worn inscription on the stone wall. Looking more closely, I found it to be indeed an inscription, but so worn with age, and also in letters so antique and rudely carved-in something of the black-letter style that it was at first scarcely legible. By our united endeavours, however, it was at last made out. It was in Latin, and as follows:

"Qui non dat quod habet

Damon infra Ridet. Anno 1414."

Here, now, was a precious morsel of antiquity,— the more precious for its being the first I had seen : then, too, its connection with the residence of a famed poetess doubled the charm. The words might be literally translated thus: "Him who does not give what he has, the Devil below laughs at," The first idea we took was, that it was a general declaration against avarice, that the niggardly and miserly were fit objects for the Evil One, and he laughed at the thought of soon having them in his clutches. It was suggested, however, by one of the party, that that was not the meaning; there had evidently, he remarked, been a well here, which had been stoned up, and there was a pump now standing in its place. The "Dæmon" did not mean the Devil, but the spirit of the well-the word being used in its original sense of a spirit, either good or evil; and that it was only a gentle hint to men to follow the example of the benevolent well, here pouring forth its sweet waters to all who were in need. This, it was on all hands agreed, was a very pleasing, and perhaps the truest, explanation of the legend before us. We afterwards learned,

however, on inquiring of those skilled in such matters, that this was a monkish inscription, placed there in times when it was the policy and custom of the monasteries, to amass riches by working on men's consciences and fears, and thus inducing them to make grants of their property; and that it was placed in that situation, because, this being a public well, great numbers of persons would necessarily have their attention drawn to it, and so be reminded of their duty.

This important matter being decided, I proposed to go to the house, and request permission to view the interior of this sanctuary of departed genius. So, accompanied by one of the party, I entered the grounds. We knocked at the door. It was opened by a maid-servant, who, in reply to our inquiries, informed us that the present occupant of the house was Mrs. "Could she tell us," we then asked, "whether the house had been formerly occupied by a lady of the name of Hemans?" "Oh no! sir," she answered, “Mrs.

has lived here these

many years; no such person has ever lived in this house." On our pressing the inquiry more urgently, whether she was sure that Mrs. Hemans, a celebrated writer, had not resided there some years before-for we had heard that she had-she replied quickly, "Oh no, sir, I am sure it cannot be : Mrs. has lived here these sixty years: she came here when she was a little girl, and she is now almost seventy years old."

There was no answering this statement, and my friend and myself gazed at each other with blank looks. My dream of romance and poetical fitness

had been dispersed, like the morning cloud,-as many similar ones have been before.

"Can you tell us, then," at length we inquired, "where Mrs. Hemans did live ?"

She could not : she "did not know at all."

"Can you inform us, then," we asked in desperation, “what that tomb-like place is, just within the wall, with the inscription on the front?"-referring to the legend we had been endeavouring to interpret. She answered that it was a very old place, several hundred years old, and she had often heard it talked about, but could not tell exactly what it

was.

Concluding that any further inquiries in the same quarter would be rather fruitless than otherwise, we turned away, after being directed by her to the next house, where "perhaps," she observed we might "get more information." As we could not very well get less, I thought it might be well enough to follow the recommendation, and try, My English friends, however, not being strangers, like myself, and very naturally, therefore, not feeling the same degree of ardour in the pursuit, and afraid, perhaps, of giving annoyance, seemed reluctant to push inquiries further, and I was obliged to go forward by myself.

On inquiring at the next house, I was received very politely by the lady of the mansion; and, telling my errand, I was informed that the house in which Mrs. Hemans had lived, was not in that neighbourhood, but was in the village of Wavertree, a small house, next door to surgeon

66

-s."

That is not quite so romantic-thought I-a small

house in a town, instead of a villa in the country; but this was at least definite information, and I was well pleased. On my taking the liberty to ask, whether my informant had ever seen Mrs. Hemans, she replied that she had, but was not much acquainted with her. 66 'But," she added, seeming to take a polite interest in assisting to gratify my curiosity— "there is a lady in a neighbouring cottage, Mrs. who was exceedingly intimate with Mrs. Hemans, and who can tell you all about her." Receiving the direction to the cottage referred to, I expressed to the lady my thanks for her kind interest, and took my leave.

As.

Turning to the left, I found myself in one of those pretty green lanes I had so often heard described as a charming feature in English landscapewith their hawthorn hedges, and smooth meadows beyond, and sloping hill-sides in the distance. I walked on, I pleased myself with the thought that the poetess herself had often, perhaps, trod this very path, on the way to her friend's house, gone up this very lane, and gazed at the self-same prospect that was now before me,-meditating, as she went, and perhaps composing some of those tender and spiritual poems that have reached so many hearts. Americans, and, in particular, New Englanders, have reason to feel attached and grateful to her memory, for that admirable piece, the "Pilgrim Fathers." This song, set to music by her sister, Mrs. Brown, I have heard sung in the Far West, by a band of New England's sons, met together on "Forefathers' Day," to commemorate the landing of the Pilgrims on the rock of Plymouth. And as

this annual celebration is becoming more and more general, wherever the Pilgrims' descendants are found, throughout the Union, it is probable that for years and perhaps ages to come, those stirring words of the poetess, clothed in fit strains, will be heard, on the 22d of December, ascending from all parts of the American continent--from Ohio to New Orleans-from Plymouth Rock itself to the "Golden Gate" of California and the shores of Oregon, mingling with the winter winds, and bringing vividly before the youth of America the labours and sufferings of their forefathers, in founding this great nation, and in accomplishing the establishment of civil and religious freedom. Thus will the name and writings of Mrs. Hemans become endeared to a whole people, and her memory be cherished by generations yet unborn.

But to return. I soon found the house of which I was in quest; but, on inquiring at the door, was doomed to another disappointment. The lady was "not at home." The disappointment, however, was not so great as it might otherwise have been, from the fact of having a bright prospect still before me—a certainty, indeed—that of finding the house itself in the village: that, at any rate, thought I, must be "at home.'

So, back I went to my friends, who had been very patiently awaiting the result of my inquiries, and we all hastened down to the village of Wavertree.

We soon found "the surgeon's:"-then, "next door" must be the place. As I entered the gate and looked at the house, I felt an interior certainty