of the seventeenth century, although Roman Catholic nations have become infidel, and returned to Popery, they have never become Protestant. And even if the crimes of Victor Emmanuel should be as beneficial to Italy, as those of Henry VIII. and William III. were to England, we must not forget the laws of morality and justice. The suspicions felt everywhere, the taxation attendant upon the maintenance of large military establishments, and the loss of those restraints by which the ambition of sovereigns has hitherto been kept in check, are, too, a heavy penalty for Europe to pay for the union of Italy under one crown.

A MAY RAMBLE.

"What? still at St. Thomas Aquinas ?"

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Aye, still at the Angelic Doctor," is my reply, as for a moment I wearily raise my head from the mighty folio before me, over which my eyes have wandered some two hours or more.

"Then I fear he does not teach you to keep your promises: why, uncle, you promised to walk with me this very afternoon, and here you are chained to that abominable study table: come, you can't resist such weather as this."

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It is a pleasant voice that speaks; that of my nephew, Charles Howard, just fresh from Oxford. At the same time a pleasant boyish face peeps at the sacred study window. The owner of the face is about 17, gay, careless, and I fear somewhat idle; at least his slouched straw hat and generally easy attire, together with a decided perfume of cigar, combine to suggest such as being his character. He has come to my vicarage for the vacation, declaring himself knocked up with work. At the same time he displays an amount of energy and vivacity not generally beheld in an invalid. How happy he looks as he stands on the lawn, just peering over my half-closed window; and oh! how inexpressibly dusty and close the study feels just at this moment; how cramped and crabbed my fine folio edition of St. Thomas Aquinas; how ridiculous my pencil notes, the labour of two hours. A May walk? Be it so: I look down my memoranda; all has been done which was to be done: the school and old women visitedthe sick looked after-my letters written.

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Very well, Charley, I will be with you in one moment," and so we set off for our May ramble. What a day! birds singing, cattle lowing, the mowers whistling, and the sun shining. Ah! this is worth all the frost of winter, all the cold and sleet and rain of early spring: this is indeed a day on which it is a privilege to live. And yet we are in a part of the country usually maligned and abused as the very type of ugliness, I mean North Wilts. Crudwell, is my vicarage-Crudwell-cum-Hankerton, to give it its full style and title; but, in spite of the stone walls and generally level aspect, I think you will agree with me, reader, that the enjoyment of scenery depends almost as much on the mind of the beholder as on its own intrinsic merits. All turns on the degree in which we have learned to use our eyes. In my idea, one of the greatest benefactors of the human race was the charming authoress of that most charming little tale, "Eyes and no Eyes," and I only wish that some beneficent millionaire would

print and distribute thousands of copies in every place of public resort, for the benefit of the blind and deaf.

Come, Charlie, let us start from the old well-famous for its antiquity, and noticed even in Domesday Book. Here it is, a small pool by the wayside, in a humble stone trough, while the spring itself apparently passes under a large farmyard on the left. It is sparkling and clear, and has three remarkable qualities: the first being that from which it derives its name of Crud or Curd-well, namely, the power of curdling milk with which it is mixed: the second, that of never being frozen in winter; the last, that of being an admirable specific for diseases of the eyes.

Oxford readers will recal to mind the Holy Well of Holywell in St. Cross Parish. It has been used for medicinal purposes in my recollection, though now it is chiefly frequented by frogs and toads as a watering place, with whose constitutions, judging from their size, it appears to agree.

Leaving the well on our left, we come to a very pretty lane, fragrant with May blossoms, and green with ferns of several kinds, the Bracken, as usual, predominating. A sharp turn through a gate, and one rude stone stile, takes us into a large field, called by the rather remarkable name of Great Paradise. As at present commentators disagree about the veritable site of the original Eden, it is impossible to say whether this resembles it or not, but in winter I cannot say that its appearance is anything but bleak and desolate in the extreme. Now, however, it is very pleasant, all dappled by snowy crow's-foot, cowslips, and cuckoo flowers. Look down on the right at that field with its noble show of apple and pear trees. Is it not a glorious sheet of white and pink blossoms, recalling to one agreeably the "Spring" of Millais in the 1859 Exhibition? The yellow of the foreground, the grey-brown hay, the white of the orchard, and then the deep blue sky beyond, altogether form a glowing piece of colour for artists to admire, and Mr. Ruskin to describe. That long low range of hills in front is the chain of the Marlborough Hills towards Swindon. The centre is well marked out by the slender column of Lord Lansdowne's monument, beneath which you may trace in the irregular light patch one of those remarkable white horses which we meet with every here and there. This is but a small one, however, a mere pony, in fact, compared with some of the more celebrated.

Ha! what has Trump found? a field mouse, I declare; and, unfortunate little animal, quite dead. You were rather too strong an antagonist, my good friend, for this soft-furred little fellow, and I should recommend you, as the school boys do, to "hit one of your own size." Is it not a sweet little thing, with its delicate red fur and pink hands and nails? But its tail has not been amputated, as you think, nor can we lay that to Trump's door. Nature it is who has been thus sparing, and curtailed its tail to those small dimensions. A good field of speculation for my Lord Monboddo to build theories upon. Altogether our little friend must have been first-cousin to the celebrated country mouse of the Fables. You can scarcely imagine, however, the power of mischief which resides in those delicate teeth and nails. With these they eat and destroy shrubs and young plants, and altogether incur the fierce anger of the British farmer. Turn your way, my dear Sir, towards that pool, and unless I am very much mistaken we shall see some newts, efts, or, in country phraseology, effats; great friends and pets of mine. I thought so; look at that black lizard-like object floating contentedly at the top of the water, and occasion

ally paddling with his pretty little hands; that is the eft. Just stir the water with your stick, and you will see the lovely prismatic colors of his waving crest. Is he not pretty? and is it not a shame to denounce them as mischievous and poisonous reptiles? Mischief they cannot do, and as for poison, they have it not. I once kept half a dozen in a bason of water, at the risk of being put down as a madman, but, alas! being unacquainted with eft nature and habits, I was unable to discover any food which seemed to tempt them. Luscious red worms they despised, bread crumbs they took no notice of, and so at length my dear pets had to be discarded, though from their liveliness and rapid motions I think they enjoyed themselves. This little pool, with its clear waters and garden of deep green weeds, I call my rustic aquarium, and prefer it to any combination of mud, stones, weeds, fish, and bad smells, that I ever saw. Can you not imagine, as you look down into its limpid depths, groups of tiny mermaids, to speak Hibernicé-sitting among the softly undulating weeds and bowers, combing their paly green or yellow locks, and chanting, of course, Tennyson's very charming song? At least, this is a delightful place for subaqueous fairies who might float about in boats of rushes, and so indulge in deeds of "derring-do" against their enemies, the crocodile efts. I would fain believe it, and cannot quite abandon my pet pool to the frogs and beetles.

Let us move on towards that copse in which the dogs are so busily hunting about. There now, is not that a sight worth coming to see? the sun shining behind that ridge of furs, called Oaksey Wood, which covers the somewhat steep rise: see how the old brown wood, not yet arrayed in the green of summer, glows like molten gold; all the delicate points and spirelets glistening and shining, look like the huge dorsal crest of some antediluvian monster which has laid down to rest.

Charlie suggests that we should follow the example of the pre-Adamite monster and recline our limbs, somewhat weary with the steep ascent. It is a luxurious idea, for the Angelic Doctor has made me feel slumbrous, and one might have a worse couch than "Star of Bethlehem;" so I repose and descant learnedly to my nephew upon the advantages of systematic studya discourse which I will spare you, O good reader, trusting you do not need it, but duly devote yourselves to the pages of the Parochial Magazine.

The morning dawned-the woods were still :

"They will win back your thoughts to earth As the night her shades withdrew, again,