was fairly active and fond of gardening and other country occupations, such as brewing beer and making grape or elder wine whenever he had the opportunity; and during some years at Hertford he rented a garden about half a mile away, in order to grow vegetables and have some wholesome exercise. He had had some injury to one of his ankles which often continued to trouble him, and gave him a slight lameness, and in consequence of this he never took very long walks. He was rather precise and regular in his habits, quiet and rather dignified in manners, and somewhat of what is termed a gentleman of the old school. Of course, he always wore a top-hat-a beaver hat as it was then called, before silk hats were invented-the only other headgear being sometimes a straw hat for use in the garden in

summer.

In character he was quiet and even-tempered, very religious in the orthodox Church-of-England way, and with such a reliance on Providence as almost to amount to fatalism. He was fond of reading, and through reading clubs or lending libraries we usually had some of the best books of travel or biography in the house. Some of these my father would read to us in the evening, and when Bowdler's edition of Shakespeare came out he obtained it, and often read a play to the assembled family. In this way I made my first acquaintance with Lear and Cordelia, with Malvolio and Sir Andrew Aguecheek, with the thrilling drama of the Merchant of Venice, with Hamlet, with Lady Macbeth, and other masterpieces. At one time my father wrote a good deal, and we were told it was a history of Hertford, or at other times some religious work; but they never got finished, and I do not think they would ever have been worth publishing, his character not leading him to do any such work with sufficient thoroughness. He dabbled a little in antiquities and in heraldry, but did nothing systematic, and though he had fair mental ability he possessed no special talent, either literary, artistic, or scientific. He sketched a little, but with a very weak and uncertain touch, and among his few scrapand note-books that have been preserved, there is hardly

VOL. I.

C

anything original except one or two short poems in the usual didactic style of the period, but of no special merit. I will, however, give here the only two of these that my mother had preserved, and which are, no doubt, the best products of his pen. They were evidently both written

at Usk.

"USK BRIDGE-A SIMILE.

As on this archéd pile I lately strolled

And viewed the tide that deep beneath it roll'd,
Eastward impetuous rushed the foamy wave,
Each quick ingulph'd—as mortals in the grave;
All noisy, harsh, impetuous, was the roar,
Like the world's bustle-and as quickly o'er.
For when a few short steps I westward made
The river here a different scene displayed,
Its noisy roar seemed now a distant hum,
Calm was the surface-and the stream was dumb,
Silent though swift its course—and such I cried
The life of man! In youth swoll'n high with pride,
The passions raging, noisy, foaming, bold,
Like the rough stream a constant tumult hold.
But when his steps turn towards the setting sun
And more than half his wayward course is run,
By age, and haply by religion's aid,

His pride subdued, his passions too allay'd,
With quiet pace-yet swiftly gliding, he
Rolls to the ocean of Eternity!"

ON THE CUSTOM OBSERVED IN WALES OF DRESSING THE
GRAVES WITH FLOWERS ON PALM SUNDAY.

"The sounding bell from yon white turret calls
The villagers within those sacred walls,
And o'er the solemn precincts of the dead,

Where lifts the church its grey time-honoured head,
That place of rest where parents, children, sleep,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap
Affection's hand hath gaily decked the ground
And spring's sweet gifts profusely scatter'd round.
Pleas'd memory still delights to linger here
And many a cheek is moistened with a tear.
The wife, the child, the parent, and the friend
In soft regret by these sweet trophies bend.
Nor let the selfish sneer, the proud upbraid,
The tribute thus by love, by duty paid,

In nature's purest sentiments its source,

Here nature speaks with a resistless force.
What though these flow'rets speedily decay
Yet they our love, our tenderest thoughts display,
Of friends departed a memorial sweet

With which their relics thus we fondly greet,
'Our minds revisit those we loved when here,
Tho' lost to sight, to memory still they're dear.'

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In consequence of this custom the Sunday before Easter was called in Wales "Flowering Sunday," and was looked forward to by most families as an event of special interest, and by children as quite a festival. It is always a pretty sight when even a grave here and there is nicely adorned with fresh flowers, but when a whole churchyard is so decorated, at least as regards all but the oldest tombs, it becomes really beautiful. The long procession during the morning of women and children carrying baskets of flowers, and coming in from various directions, often from many miles distant, adds greatly to the interest of the scene. This custom seems to be one of the expressions of the idealism and poetry characteristic of most Celtic peoples.

CHAPTER II

USK MY EARLIEST MEMORIES

My earliest recollections are of myself as a little boy in short frocks and with bare arms and legs, playing with my brother and sisters, or sitting in my mother's lap or on a footstool listening to stories, of which some fairy-tales, especially "Jack the Giant-Killer," "Little Red Riding Hood," and "Jack and the Beanstalk," seem to live in my memory; and of a more realistic kind, "Sandford and Merton," which perhaps impressed me even more deeply than any. I clearly remember the little house and the room we chiefly occupied, with a French window opening to the garden, a steep wooded bank on the right, the road, river, and distant low hills to the left. The house itself was built close under this bank, which was quite rocky in places, and a little back yard between the kitchen and a steep bit of rock has always been clearly pictured before me as being the scene of my earliest attempt to try an experiment, and its complete failure. Æsop's Fables" were often read to me, and that of the fox which was thirsty and found a pitcher with a little water in the bottom but with the opening too small for its mouth to reach it, and of the way in which it made the water rise to the top by dropping pebbles into it, puzzled me greatly. It seemed quite like magic. So one day, finding a jar or bucket standing in the yard, I determined to try and see this wonderful thing. I first with a mug poured some water in till it was about an inch or two deep, and then collected all the small stones I could find and put into the water, but I could not see that the water rose up as I thought it ought to have done. Then

"