Waller was proprietor of the manor of Beaconsfield, and that of Hall Barn, in the vicinity, at which latter place he resided.

It is remarkable, that this great man, toward the decline of life bought a small house, with a little land, on his natal spot; observing, “that he should be glad to die like the stag, where he was roused.”  This, however, did not happen.  “When he was at Beaconsfield,” says Johnson, “he found his legs grow tumid:  he went to Windsor, where Sir Charles Scarborough then attended the king, and requested him, as both a friend and physician, to tell him what that swelling meant.  ‘Sir,’ answered Scarborough, ’your blood will run no longer.’  Waller repeated some lines of Virgil, and went home to die.  As the disease increased upon him, he composed himself for his departure; and calling upon Dr. Birch to give him the holy sacrament, he desired his children to take it with him, and made an earnest declaration of his faith in Christianity.  It now appeared what part of his conversation with the great could be remembered with delight.  He related, that being present when the Duke of Buckingham talked profanely before King Charles, he said to him, ’My lord, I am a great deal older than your Grace, and have, I believe, heard more arguments for atheism than ever your Grace did; but I have lived long enough to see there is nothing in them, and so I hope your Grace will.”

    [5] Johnson’s Life of Waller, wherein the poet is stated to have
        been born March 3.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

TROUT TICKLING IN IRELAND.

What will our ticklish correspondent, W.H.H. say to this?

“Kniveing trouts” (they call it tickling in England) is good sport.  You go to a stony shallow at night, a companion bearing a torch; then stripping to the thighs and shoulders, wade in; grope with your hands under the stones, sods, and other harbourage, till you find your game, then grip him in your “knieve,” and toss him ashore.

I remember, when a boy, carrying the splits for a servant of the family, called Sam Wham.  Now Sam was an able young fellow, well-boned and willing; a hard headed cudgel player, and a marvellous tough wrestler, for he had a backbone like a sea-serpent; this gained him the name of the Twister and Twiner.  He had got into the river, with his back to me, was stooping over a broad stone, when something bolted from under the bank on which I stood, right through his legs.  Sam fell with a great splash upon his face, but in falling, jammed whatever it was against the stone.  “Let go, Twister,” shouted I, “’tis an otter, he will nip a finger off you.”—­“Whisht,” sputtered he, as he slid his hand under the water; “May I never read a text again, if he isna a sawmont wi’ a shouther like a hog!”—­“Grip him by the gills, Twister,” cried I.—­“Saul will I!” cried the Twiner; but just then there