Book of Martyrs. On different tables in the room lay hawk's-hoods; bells; old hats, with their crowns thrust in, full of pheasant eggs; tables; dice; cards; and a store of tobacco-pipes. At one end of this room was a door which opened into a closet, where stood bottles of strong beer and wine, which never came out but in single glasses, which was the rule of the house; for he never exceeded himself, nor permitted others to exceed. Answering to this closet was a door into an old chapel-which had been long disused-for devotion: but in the pulpit, at the safest place, was always to be found a cold shin of beef, a venison pasty, a gammon of bacon, or a great apple-pie, with thick crust, well baked. His table cost him not much, though it was good to eat at. His sports supplied all but beef and mutton, except on Fridays, when he had the best of fish. He never wanted a London pudding; and he always sang it in with "My part lies therein-a-." He drank a glass or two of wine at meals, put syrup of gilliflowers into his sack, and had always a tun-glass of small beer standing by him, which he often stirred about with rosemary. He lived to be an hundred, and never lost his eyesight, nor used spectacles. He got on horseback without help, and rode to the death of the stag till past fourscore. WILLIAM GILPIN, 1724-1807. SONNET. Old Harry Hastings! of thy forest life How whimsical, how picturesque the charms! With airy steed didst thou pursue the strife, But thy skill'd eye and long experience knew. Thy bugle could the distant sylvans hear, And wood-nymphs from their bowery bed would rise, SIR EGERTON BRYDGES, 1762-1837. SONNET. There is exhilaration in the chase Not bodily only! Bursting from the woods, Then worshiping the sun on silver floods, Of darkness issuing, we with double force And, bounding with delight, pursue our course. It is a mingled rapture, and we find The bodily spirit mounting to the mind. SIR EGERTON BRYDGES, 1762-1887. LINES. This world a hunting is The prey, poor man; the Nimrod fierce is Death; His speedy grayhounds are Lust, sickness, envy, care, Strife that ne'er falls amiss, With all those ills that harm'd us while we breathe. Now if by chance we fly, Of these the eager chase, Old age, with stealing pace, Casts on us his nets, and then we panting die. WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 1585-1649. XXIII. Medley. H ODE. FROM THE LATIN OF HORACE. OW happy in his low degree, How rich in humble poverty is he, Who leads a quiet country life; Discharg'd of business, void of strife, And from the griping scrivener free! Thus, ere the seeds of vice were sown Liv'd men in better ages born, Who plow'd with oxen of their own Their small paternal field of corn. Nor trumpets summon him to war, Nor drums disturb his morning sleep, Nor knows he merchants' painful care, Nor fears the dangers of the deep. The clamors of contentious law, And court and state, he wisely shuns; Nor brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe, To servile salutations runs ; But either to the clasping vine Does the supporting poplar wed, Unbearing branches from their head, Or climbing to a hilly steep, He views his buds in vales afar, Or shears his overburden'd sheep, Or mead for cooling drink prepares Of virgin honey in the jars; Or, in the now declining year, When beauteous Autumn rears his head, He joys to pull the ripen'd pear And clust'ring grapes, with purple spread. Sometimes beneath an ancient oak, Or on the matted grass, he lies; No god of Sleep he need invoke ; The stream that o'er the pebble flies, With gentle slumber crowns his eyes, The wind that whistles through the sprays Maintains the concert of the song; And hidden birds, with native lays, The golden sleep prolong. But when the blast of winter blows, Into the naked woods he goes, And seeks the tusky boar to near, With well-mouthed hounds and pointed spear! Or spreads his subtile nets from sight, Or makes the fearful bear his prey. No anxious care invades his health, Divides with him his household care, Such as the Sabine matrons were, Such as the swift Apulian's bride, Sunburnt and swarthy though she be, Will fire for winter nights provide, And-without noise-will oversee His children and his family; And then produce her dairy store, And unbought dainties for the poor; Not oysters of the Lucrine lake My sober appetite would wish, And hither waft the costly dish. Than the fat olives of my fields; That keep the loosened body sound; To the just guardian of my ground. The jolly shepherd smiles to see That sit around his cheerful hearth, With wholesome food and country mirth. This Alphius said within himself, He call'd his money in ; But the prevailing love of pelf, Soon split him on the former shelf- Translation of DRYDEN. LETTER OF SIR THOMAS MORE TO HIS WIFE. Mistress Alice, in my most heartywise I recommend me to you. And whereas I am informed by my son Heron of the loss of our barns and our neighbours' also, with all the corn that was therein; albeit (saving God's |