schools what and how to observe. Especially in the country should they be encouraged to make collections of common objects, animal, vegetable, and mineral. They should also be taught to recognise indigenous British birds and beasts, and to send in notes as to what they have observed of their habits. Such studies tend to sharpen the natural faculties, while they humanize the intellect.

The publishers desire in this place to acknowledge the kindness of Lord Selborne in adding some valuable Notes to the chapter on the Antiquities of Selborne, and allowing to be made for its illustration drawings of some curiosities found on his estate.

To Mr. John Webster Edgehill, Culter, Aberdeen, they are indebted, for his courtesy in placing at their disposal a few original letters of Gilbert White never before published, and now printed in the following pages.

It has only to be added, that the whole of the Engravings have been planned and executed under the able superintendence of the artist, Mr. Philip H. Delamotte.

37, ALBANY STREET, REGENT'S PARK,

December 17, 1875.

FRANK BUCKLAND.

NEW LETTERS.

THE INVITATION: TO SAMUEL BARKER.

NE percuncteris, fundus meus, optime Quincti,
Arvo pascat herum, an baccis opulentet olivæ,
Pomisne et pratis, an amictâ vitibus ulmo
Scribetur tibi forma loquaciter, et situs agri.

See, Selborne spreads her boldest beauties round, The vary'd valley, and the mountain-ground Wildly majestic: what is all the pride Of flats, with loads of ornament supply'd? Unpleasing, tasteless, impotent expence, Compar'd with Nature's rude magnificence.

Oft on some evening, sunny, soft, and still, The Muse shall hand thee to the beech-grown hill, To spend in tea the cool, refreshful hour, Where nods in air the pensile, nest-like bower: Or where the Hermit hangs his straw-clad cell, Emerging gently from the leafy dell: Romantic spot! from whence in prospect lies Whate'er of landscape charms our feasting eyes; The pointed spire, the hall, the pasture-plain, The russet fallow, and the golden grain; The breezy lake that sheds a gleaming light, 'Til all the fading picture fails the sight.

Each to his task: all different ways retire;
Cull the dry stick; call forth the seeds of fire;
Deep fix the nettle's props, a forky row;

Or give with fanning hat one breeze to blow.

Whence is this taste, the furnish'd hall forgot,
To feast in gardens, or th' unhandy grot?
Or novelty with some new charms surprises;
Or from our very shifts some joy arises.

Hark, while below the village bells ring round,
Echo, sweet Nymph, returns the soften'd sound:
But if gusts rise, the rushing forests roar,
Like the tide tumbling on the pebbly shore.

Adown the vale, in lone sequester'd nook,

Where skirting woods imbrown the dimpling brook,
The ruin'd Abbey lies: here wont to dwell (a)
The lazy monk within his cloister'd cell;
While papal darkness brooded o'er the land;
Ere Reformation made her glorious stand:
Still oft at eve belated shepherd-swains
See the cowl'd spectre skim the folded plains.

To the high Temple would my stranger go, (B)
Whose mountain-brow commands the groves below?
In Jewry first this order found a name,

When madding Croisades set the world in flame;
When western climes, urg'd on by Pope and priest,
Pour'd forth their millions o'er the delug'd east:
Luxurious Knights, ill suited to defy

To mortal fight Turcestan chivalry.

Nor be the Parsonage by the Muse forgot:
The partial bard admires his native spot;
Smit with its beauties lov'd, as yet a child,
Unconscious why, its 'scapes grotesque and wild:
High on a mound th' exalted gardens stand;
Beneath, deep vallies scoop'd by Nature's hand!

(a.) The ruins of a Priory founded by Peter de Rupibus, Bishop of Winton.

(3.) The remains of a supposed lodge belonging to the Knights Templars.

Now climb the steep, drop now your eye below,
Where round the verdurous village orchards blow;
There, like a picture, lies my lowly seat

A rural, shelter'd, unobserv'd retreat.

Me, far above the rest, Selbornian scenes,
The pendent forest, and the mountain-greens,

Strike with delight: . . . there spreads the distant view
That gradual fades, 'til sunk in misty blue:

Here Nature hangs her slopy woods to sight,

Rills purl between, and dart a wavy light.

When deep'ning shades obscure the face of day,
To yonder bench leaf-shelter'd let us stray,
To hear the drowzy dor come brushing by
With buzzing wing; or the field-cricket cry;
To see the feeding bat glance thro' the wood;
Or catch the distant falling of the flood:
While high in air, and poised upon his wings
Unseen, the soft enamour'd wood-lark sings: (7)
These, Nature's works, the curious mind employ,
Inspire a soothing, melancholy joy :

As fancy warms a pleasing kind of pain

Steals o'er the cheek, and thrills the creeping vein!
Each rural sight, each sound, each smeil combine;
The tinkling sheep-bell, or the breath of kine;
The new-mown hay that scents the swelling breeze;
Or cottage-chimney smoking thro' the trees.

The chilling night-dews fall: . . . . away, retire,
What time the glow-worm lights her amorous fire. (8)

DEAR SAM,

Selborne: Nov: 3: 1774.

When I sat down to write to you in verse, my whole design was to shew you at once how easy a thing it might be with a little care for a Nephew to excell his Uncle in the

(y.) In hot summer nights woodlarks soar to a prodigious height, and hang singing in the air.

(8.) The light of the glow-worm is a signal to her paramour, a slender dusky scarab.

business of versification: but as you have fully answered that intent by your late excellent lines; you must for the future excuse my replying in the same way, and make some allowance for the difference of our ages.

However, when at any time you find yr muse propitious, I shall always rejoice to see a copy of y' performance; and shall be ready to commend; and what is more rare, yet more sincere, even to object and criticize where there is occasion.

A little turn for English poetry is no doubt a pretty accomplishment for a young Gent: and will not only enable him the better to read and relish our best poets; but will, like dancing to the body, have an happy influence even on his prose compositions. Our best poets have been our best prose-writers: of this assertion Dryden and Pope are notorious instances. It would be in vain to think of saying much here on the art of versification: instead of the narrow limits of a letter such a subject would require a large volume. However, I may say in few words, that the way to excell is to copy only from our best writers. The great grace of poetry consists in a perpetual variation of y cadences: if possible no two lines following ought to have their pause at the same foot. Another beauty should not be passed over, and that is the use of throwing the sense and pause into the third line, which adds a dignity and freedom to yr expressions. Dryden introduced this practice, and carryed it to great perfection: but his successor Pope, by his over exactness, corrected away that noble liberty, and almost reduced every sentence within the narrow bounds of a couplet. Alliteration, or the art of introducing words beginning with the same letter in the same or following line, has also a fine effect when managed with discretion. Dryden and Pope practised this art with wonderful success. As, for example, where you say “The polish'd beetle," . . the epithet "burnish'd" would be better for the reason above. But then you must avoid affectation in this case, and let the alliteration slide-in as it were without design: and this secret will make your lines appear bold and nervous.

There are also in poetry allusions, similes, and a thousand nameless graces, the efficacy of which nothing can make you sensible of but the careful reading of our best poets, and a nice