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even as locks answer to keys. It was not wonderful that in such a haunted solitude, with such a haunted heart, Joanne should see angelic visions, and hear angelic voices. These voices whispered to her the duty, imposed upon herself, of delivering France. Five years she listened to these monitory voices with internal struggles. At length she could resist no longer. Doubt gave way; and she left her home in order to present herself at the Dauphin's court.
The education of this poor girl was mean according to the present standard; was ineffably grand, according to a purer philosophic standard; and only not good for our age, because for us it would be unattainable. She read nothing, for she could not read; but she had heard others read parts of the Roman martyrology. She wept in sympathy with the sad Misereres of the Romish chaunting; she rose to heaven with the glad triumphant Gloria in Excelcis: she drew her comfort and her vital strength from the rites of her church. But, next after these spiritual advantages, she owed most to the advantages of her situation. The fountain of Domrémy was on the brink of a boundless forest; and it was haunted to that degree by fairies that the parish priest (curé) was obliged to read mass there once a-year, in order to keep them in any decent bounds. Fairies are important, even in a statistical view; certain weeds mark poverty in the soil, fairies mark its solitude. As surely as the wolf retires before cities, does the fairy sequester herself from the haunts of licensed victuallers. A village is too much for her nervous delicacy at most, she can tolerate a distant view of a hamlet. We may judge, therefore, by the uneasiness and extra trouble which they gave to the parson, in what strength the fairies mustered at Domrémy, and, by a satisfactory consequence, how thinly sown with men and women must have been that region even in its inhabited spots. But the forests of Domrémy-those were the glories of the land: for, in them abode mysterious powers and ancient secrets that towered into tragic strength. "Abbeys there were, and abbey windows, dim and dimly seen as Moorish temples of the Hindoos, " that exercised even princely power both in Lorraine and in the German Diets. These had their sweet bells that pierced the forests for many a league at matins or vespers, and each its own dreamy legend. Few enough, and scattered enough, were these abbeys, in no degree to disturb the deep solitude of the region; many enough to spread a net-work or awning of Christian sanctity over what else might have seemed a heathen wilderness. This sort of religious talisman being secured, a man the most afraid of ghosts (like myself, suppose, or the reader), becomes armed into courage to wander for days in their sylvan recesses. The mountains of the Vosges on the eastern frontier of France, have never attracted much notice from Europe, except in 1813-14, for a few brief months, when they fell within Napoleon's line of defence against the Allies. But they are interesting for this, amongst other features--that they do not, like
some loftier ranges, repel woods: the forests and they are on sociable terms. Live and let live is their motto. For this reason, in part, these tracts in Lorraine were a favourite hunting ground with the Carlovingian princes. About six hundred years before Joanna's childhood, Charlemagne was known to have hunted there. That, of itself, was a grand incident in the traditions of a forest or a chace. In these vast forests, also, were to be found (if the race was not extinct) those mysterious fawns that tempted solitary hunters into visionary and perilous pursuits. Here was seen, at intervals, that ancient stag who was already nine hundred years old, at the least, but possibly a hundred or two more, when met by Charlemagne ; and the thing was put beyond doubt by the inscription upon his golden collar. I believe Charlemagne knighted the stag; and, if ever he is met again by a king, he ought to be made an earl-or, being upon the marches of France, a marquess. Observe, I don't absolutely vouch for all these things: my own opinion varies. On a fine breezy forenoon I am audaciously sceptical; but as twilight sets in, my credulity becomes equal to anything that could be desired. And I have heard candid sportsmen declare that, outside of these very forests near the Vosges, they laughed loudly at all the dim tales connected with their haunted solitudes; but, on reaching a spot notoriously eighteen miles deep within them, they agreed with Sir Roger de Coverley that a good deal might be said on both sides.
Such traditions, or any others that (like thə stag) connect distant generations with each other, are, for that cause, sublime; and the sense of the shadowy, connected with such appearances that reveal themselves or not according to circumstances, leaves a colouring of sanctity over ancient forests, even in those minds that utterly reject the legend as a fact.
But, apart from all distinct stories of that order, in any solitary frontier between two great empires, as here, for instance, or in the desert between Syria and the Euphrates, there is an inevitable tendency, in minds of any deep sensibility to people the solitudes with phantom images of powers that were of old so vast. Joanna, therefore, in her quiet occupation of a shepherdess, would be led continually to brood over the political condition of her country, by the traditions of the past no less than by the mementoes of the local present.
M. Michelet, indeed, says that La Pucelle was not a shepherdess. I beg his pardon: she was. What he rests upon, I guess pretty well: it is the evidence of a woman called Haumette, the most confidential friend of Joanna. Now, she is a good witness, and a good girl, and I like her ; for she makes a natural and affectionate report of Joanna's ordinary life. But still, however good she may be as a witness, Joanna is better; and she, when speaking to the Dauphin, calls herself in the Latin report Bergereta. Even Haumette confesses that Joanna tended sheep in her girlhood. And I believe, that, if Miss Haumette
were taking coffee alone with me this very evening (February 12, 1847)—in which there would be no subject for scandal or for maiden blushes, because I am an intense philosopher, and Miss H. would be hard upon 450 years old-she would admit the following comment upon her evidence to be right. A Frenchman, about thirty years ago, M. Simond, in his Travels, mentioned incidentally the following hideous scene as one steadily observed and watched by himself in France at a period some trifle before the French Revolution :-A peasant was ploughing; and the team that drew his plough was a donkey and a woman. Both were regularly harnessed: both pulled alike. This is bad enough but the Frenchman adds that, in distributing his lashes, the peasant was obviously desirous of being impartial: or, if either of the yoke-fellows had a right to complain, certainly it was not the donkey. Now, in any country, where such degradation of females | could be tolerated by the state of manners, a woman of delicacy would shrink from acknowledging, either for herself or her friend, that she had ever been addicted to any mode of labour not strictly domestic; because, if once owning herself a prædial servant, she would be sensible that this confession extended by probability in the hearer's thoughts to having incurred indignities of this horrible kind. Haumette clearly thinks it more dignified for Joanna to have been darning the stockings of her horny-hoofed father, Monsieur D'Arc, than keeping sheep, lest she might then be suspected of having ever done something worse. But, luckily, there was no danger of that: Joanna never was in service; and my opinion is that her father should have mended his own stockings, since probably he was the party to make the holes in them, as many a better man than D'Arc does; meaning by that not myself, because, though certainly a better man than D'Arc, I protest against doing anything !of the kind. If I lived even with Friday in Juan Fernandez, either Friday must do all the darning, or else it must go undone. The better men that I meant were the sailors in the British Navy, every man of whom mends his own stockings. Who else is to do it? Do you suppose, reader, that the junior lords of the Admiralty are under articles to darn for the Navy?
The reason, meantime, for my systematic hatred of D'Are is this. There was a story current in France before the Revolution, framed to ridicule the pauper aristocracy, who happened to have long pedigrees and short rent rolls, viz., that a head of such a house, dating from the Crusades, was overheard saying to his son, a Chevalier of St. Louis, "Chevalier, as-tu donné au cochon à manger?" Now, it is clearly made out by the surviving evidence, that D'Arc would much have preferred continuing to say-" Ma fille, as-tu donné au cochon à manger ?" to saying "Pucelle d'Orléans, as-tu sauvé les fleurs-de-lys?" There is an old English copy of verses which argues
"If the man, that turnips cries, Cry not when his father diesVOL. XIV.NO. CLIX.
Then 'tis plain the man had rather Have a turnip than his father."
I cannot say that the logic of these verses was ever entirely to my satisfaction. I do not see my way through it as clearly as could be wished. But I see my way most clearly through D'Arc; and the result is that he would greatly have preferred not merely a turnip to his father, but the saving a pound or so of bacon to saving the Oriflamme of France.
It is probable (as M. Michelet suggests) that the title of Virgin, or Pucelle, had in itself, and apart from the miraculous stories about her, a secret power over the rude soldiery and partisan chiefs of that period; for, in such a person, they saw a representative manifestation of the Virgin Mary, who, in a course of centuries, had grown steadily upon the popular heart.
As to Joanna's supernatural detection of the Dauphin (Charles VII.) amongst three hundred lords and knights, I am surprised at the credulity which could ever lend itself to that theatrical juggle. Who admires more than myself the sublime enthusiasm, the rapturous faith in herself, of this pure creature? But I admire not stage artifices, which not La Pucelle, but the Court, must have arranged; nor can surrender myself a dupe to a conjuror's leger-de-main, such as may be seen every day for a shilling. Southey's "Joan of Arc" was published in 1796. Twenty years after, talking with Southey, I was surprised to find him still owning a secret bias in favour of Joan, founded on her detection of the Dauphin. The story, for the benefit of the reader new to the case, was this:-La Pucelle was first made known to the Dauphin, and presented to his Court, at Chinon and here came her first trial. She was to find out the royal personage amongst the whole ark of clean and unclean creatures. Failing in this coup d'essai, she would not simply disappoint many a beating heart in the glittering crowd that on different motives yearned for her success, but she would ruin herself and, as the oracle within had told her, would ruin France. Our own sovereign lady Victoria rehearses annually a trial not so severe in degree, but the same in kind. She "pricks" for sheriffs. Joanna pricked for a king. But observe the difference: our own lady pricks for two men out of three; Joanna for one man out of three hundred. Happy Lady of the islands and the orient!-she can go astray in her choice only by one half; to the extent of one half she must have the satisfaction of being right. And yet, even with these tight limits to the misery of a boundless discretion, permit me, liege Lady, with all loyalty, to submit-that now and then you prick with your pin the wrong man. But the poor child from Domrémy, shrinking under the gaze of a dazzling court-not because dazzling (for in visions she had seen those that were more so), but because some of them wore a scoffing smile on their features how should she throw her line into so deep a river to angle for a king, where many a gay creature was sporting that masqueraded as kings in dress? Nay, even more than any true king would have done : for,
says, by way of trying the virgin's magnetic sympathy with royalty,
66 on the throne,
I the while mingling with the menial throng,
in Southey's version of the story, the Dauphin | sableness of a coronation prevails widely in England. But, certainly, it was the Dauphin's interest to support the popular notion, as he meant to use the services of Joanna. For, if he were king already, what was it that she could do for him beyond Orleans? And above all, if he were king without a coronation, and without the oil from the sacred ampulla, what advantage was yet open to him by celerity above his competitor the English boy? Now was to be a race for a coronation: he that should win that race, carried the superstition of France along with him. Trouble us not, lawyer, with your quillets. We are illegal blockheads; so thoroughly without law, that we don't know even if we have a right to be block
This usurper is even crowned: "the jewell'd crown shines on a menial's head." But really, that is "un peu fort;" and the mob of spectators might raise a scruple whether our friend the jackdaw upon the throne, and the Dauphin himself, were not grazing the shins of treason. For the Dauphin could not lend more than belonged to him. According to the popular notion, he had no crown for himself, but, at most, a petit écu, worth thirty pence; con-heads; and our mind is made up-that the first sequently none to lend, on any pretence whatever, until the consecrated Maid should take him to Rheims. This was the popular notion in France. The same notion as to the indispen
man drawn from the oven of coronation at Rheims, is the man that is baked into a king. All others are counterfeits, made of base Indian mealdamaged by sea-water.
(To be continued.)
HOWITT'S HOMES AND HAUNTS OF THE POETS.*
THIS work forms an agreeable sequel to Mr. | vellous youth; and how he does, in many an aniHowitt's book, entitled " Visits to Remarkable mated page, vindicate the right of poets and Places"-visits, in other words, to the Homes literary men to liberal rewards in hard cash, as and Haunts of Poets and other distinguished well as post obits on fame and posterity-or, in men, and to the scenes of memorable events. other words, to riches and immortality! Why Strongly, as if by anticipation, as Mr. Howitt should not the poets found families, and obtain protests against the idea, his new book is, if not large estates, and be exalted by station and title, the actual lives of the most eminent British as well as statesmen, warriors, merchants, and poets, at least, the likest thing possible to such lawyers? We can give no satisfactory answer to a performance; with, however, the attractive and Mr. Howitt's interrogatory; but, at the same novel addition of minute descriptions of their time, would advise every young man devoting abodes, generally made from personal survey, and himself to the unthrifty calling of poetry, to make with those feelings of admiration and profound up his mind to its prescribed, unsubstantial, but reverence which lend grace and charm to the still glorious rewards. The world will never subject, however slightly it may be treated. grudge to the poor the reversion of Heaven-nor to the, poets the rich inheritance of an interminable earthly fame. All besides, we apprehend, must be left to time and chance-to Time, which rescued the "Paradise Lost," and the " Lyrical Ballads," from neglect to Chance, which made "The Days" of Du Bartas the most popular poem of its age, as "The Course of Time," if one may judge by numerous editions quickly sold off, is of ours.
Some of the lives or notices are necessarily meagre, from the very multiplicity of the series. An account of all the poets of distinguished eminence, from Chaucer to Tennyson inclusive, must, however slightly given, be no small literary feat; and if the reader is ever disposed to complain of scanty or imperfect information, he should call to mind the magnitude of the undertaking. For here we find criticism, biography, and the author's own opinions-in place and out of place-just and unjust besides the ostensible object of the volumes, and a good deal of what Mr. Howitt terms "blowing of the trumpet of a generous indignation," into the adder-ear of a perverse generation. This, in some of his works, is a rather favourite pastime with Mr. Howitt; though, when in season, as it often is, it becomes a useful and commendable duty. How he does vituperate Horace Walpole, and reproach the whole English nation (of which one-half had never heard even the name of Chatterton), as the sole authors of all the "calamities" of that ill-fated and mar
Mr. Howitt discourses on this topic energetically and almost passionately, though, we fear, to no good end. The world will not be scolded out of its errors, or into the renunciation of its false idols. It is, besides, entitled to praise for late signs of improvement in its treatment of the poets. It better and much more speedily appreciates their respective deserts; though the poets should remember that they form no exception, and would be socially degraded if they did, to the universal law that "Providence helps those that help themselves;" and that every man, whatever his genius, must be the architect of his own
"Homes and Haunts of the most eminent British Poets." By William Howitt. and G. Measom. London: Bentley.
The Illustrations by W.
worldly fortune. It is this great law, which makes so many passages, in the records which Mr. Howitt has drawn up, so very painful, that one would have wished them unwritten, nor proofs so broadly presented of the brightest genius being too often allied with the feeblest powers of self-control, and, at least in earlier life, with a very imperfect development of the moral sentiments.
shares with the authors in this beautiful system of justice and encouragement, and then the whole posse will soon put their heads together, and give back to the author this be done so long as the children, and descendants, his rights, while they take care of their own. But till and nearest successors of the author, are robbed by the State, while the poet and philosopher crown their country with glory, and fill it with happiness; and their country, in return, brands their children with disgrace, and fills them with emptiness-while they go in rags, and the bookseller in broad cloth-in leanness, and the bookseller, endowed by the State with the riches of their ancestors, in jolity and fat-so long let those who are anxious to do honour to the glorious names of our literature, honour them with some show of common sense and common feelHonour Shakspere, indeed! Has he not honoured himself sufficiently?
"In the name of the national reputation, let this wretched and egotistic farce be put down by the good sense of the British public. If these people will not honabstain from insulting their poverty and their neglect by our Shakspere by honouring his family, let them at least this public parade, and this devouring of joints.'
The first portion of a work need not detain us for which the author has prepared himself by diligent study, not only of the accredited or classical lives of the poets, but by collecting all the miscellaneous information which was to be gathering. ed concerning them from every possible source, as well as by pilgrimages extending over the length and breadth of the land. Of Chaucer, he had nothing new to tell; but his visit to the romantic and beautiful Irish home of Spenser, fills a few pages with pleasant description. The haunts of Shakspere in London, much as has been, and Something in this, Mr. Howitt; yet should we will be, said about them, remain nearly conjectu- not like to see our Shakspere and Burns' Clubs ral; and besides, Mr. Howitt had previously led quashed. They are, even in their lowest exhibihis readers to Stratford-on-Avon. What he said tions, a purblind groping after good. Mr. Howitt on that occasion, he still thinks so just, that he is the more eloquent on this subject, as he has treats us to it a second time. As the anniversary been baulked in his good intentions, and crossed of the Shakspere, or of what he calls "The Eat-in his humour. May it not also occur to him and-Swill Clubs," is fast drawing on, we may here that he has perhaps, though with the best moquote an apt specimen of the vein of "virtuous tives, done this poor lad more harm than good? indignation" belonging to our author's idiosyn- He tellserasy, and in which he rather shines-premising that in a poor schoolboy of Stratford he had seen a reputed descendant of Shakspere's sister, Joan Hart, whom he singled out among several lads, from a supposed resemblance to the busts of the poet. "Which," he inquires," of all the hosts of admirers of Shakspere, who have plenty of money, will think of giving that lad an education and a fair chance of raising himself in the world?" Again we quote-
"Many visiters have desired to see the boy thus pointed out, and have made him presents, but he still remains unprovided for. A clergyman, about two years ago, wrote to me from the west of England, expressing the interest he felt in this youth whom he had seen at Stratford, and his anxious desire to have a subscription raised to educate him, and put him into some honourable way of life. He begged me to make a move, in which he would zealously co-operate, to interest a sufficient number of literary and influential individuals to agitate the question, and commence the subscription. I made the attempt, but in vain. Let us trust that that time will come. I will not believe that this great and intellectual nation, which has given an estate and titles to the family of Marlborough, and the same to the families of Wellington, will Shak-refuse all such marks of honour to the Shakspere family. Shall the heroes of the sword alone be rewarded? Shall the heroes of the pen, those far nobler and diviner heroes, be treated with a penniless contempt ? In this nation, the worship of military honours is fast subsiding-the perception of the greatness and beneficence of intellect is fast growing. * ** The money, I have said, which is spent in visiting the trumpery collected as his at Stratford, would have purchased a large estate for the descendants of the Shakspere family. That has not been done, and never will be done; but a penny a piece from every person in this kingdom, who has derived days and months of delight from the pages of Shakspere, would purchase an estate equal to that of Strathfieldsaye, or of Blenheim. What a glorious tribute would this be from the people of England to their great dramatic poet-the greatest dramatic poet in the world! How far would it rise above the tributes to violence and bloodshed! The tribute of a nation's love to pure and god-like intellect! This estate should not be appropriated on the feudal principle of primogeniture; should not be an estate of one, but of the family; should be vested in trustees, chosen by the people, to educate, and honourably settle in the world, every son and daughter of the Shaksperian family; and to support and comfort the old age of the unfortunate and decrepit of it."
"Seven years have gone over since this was written, and what, has been the effect? The Shakspere Club have gone down to Stratford, and feasted and guzzled in honour of Shakspere; and the representatives of spere in the place have been left in their poverty. There seems to be some odd association of ideas in the minds of Englishmen on the subject of doing honour to genius. To reward warriors, and lawyers, and politicians-places, titles, and estates are given. To reward poets and philosophers, the property which they honestly, and with the toil of their whole lives create, is taken from them; and that which should form an estate for their descendants to all posterity, and become a monument of fame to the nation, is conferred on booksellers. The copyright of authors, or, in other words, the right to the property which they made, was taken away in the reign of Queen Anne, for the benefit of literature'-so says the Act. Let the same principle, in God's name, be carried out into all other professions, and we shall soon come to an understanding on the subject. Take a lord's or a squire's land from him and his family for ever, after a given number of years, for the benefit of aristocracy-take the farmer's plough and team, his harrows and his corn, for the benefit of agriculture-take the mill-owner's mills, with all their spinning-jennies and their cotton, and their wool, and their silk, and their own new inventions, for the benefit of manufacturing-take the merchant's ships and their cargoes -the shopkeeper's shop and his stores-t the lawyer's parchment and his fees-the physician's and surgeon's physic and fees, for the benefit of commerce, trade, law, and physic; and let the clergy suffer no injury of neglect in this respect-let their churches, and their glebes, and tithes be taken for the benefit of religion-let them all go
A family may be founded, an estate may be body," and "sent into the world, strong to teach." consolidated, but genius and talent are not de- Little, we have said, remained that was new visable possessions; and who would like to see a to tell of the great poets; but our author relates rich, ennobled dunce representing Shakspere or the old tale in its main incidents in a way that Milton? On this topic Mr. Howitt suffers enthu- must attract listeners who hear it for the first siasm, and perhaps a little temper, to run away time, and even interest those familiar with thể with his judgment; nor is he quite consistent in old histories. Nor has he neglected any fair means occasionally treating with contempt mere vulgar of enhancing the attraction of his records. The station, title, and wealth, while yet complaining life of Addison, for instance, gives us not only that Nature's Aristocracy—the lights of the world | Holland House as it stood when inhabited by -the salt of the earth-are defrauded of their one who, if no eminent poet, does very well rights by that ungrateful world, which they bless to fill the niche of a poet, but presents the and benefit, because titles and estates are not complete interior of that celebrated mansion heaped upon them. Since we are dealing in or temple, as it is now to be seen, and as the censure, we may as well exhaust the ungrateful" Haunt" of Campbell, Moore, Macaulay, Ro theme. In several instances, Mr. Howitt, in his re-gers-and in another sense, of Brougham. ports and revelations, goes rather beyond the line which a man in his circumstances should prescribe to himself; and we are pretty certain that cautious Scottish people at least, will, for some time, be on their guard against the
"Chields amang them takin' notes" for the press, and reporting all their "clatters." Those, too, who obstruct Mr. Howitt's path in his researches or canvass, we would warn to bear in mind the motto of the Clan Chattan. Witness his denunciation of the Tighe family in all its branches, whose neglect of the memory of their accomplished relative, the poetess, would certainly have been more leniently treated had they shown more readiness in obliging their self-introduced literary visiter; whose name, probably, their Boeotian or Irish "ears polite" had never once heard. There is really no good cause for Mr. Howitt being wrathful, or even facetious, at the Honourable Mrs. Tighe happening to "lie in" at the time it suited him to visit Rosanna; or even with her husband, an Irish squire, though his deceased aunt-in-law had been a poetess, declining to leave the superintendence of his bourers, "to be bored and bothered with fellows going about the country, gathering stuff to make a book of." How should any mere Irish squire be expected to have the same appreciation of Mr. Howitt's " high calling" which many a Scottish peasant or poor schoolmaster would have had? His anger is out of proportion to the occasion. Literary gentlemen, whether of the new or old world, when presenting themselves to quiet families having few sympathies either with their tastes or their vocation, in such mode and time as suits their own convenience and personal objects, should be patient under a cold reception, or even an occasional rebuff, and thankful to find, what is too often a tax upon heavy good-nature or politeness, in the great majority of cases, cheerfuly paid. But if hasty and resentful, where he fancies himself or his errand slighted, Mr. Howitt can also be warmly eulogistic. His notice of Mr. Savage Landor, for example, is a continued panegyric. Who could have imagined that Mr. Landor had been not only so very great an author and poet, but so illustrious a benefactor of the race, if not the very greatest man and writer now alive? Or who can equal who compete with him, as he is here represented ?" strong in mind and
Dryden, Pope, and Gray escape rather easily from our author's moral and critical tribunal. Not so Swift, against whom he has imbibed, to the fall, the popular prejudice, if it may not be called popular spite; looking on this strange human anomaly much oftener through the bleared speetacles of Johnson than with the calm, deep, and far-sighted eyes of Sir Walter Scott. Had Mr. Howitt, instead of consulting so many one-sided memoirs and critiques of Swift, taken the trouble to peruse his Journal to Stella alone, and his private letters, not to his noble and literary friends in England, but to those humble individuals in Ireland, whom he really liked and trusted, he would have had the means of far more accurately estimating a character composed of so many discordant elements. As we thus cannot altogether agree with Mr. Howitt's strictures on Swift, we turn to what is less disturbing, merely exclaiming with Hazlitt, "When shall we have such another Rector of Laracor ?” Da vlast
"Laracor is about two English miles from Trim. It lies in a drearyish sort of farming country, and to Swift, la-full of ambition, and accustomed to town life, and the stirring politics of the time, with which he was so much mixed up, one must have thought must prove a perfect desert. There is no village there, nor does there appear to have been one. It was a mere church and parsonage, and huts were very likely scattered about here and there, as they are now. The church still stands; one of the with a low belfrey. The grave-yard is pretty well filled old, plain, barn-like structures of this part of the country, with head-stones and tombs, and some that seem to belong to good families, The church-yard is surrounded by a wall and trees, and in a thatched cottage at the gate lives the sexton.
He said he had built the house himself; and that he was seventy-five or so; and his wife, who had been on the spot fifty years, as old; but that the incumbent, a Mr. Irvine, was eighty-four, and that he was but the third from Swift. Swift held it fifty-five years, the next incumbent nearly as long, and this clergyman thirtysix, or thereabouts. It must, therefore, be a healthy place. The old man complained that all the gentry who used to live near were gone away. His wife used to get £20 at Christmas, for Christmas boxes, and now she does not get even a cup o' tay. Poor creature! and she so fond of the tay! Like his house at Dublin, Swift's house here is gone. There remains only one tall, thick ruin of a wall. What is that?' I asked of a man at a cottage door close by. It's been there from the time of the Dane,' said he. For a moment I imagined he meant the Danes, but soon recollectedmyself. Close to it, at the side of the high road, is a clear spring under some bushes, and margined with great stones, which they call 'the Dane's cellar,' and the Dane's well.' Swift has not lost his popularity yet with the people. He was a very