of it. In fact, as I was afterwards glad to learn, the whole remains just as it was in Pope's time, or very nearly so care has been taken to preserve it.

Just beyond the lion's head, I was a little startled at the sight of a female figure, standing there under the trees, and partially hid by the leaves:-it was a graceful marble statue.

Taking a seat on the rustic chair or bench before mentioned, I looked forth and enjoyed the scene. Just in front, and but a few yards off, was the river -the Thames, between which and the place where I sat was a neatly shaven grass plot, slightly inclining towards the water's edge. The bank of the stream was bordered with willows. In the middle of the grass plot was another fountain, consisting of a large oval basin, in the centre of which was a group of statues-three fat-cheeked cherubs: one of these was leaning on his hand asleep (gone to his native land of dreams), his arm resting on a vessel overturned, out of which the water flows—or was intended to flow, but it was now dry: the other two were carrying on some sort of cherubic talk and play, for the one was on his knee looking up, while the other was shaking his little fore-finger at him in a very menacing manner.

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This must be a sweet place, I thought, of a moonlight evening in summer. And here, doubtless, the poet himself had often sat, while the moonshine slept sweetly on the bank," and the willows waved in the night-breeze, and old Thames in front flowed softly by, murmuring his applause as he passed. As this pleasant picture presented itself to my mind, I quite forgot two circumstances which probably

prevented the realization of any such romantic scenes; one of these was Pope's own miserable state of health, his unfortunate bodily constitution, which rendered his life, it may be said, one long disease: the other, the chilliness of this damp climate, which renders out-of-door enjoyments-especially at night

all but impracticable. In Spain or Italy, or under our own genial skies, such a dream might have been realized.

Long I lingered about the spot, unwilling to take my leave of it. But at length I rose to depart. What was curious,— -as I turned to take a last look at the grotto, the little fountain at the entrance was no longer flowing-it had stopped. "What means this?" said I. Has the guardian naiad become frightened at the presence of a transatlantic stranger, and checked the flow of her stream? Or rather, as

she came forth to salute me at my arrival, and has been pouring her waters for my special entertainment, she now again locks up the fountain at my departure! Satisfying myself with this as the more complimentary and more romantic construction, I accepted it without looking too closely for a scientific explanation of the phenomenon.

This spot was the residence of Pope for the last thirty years of his life. He was enabled to purchase it out of the profits of his famed translation of Homer. Here he wrote the "Essay on Man" and most of the other poems which have given him a place among the English classics. As before remarked, the house in which he dwelt has long since gone, and a second one also. The mansion, in process of erection at the time of my visit, was a

handsome edifice in the Elizabethan style of architecture. The place still goes by the name of "Pope's Villa," and, under that name, will long continue to be an object of attraction to the lover of old English literature; while the grotto, the fountains, and the pleasant bank by the Thamesside, will continue, I trust, to be kept in their present condition, a pleasing memorial of one of England's most noted poets.

ADDISON'S WALK.

Unrivalled as thy merit be thy fame,

And thy own laurels shade thy envied name.

TICKELL.

ON visiting that venerable haunt of the Muses, Oxford, one of the first places of interest I inquired for, was the far-famed "Addison's Walk." I had heard of this, years before, beyond the wide Atlantic; and, in youth, while wandering about the groves of Harvard, contemplating a future visit to England and to Oxford, one of my first wishes was to see the spot consecrated by the footsteps of this charming author.

After looking into several of the colleges, whose names were familiar to me, "Brazen Nose," "All Souls," and others, I made my way to "Magdalen," in the grounds of which is Addison's Walk. Entering by the gate-way, and passing through the cloisters, I came out upon an open space prettily laid with green turf. On inquiring of a student the way to the "Walk," he politely pointed it out to me; and, at the same time, taking a ready interest in my inquiries, he showed me the room which he said had been Addison's. It was a corner room in

the second story. It was certainly a charming

place for study. Besides the pleasant grounds in front, there was a view, towards the left, of a fine old park filled with stately trees, and, on the right, a smooth meadow bounded by the river Cherwell.

Often, perhaps, thought I, has the youthful Addison sat at this window, of a moonlight night, when the college was still,-only here and there a light glimmering in the window of some solitary student, and contemplated the sweet scene, the long shadows of the trees lying peacefully on the moonlit lawn, and the mingled light and shade of the park beyond. And then, perchance, he would turn his eyes from earth to the heavens; and as he beheld the fair orb of the moon, and the stars twinkling around her, perhaps there dawned upon his mind the first idea of that beautiful hymn, now so familiar to our ears,

"The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,"
&c.

Often, in hours like this, has the germ of great works been planted by Providence in the youthful soul. There is another of Addison's hymns, which was suggested by a scene of a very different character. The poet Burns, alluding to it, says, "The earliest compositions that I recollect taking any pleasure in, were— -"The Vision of Mirza,' and a rhyme of Addison's, beginning, 'How are thy servants blest, O Lord.' I particularly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my boyish ear,—

"For though in dreadful whirls we hung,
High on the broken wave.'

The hymn referred to is said to have been suggested