and separated from each other, a mile and a half round the Wells, where the company meet in the morning.  The place consists of a long walk, shaded by pleasant trees, under which they walk while they are drinking the waters.  On one side of this walk is a long row of shops, plentifully stocked with all manner of toys, lace, gloves, stockings, and where there is raffling, as at Paris, in the Foire de Saint Germain.  On the other side of the Walk is the Market and as it is the custom here for every person to buy their own provisions, care is taken that nothing offensive appears upon the stalls.  Here young, fair, fresh-coloured country girls, with clean linen, small straw hats, and neat shoes and stockings, sell game, vegetables, flowers, and fruit.  Here one may live as one pleases.  Here is likewise deep play, and no want of amorous intrigues.  As soon as the evening comes, every one quits his little palace to assemble on the bowling-green, where, in the open air, those who choose, dance upon a turf more soft and smooth than the finest carpet in the world.”

[4] “This chapel,” says Hasted, “stands remarkably in three parishes—­the
    pulpit in Speldhurst, the altar in Tunbridge, and the vestry in Frant. 
    The stream also, which parted the counties of Kent and Sussex,
    formerly ran underneath it, but is now turned to a greater distance.”
    —­Hist.  Kent, vol. iii.

* * * * *

LOVE.

(For the Mirror.)

  Sing ye love? ye sing it not,
  It was never sung, I wot. 
  None can speak the power of love,
  Tho’ ’tis felt by all that move. 
  It is known—­but not reveal’d,
  ’Tis a knowledge ever seal’d! 
  Dwells it in the tearful eye
  Of congenial sympathy? 
  ’Tis a radiance of the mind,
  ’Tis a feeling undefin’d,
  ’Tis a wonder-working spell,
  ’Tis a magic none can tell,
  ’Tis a charm unutterable.

Lear.

* * * * *

GRAYSTEIL.[1]

An historical ballad.

(For the Mirror.)

  Beneath the Douglas plaid, he wore a grinding shirt of mail;
  Yet, spite of pain and weariness, press’d on that gallant Gael: 
  On, on, beside his regal foe, with eyes which more express’d
  Than words, expecting favour still, from him who once caress’d!

  “’Tis,” quoth the prince, “my poor Graysteil!” and spurr’d his steed
    amain,
  Striving, ere toiling Kilspindie, the fortalice to gain;
  But Douglas, (and his wither’d heart, with hope and dread, beat high)
  Stood at proud Stirling’s castle-gate, as soon as royalty!

  Stood, on his ingrate friend to gaze; no answ’ring love-look came;
  Then, mortal grief his spirit shook, and bow’d his war-worn frame;
  Faith, innocence, avail’d not him! he suffer’d for his line,
  And fainting by the gate he sunk, but feebly call’d for wine!