The ancient manor of West Wickham was vested in sir Samuel Lennard, bart., from whom it passed to his daughter Mary, the present dowager lady Farnaby, who resides in the manor-house, and with whose permission we were permitted a look at the hall of the mansion, which contains in the windows some painted remains of armorial bearings on glass, removed from the windows of the church. A view in Hasted's "History of Kent" represents the towers of this mansion to have been surmounted by sextagon cones, terminated at the top with the fleur de lis, a bearing in the family arms; these pinnacles have been taken down, the roofs of the towers flattened, and the walls castellated. By a charter of free warren, in the eleventh year of Edward II., a weekly market was granted to West Wickham, but it is no longer held, and Wickham, as a town, has lost its importance.

The manor-house and church are distant from the village about half a mile, with an intervening valley beautifully pleasant, in which is a road from Hayes Common to Addington and Croydon. The church is on a hill, with an old lich-gate, like that at Beckenham, though not so large. At this spot W. sat down, and made the sketch here represented by his graver. Although I had been in the edifice before, I could not avoid another visit to it. At the north-east corner, near the communion table, are many ancient figured tiles sadly neglected, loose in the pavement; some displaced and lying one upon the other. Worst of all, and I mean offence to no one, but surely there is blame somewhere,-the ancient stone font, which is in all respects perfect, has been removed from its original situation, and is thrown into a corner. its place, at the west end, from a nick (not a niche) between the seats, a little trivetlike iron bracket swings in and out, and upon it is a wooden hand-bowl, such as scullions use in a kitchen sink; and in this hand-bowl, of about twelve inches diameter, called a font, I found a common blueand-white Staffordshire-ware halfpint basin. It might be there still; but, while inveighing to my friend W. against the depravation of the fine old font, and the substitution of such a paltry modicum, in my vehemence I fractured the crockery. I felt that I was angry, and, perhaps, I sinned; but I made restitution beyond the extent that would replace the baptismal slopbasin.

In

The fragments of old painted glass in the windows of this church are really fine.

The best are, St. Anne teaching the virgin to read; whole lengths of St. Christopher wading, with the infant Saviour bearing the globe in his hand; an elderly female saint, very good; and a skeleton with armour before him. Some years ago, collectors of curiosities paid their attentions to these windows, and carried off specimens: since then wires have been put up on the outside. On the walls are hung pennons, with an iron helmet, sword, spurs, gloves, and other remains of a funereal pageant. A small organ stands on the floor: the partitions of some of the pewings are very ancient

Topography.

GODSTOW NUNNERY,'

NEAR OXFOrd.

The wild-flower waves, in lonely bloom,
On Godstow's desolated wall:
There thin shades flit through twilight gloom,
And murmured accents feebly fall.
The aged hazel nurtures there
Its hollow fruit, so seeming fair,
And lightly throws its humble shade,
Where Rosamonda's form is laid,

The rose of earth, the sweetest flower
That ever graced a monarch's breast,
In vernal beauty's loveliest hour,

Beneath that sod was laid to rest.
In vain the bower of love around
The Dædalean path was wound:
Alas! that jealous hate should find
The clue for love alone designed!

The venomed bowl,-the mandate dire,-
The menaced steel's uplifted glare,-
The tear, that quenched the blue eye's fire,-
The humble, ineffectual prayer:—
All these shall live, recorded long
In tragic and romantic song,
And long a moral charm impart,
To melt and purify the heart.
A nation's gem, a monarch's pride,
In youth, in loveliness, she died:
The morning sun's ascending ray
Saw none so fair, so blest, so gay:
Ere evening came, her funeral knell
Was tolled by Godstow's convent bell.

The marble tomb, the illumined shrine,

Their ineffectual splendour gave: Where slept in earth the maid divine, The votive silk was seen to wave. To her, as to a martyred saint, His vows the weeping pilgrim poured:

1

The drooping traveller, sad and faint,
Knelt there, and found his strength restored:
To that fair shrine, in solemn hour,

Fend youths and blushing maidens came,
And gathered from its mystic power

A brighter, purer, holier flame:
The lightest heart with awe could feel
The charm her hovering spirit shed:
But superstition's impious zeal

Distilled its venom on the dead!

The illumined shrine has passed away;
The sculptured stone in dust is laid:
But when the midnight breezes play
Amid the barren hazel's shade,
The lone enthusiast, lingering near,

The youth, whom slighted passion grieves,
Through fancy's magic spell may hear

A spirit in the whispering leaves; And dimly see, while mortals sleep,

Sad forms of cloistered maidens move, The transient dreams of life to weep, The fading flowers of youth and love!

This nunnery derives its chief interest from having been the burial-place of Rosamond. The principal circumstances of her story are thus related by Stowe: "Rosamond, the fair daughter of Walter lord Clifford, concubine to Henry II., (poisoned by queen Eleanor, as some thought,) died at Woodstock, (A. D. 1177,) where king Henry had made for her a house of wonderful working; so that no man or woman might come to her, but he that was instructed by the king, or such as were right secret with him touching the matter. This house, after some, was named Labyrinthus, or Dædalus work, which was wrought like unto a knot in a garden, called a máze: but it was commonly said, that lastly the queen came to her by a clue of thread, or silk, and so dealt with her, that she lived not long after but when she was dead, she was buried at Godstow, in a house of nuns, beside Oxford, with these verses upon her tomb:

Hic jacet in tumbâ, Rosa mundi, non Rosa munda :
Non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet."

After her death, she appears to have been considered as a saint, from the following inscription on a stone cross, which, Leland says, was erected near the nunnery:

Qui meat huc, oret, signumque salutis adoret, Utque sibi detur veniam, Rosamunda precetur, A fanatical priest, Hugh, bishop of Lincoln, visiting the nunnery at Godstow, and observing a tomb covered with silk, and splendidly illuminated, which he found, on inquiry, to be the tomb of Rosamond, commanded her to be taken up, and buried without the church, lest the Christian religion should grow into contempt. This brutal order was instantly obeyed: but “ the chaste sisters," says Speed," gathered her bones, and put them in a perfumed bag, enclosing them so in lead, and laid them again in the church, under a fair large grave-stone, about whose edges a fillet of brass was inlaid, and thereon written her name and praise: these bones were at the suppression of the nunnery so found.”*

ST. MARY MAGDALEN, BERMONDSEY, SURREY.

In the parish register of this church is the following very singular entry :

"The forme of a solemn vowe made betwixt a man and his wife, having been long absent, through which occasion the her again as followeth : woman being married to another man, took

THE MAN'S SPEECH.

BATHING.

'I do not know any author who has reckoned man among the amphibious race of animals; neither do I know any animal that better deserves it. Man is lord of the little ball on which he treads, one half of which, at least, is water. If we do not allow him to be amphibious, we deprive him of half his sovereignty. He justly bears that name, who can live in the water. Many of the disorders incident to the human frame are prevented, and others cured, both by fresh and salt bathing; so that we may properly remark, "He lives in the water who can find life, nay, even health in that friendly element."

The greatest treasure on earth is health; but a treasure, of all others, the least valued by the owner. Other property is best rated when in possession, but this can only be

rated when lost. We sometimes observe a man, who, having lost this inestimable jewel, seeks it with an ardour equal to its worth; but when every research by land is eluded, he fortunately finds it in the water. Like the fish, he pines away upon shore, but, like that, recovers again in the deep.

The cure of disease among the Romans, by bathing, is supported by many authorities; among others, by the number of baths frequently discovered, in which pleasure, in that warm climate, bore a part. But this practice seemed to decline with Roman freedom, and never after held the eminence it deserved. Can we suppose the physician slept between the disease and the bath to hinder their junction; or, that he lawfully holds by prescription the tenure of sickness in fee ?*

Rural Sports.

ANGLING.

When genial spring a living warmth bestows,
And o'er the year her verdant mantle throws,
No swelling inundation hides the grounds,
But crystal currents glide within their bounds;
The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake,
Float in the sun, and skim along the lake,
With frequent leap they range the shallow streams,
Their silver coats reflect the dazzling beams.
Now let the fisherman his toils prepare,
And arm himself with every wat'ry snare;
His hooks, his lines peruse with careful eye,
Increase his tackle, and his rode retie.

*W. Hutton.

When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain, Troubling the streams with swift-descending rain, And waters tumbling down the mountain's side, Bear the loose soil into the swelling tide; Then, soon as vernal gales begin to rise, And drive the liquid burthen thro' the skies, The fisher to the neighbouring current speeds, Whose rapid surface purls, unknown to weeds; Upon a rising border of the brook He sits him down, and ties the treach'rous hook; Now expectation cheers his eager thought, His bosom glows with treasures yet uncaught; Before his eyes a banquet seems to stand,

Where every guest applauds his skilful hand.

Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws, Which down the murm'ring current gently flows; When if or chance, or hunger's pow'rful sway, Directs the roving trout this fatal way,

He greedily sucks in the twining bait,
And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat:

Now, happy fisherman, now twitch the line!
How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!
Cast on the bank, he dies with gasping pains,
And trickling blood his silver mail distains.

You must not ev'ry worm promiscuous use,
Judgment will tell thee proper bait to choose;
The worm that draws a long immodʼrate size

The trout abhors, and the rank morsel flies;
And if too small, the naked fraud's in sight,
And fear forbids, while hunger does invite.
Those baits will best reward the fisher's pains,
Whose polish'd tails a shining yellow stains:
Cleanse them from filth, to give a tempting gloss,
Cherish the sully'd reptile race with moss;
Amid the verdant bed they twine, they toil,

And from their bodies wipe their native soil.

And shallow rivers flow with silver streams,

But when the sun displays his glorious beams,

Then the deceit the scaly breed survey,
Bask in the sun, and look into the day.
You now a more delusive art must try,
And tempt their hunger with the curious fly.

To frame the little animal, provide All the gay hues that wait on female pride: Let nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire The shining bellies of the fly require; The peacock's plumes thy tackle must not fail, Nor the dear purchase of the sable's tail. Each gaudy bird some slender tribute brings, And lends the growing insect proper wings: Silks of all colours must their aid impart, And ev'ry fur promote the fisher's art. So the gay lady, with expensive care, Borrows the pride of land, of sea, and air; Furs, pearls, and plumes, the glittering thing displays, Dazzles our eyes, and easy hearts betrays.