I was born a subject to the Lord of Cockaigne. | Let me assure those of my readers who are not versed in the genealogical tree of that redoubted chieftain, that he is in nowise related to the Laird o' Cockpen, although it is true they possess a certain affinity to each other, which in other cases might become individuality; for I am constrained to own, that the "white feather" appears to have been worn in the bonnets of both with the same degree of prominence; and which said "white feather" would tremble wildly at the blast of a clarion, and be entirely annihilated by the report of a cannon. It is generally believed that the Lord of Cockaigne reigns over only the eastern division of our Metropolis; but this opinion is founded in error, for though his western empire is, in comparison with the eastern, of small extent, yet it is beyond dispute that a great number of subjects own his sway in that hemisphere—I was one of his western subjects.

And yet, dear reader, spite of my cockney serfdom, I am passionately fond of the country; the very name brings with it the indistinct murmur of soft-breathing winds and calmflowing waters. The country-where Nature seems to build her home amid the retreat of all that is blooming and beautiful-where the song of birds awakes her to brightness, and freshness, and fragrance; and the last dying voice of the nightbird soothes her into the slumber which is as peaceful as that of an infant-where the star-eyed flowers burst into a life of quiet joy, and yield up with their last sigh their gratitude to their benefactress that they have lived so long-where the crystal stream glides on, singing to itself" My life's a dream of gladness!"-where the virid trees wave to and fro, and ever, through the voice of night, murmur "We are happy!" where the Morning springs forth in her glorious attire, and shakes from her coronet of gems the dazzling radiance of a thousand hues-where the majestic Sun shines forth, to make the world appear but a dark obscurity, while his sovereign beams illumine the heavens-where the twilight grey of eve deepens gradually and imperceptibly, and the thick-coming shadows fall on the ground, till, in the arms of night, Nature contemplates the starry host who watch over the sleep of

mortals, or paint images of beauty to the waking wondering eyes of the Poet.

Oh! who would not leave the murky density, the dismal gloom of a city, for the free air of the hills, or the perfumed breath of the meadows?who would not flee from the ever-busy hum of the toiling, moiling populace, and in the quiet retirement of some rural village, and in the pleasant society of a few selected friends, through the Journey of Life with no anxious wishes to which vaulting ambition is prone; with none of the immoderate desires of worldly pas sions? How well I understood, and how keenly I felt, the truth of the Bard's words :

"God made the country-man the town!"

pass

Such, or something like, were the result of my meditations as I sat in my humble sitting-room, on the second floor of a house situated in one of the streets branching out of what used to be one of the great western thoroughfares of London. It was on a fine morning in the summer of the year that is now with the phantoms of a thousand others. The warm sunshine played, with dazzling brilliance, on the windows of the opposite houses; and yet it was with a melancholy satisfaction that I beheld the glorious beams dimmed by the grosser atmosphere of London. It was yet early, and I had drawn my escritoire to the open window, and was busily pondering on the subject which I proposed should be the theme for my next article in the magazine. I had silently invoked the muses, but no immediate inspiration from the Castalian spring seemed to flow. thought how terrible his fate who is condemned to " spur his jaded Pegasus" to procure for himself the commonest necessaries of life. Not that I was placed in so awkward a predicament, gentle reader; for the truth was, I had a certain small income that some of my good-natured friends called an independence (alas! the while), and which would just keep me from the brink of absolute starvation. I gazed down into the street below, and my eyes unconsciously fell on the figure of one of those favoured scions of the mobility yclept a butcher-boy. How hearty and red he looked! With what a thorough-hearted gusto he whistled! I could almost hear him

where I sat. He was evidently on good terms with himself, for his feet kept beating time to the air that fell from his "mouth-organ;" and certainly on good terms with the maid who appeared to his summons, to judge by his wink and the few words he occasionally addressed to her, and the pretty pout which afterwards transformed itself into a smile, with which she met his pseudo attempt at gallantry. Who would not be a butcher-boy? thought I. Would it not be far better to be galloping about all day on that iron-limbed, strong-winded pony, than to be "cabinn'd, cribb'd, confin'd" the livelong day in a dull room, with no one to whom to utter our thoughts! Man was born a talkative animal. The vox loquendi is an inherent part of our organization, and it is the great stimulant to sociality—the great basis of civilization. Ah! the butcher-boy has "mounted his steed," and wended his way with a speed far greater than the chivalric Manchegan on his renowned Rosinante could have hoped to attain, even had they both striven, heart and soul, to reach the Fair One of Toboso. I paced my little chamber for a few minutes, but could not concentrate my thoughts into the desired channel; so I took up one of the volumes with which my table was stored. It was a volume of plays. I mechanically opened it, and began reading aloud, adding gesticulation to my utterancefor of a truth I thought myself no contemptible master of declamation-Constance's charming lines, in the second act of the "Provost of Bruges," one of my most favourite of modern dramatic writings:

"There is a sadness of no kin to sorrow,

And such alone is mine. Is it not sad,
And yet how sweet, to sit in some close nook
And hear the big rain patter on the trees?
Or listlessly in some cool dell's recess
To mark the babbling of the tiny brook?
Or from the casement, watch the fading day
Tinge, with its changeful pencil, the grey clouds?
When, if by chance we sigh, 'tis but to ease
The heart o'erburden'd with its sweet sensations."

I had ended this speech, with a dramatic force and intensity that I flattered myself would have brought down repeated bursts of applause had I been before an audience of the " discriminating public," and on the proud area of old Drury, when a boisterous laugh outside bespoke that my rhapsody had been overheard. The door quickly opened, however, and one of my-nay, my most particular friend, Harry Brooke, entered. "Bravo! bravo!" cried he. "Spoken with all the dignity and pathos of Moschus-with all the eloquence and fire of Automedon! What a strange thing it is, my dear fellow," he continued, "that I, who in the solitude of my own chamber fancy that I give due expression to an author's lines, yet when I am before the lights

'My very blood seems turned to milk,'

and one would think I was an aspen, or had caught the ague from off some American swamp, so grievously do I tremble."

"And yet, Harry, you are one whom the world-ay, and the press too-calls a rising actor, who exhibits daily growing evidences of talent; who only requires confidence and maturity, to withstand all rivalry."

66

They are too good, for never had a press and a public need to be more indulgent than to me. And never were,” he added, growing visibly affected while he spoke, a press and a public so ready to hail any young Author or Actor, and to award him their smiles and favour, than in this same age in which we now live. I have reason to say so; and my stage fright' is gradually disappearing, and soon will, I hope, 'leave not a wrack behind!' "It is to be hoped, Harry, that your fame will be more enduring."

6

66

Pooh! Fame, the jilt, will never smile on me!"

"You are not wont to be desponding.” "But, my dear Francis Fortescue, esquire, you are wont to be discerning, and not used to lavish too much praise on me, or I should say that

66

You expect that Fame has frowned an ominous denial of her favours on you alone." “Oh, good my Lord! No more,” replied Harry, with a stage strut and action:

'I prithee learn to curb that tongue of thine,
Whose honey-words so tickle on my ears
That by my faith they'll captivate my heart,
And make me vain of speech.'

"No fear of that, Harry," interrupted I; "you have too much sense not to discern honest praise from false-lipped flattery."

"Nay, no more 'an thou lovest me!' And let me unburden myself of a message, without which, notwithstanding I am charged, I do not wish to go off."

"Ha! ha! Report it, then," cried I.

"My sister-(I coloured deeply, and quite sufficiently to betray myself to even a careless observer)—has made up a party, composed of some brothers and sisters of our gentle craftauthors, poor wretches! and actors, poor devils! and they have determined to have a day's pleasure for once in their lives, the remembrance even of which shall cast a sunny halo over many a happy memory of it. The gist of the matter is that these 'merry elves' of London have resolved upon a day in the woods; and in order to gratify their wish, have procured carriages and servants; and having victualled their insides-of the carriages I mean-in due time to supply their own, they have commissioned me to bring you, nolens volens, with me to be of the party. They know how ardently you admire the beautiful scenery of nature."

"Who are meant by "
'they?'"

“Why—a—a—a-my sister, if you must know the truth. And, in fact, from her alone

Pooh! pooh! The feast of love, and the flow of affection, I suppose you mean, Harry; as if you, with Katharine Darcy by your side, could be content with aught save simpering and sighing like a dying goose.'

"Remember the words of our immortal bard, Frank:

'He jests at scars who never felt a wound.' But my sister Viviana will soon tame you down from your soaring propensities, even if she has not done so already; for when you are in her presence, you are so silent and abstracted that no one would know the voluble Frank Fortescue of his bachelor friends. Ha! ha! le bon temps viendra."

"Let it come tout d'un temps," replied I; "but whither does your so-hastily-arranged party intend to go? - what romantic wood do they purpose visiting?"

"The ancient, time-honoured forests of Norwood and Penge."

"Ha! ha ha! is not this somewhat tinged with the spirit of cockneyism?" exclaimed I.

"Perhaps it is; but you know we are all of us of that doubtful spirit; so allons, thou seeker after the Beautiful!"

We accordingly took our way to Brooke's house, before which three or four carriages were drawn up. On ascending to the withdrawingroom, we found the whole party assembled, and earnestly awaiting our arrival. It consisted of some ten or dozen persons-equally apportioned as to sexes, and all of them connected with Literature or the Stage.

"Ah, Mr. Fortescue!" exclaimed Viviana, we are glad to see you."

"And why not call me Frank, as usual?" I questioned in a low tone.

"Well, I will if you wish it."

By your doing so, you give me a tacit permission to call you Viviana," I murmured; at the same time adjusting her slight écharpe to her satisfaction.

to be banished from our presence. To a listener, our conversation might not have been edifying, it is true; but it had that rare virtue, truthfulness and sincerity. We were all mutually attached to each other, and this fact added more than its own joy.

"How lovely the day is!" exclaimed Kate Darcy, with one of her brightest of smiles; "how gloriously the sunlight rests on that dark grove of elms yonder! Oh, give me the glowing radiance of a summer's day before every other scene in nature.”

"Give me," returned Viviana, in the low voice with which she ever uttered her thoughts, "give me that short space betwixt the evening and the decided fall of night, to gaze upon the moonlight sleeping on the bank; to sit there,

"And let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears-soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony."

"You are so romantic, Viviana," interrupted Kate; "but alas! I was born for the glaring day, and the hum of the waking world, and can compare myself only to the butterfly, that loses all its beauty in the sable darkness; but you are like the-the-"

Assuredly not-I was foolish to think of apostrophising so ridiculously."

Nay, Kate," returned Viviana, "if that be all the head and front of your offending,' it is easily forgiven. You cannot shame me out of my passion for the stilly hour. Do not the words of the Swan of Avon inspire us with a feeling of quiet joy and sublime rapture when he sings

'Look how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There's not the smallest orb that thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims;
Such harmony is in immortal souls.
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."

"A man convinced against his will Is of the same opinion still."

However, by this time we had arrived at the outskirts of the wood, and the carriages stopped. We held a short council of ways and means, and unanimously agreed that the carriages should go slowly up the hill, while we, in parties of three or four, should brave the intricacies of the forest, keeping, however, so near to the road, that we could easily meet together again, and so join the carriages. It is scarcely worth while to record our ramble, except to say that the leafy canopy over us compensated us by its luxuriance and beautiful tracery for the loss of the blue of heaven, which at times was completely hidden by the thickly-clustered branches. One little circumstance, however, will always dwell in the memory of all. On a sudden, Kate Darcy slipped away from the side of her engagée, and concealing herself behind a tree, so that not the slightest flutter of her dress could be perceived, she raised her full, round, and liquid voice in the charming air of Arne's, "Where the bee sucks." Never was the effect of time and situation so exquisitely felt. The rich burst of melody that rose, as from an unseen spirit, spell-bound us-1 -the majestic trees that waved around-the velvet moss on which our feet trod-the beautiful vista which the eye in vain sought to penetrate-all added an irrepressible charm that was experienced with delight long after the voice of the singer had died away, and she had returned laughingly and joyously to us. Poor Harry looked as if martyrdom would at that moment have been welcomed with rapture; and I could see the silent big tear fall slowly down his cheek, though he brushed it hastily away when he perceived he was observed. But the enchanting moment was over it had passed away, as do all our worldhopes-all our world-joys.

:

In due time we met, according to a preconcerted signal, and selecting a charming spot adapted to the purpose, enjoyed our déjeuner à la fourchette "under the greenwood tree;" but I am sure that the relation of this repast will prove more than uninteresting to my readers, so I will spare them the infliction. After we had concluded, we agreed to stroll quietly back in company to the place whence we had started. We had not, however, proceeded far, before a cry was raised that Kate and Harry were nowhere to be seen. After debating on the propriety of returning or separating, in order to discover the fugitives, we decided to banish our alarm, for that they would be sure to join us at the appointed destination. So that we were soon moving forward, laughing like "merrie elves" who have escaped the surveillance of Oberon, and his grand vizier, Puck.

"Oh!" suddenly cried one of the gentler sex, foremost in advance of us, with a slight scream. We had alighted most unexpectedly upon the very scene we had long wished to behold-a gipsy encampment. So many times that we had heard and read of the peculiarities of a scene like the present, still the surprise, added to the novelty of actually beholding it, gave it an additional interest. Who has not, however, seen pourtrayed on the canvass-who

has not, in reading some thrilling legend, conjured up in imagination precisely the kind of group that met our view? the swarthy, manly forms, yet sinister expression, of the men-the old haggard faces of the elder, and the em browned ruddy hue of the younger women, with their piercing black eyes, and red cloaks, the handkerchief tied closely round the head, in lieu of bonnet-the sun-burnt children, whose faces were all too unmistakeably stamped with the peculiarity which denotes those of the wandering tribes of Egypt-the Race that is Outcast of the World. They were several in number, and two or three separated from the group, and approached our party, with the common cry of

Tell your fortune, gentlemen! only cross my hand with a small sixpence."-" Bonny lady! pretty lady! let me tell you your sweetheart's name." One, seemingly more old and infirm than the others, but who, I discovered, spite of the hood that was drawn almost entirely over her face, possessed the most brilliant and flashing eyes imaginable, approached Viviana and myself.

"Let me tell you your fortune, pretty lady," she said, addressing the former.

Viviana shook her head decidedly.

"Let me look at your hand, good gentleman," the gipsy crone continued, turning to me as if she would not be denied. "I can read the stars! and can tell ye your fortune blithelyonly cross my hand with a silver half-crown, and you shall have half-a-dozen wives, and all as beautiful as the moon."

66

"Pshaw!" I cried, annoyed at her pertinacity. I can tell you your fortune, if you wish to know it; for if you do not leave this mode of life, you will find yourself somewhat higher in the world than you bargained for-do you comprehend me?" added I, pointing significantly to the branch of a neighbouring tree.

"Those who look high," responded the woman with peculiar emphasis, " mount high; but those who only love the ground, never rise above it."

I felt an indescribable thrill at the gipsy's words, for they so intimately applied to my own ambitious hopes in literature.

"But you really must hear your fortune, Mr. Fortescue," cried several voices. "You really must-you do not know what may be in store for you!"

Aye but I do," replied I; "a tissue of wild improbability and untruth, without a particle of sense or

"Now do," exclaimed they; and I perforce complied with their persuasions; and after having deposited in the palm of the fortuneteller the necessary donation in the shape of a half-crown, I held out my hand for her inspection. After perusing, or pretending to peruse it earnestly for some seconds, she raised her forefinger, as if to command attention, and then, with an impressiveness that I could scarcely have conceived, and at any other time would have taken some shame to myself for yielding to, she uttered