There was nothing for it now but to select that direction towards which the valley might seem slightly to descend; but this, in the imperfect twilight, was not very easily ascertained. With considerable hesitation, I decided at length on the right-hand turn, resolving to proceed till I should fall in with some rivulet, which might perhaps lead me eventually to the rapid trouting-stream running close under my friend's windows, or else till I should come upon some path which might carry me into a field-road, and so perhaps to a village, where I should easily procure a guide home. So, with tottering knees and throbbing heart—for I was by this time nearly breathless—I continued to advance by the side of the standing corn, at such a pace as I could manage, uttering from time to time a lusty halloo, in hopes of making myself heard by some belated reaper or returning woodman. But my calls had no other effect than to awake the mocking echoes of the wood, or the mysterious and almost human shout of the screech-owl, and to leave me to a still more intense feeling of solitude, when these had died away. I found myself at length in a deep, hollow field-road, like those which abound in South Devon, and high overhead, on the lofty bank, stood a two-branched, weather-beaten finger-post, and a great rustic crucifix near it, looming large in the moonlight. Scrambling up the bank, with anxious peering eyes, I made out, by the dubious light of the moon, that one of the outstretched wooden arms bore, in rudely-cut letters, the name of the village beside which I was resident; and as its distance was stated, I found that, after all my windings and wanderings, I had still only got half a German mile, or about one league, astray! This was a very pleasant discovery; and accordingly I quickly wheeled about, and set off with renewed vigour at right angles to my previous line of march, having still good hopes of being at home before eleven o'clock at night, time enough to prevent any alarm on account of my absence.

The road soon, however, degenerated into a mere field-track, which, as the moon had disappeared behind clouds, just before her final setting, could only with difficulty be recognised by an occasional deep rut, felt by my stick in the soft ground; even this track at length forked out into two others—one penetrating into a wood on my right; the other opener, and with only scattered trees by its side, to the left. The latter seemed the most promising, and was accordingly selected, and followed for about ten minutes, when it, too, came upon the skirts of another wood in the opposite direction. It seemed, besides, as well as I could judge from some faint glimpses I now got of the surrounding country in a momentary gleam of moonlight, to be leading me wide of my goal: and I accordingly retraced my steps once more to where the road had divided, and taking the recently slighted right-hand path, dived in desperation in between the trees, amidst 'darkness that might be felt.' Walking steadily and quickly forward, during what seemed, in the deep gloom, a considerable time, I eventually emerged into 'the clear obscure,' the moon having at length set, and left the sky, and all such wanderers as myself, to the good offices of the stars. I was now on the opposite verge of the wood to that I had entered by, and found myself by the side of a narrow corn-field, with another wooded hill on its further side, and heard, within hailing distance—more delightful than music to my ear—the grating sound of cart-wheels, which appeared to be going in an oblique, but nearly opposite direction to that in which I had just been moving. It was quite impossible to see anything so far off; but I hailed the presumed carter repeatedly, in my loudest and best German, asking my way.

'Follow on by the foot of the wood, and you'll get there in time,' was the reply, at length faintly heard in the distance, and the cart rumbled heavily away again, leaving me just as wise as before; for which was head and which was foot of the wood I knew no more than the child unborn. Yet I feared to dash through the intervening corn in the direction of the receding and already distant cart, neither knowing what the nature of the intermediate ground might prove, nor whether, supposing it practicable in the dark, such an infringement of rural property might not lead to disagreeable consequences, and in nowise further me in the attainment of the piece of knowledge which I stood so much in need of. So, I took on chance to my left hand, as the most distant from the finger-post I had fallen upon an hour and a half before.

The sound of the cart which long tingled in my ears, and the utter disappointment of my suddenly raised hopes, only rendered my sense of solitude and helplessness more intense. Indeed, I sometimes almost doubted whether the whole thing—cart and carter, or, rather, rumbling wheels and faint, chilling, distant voice—might not have been the delusion of my reeling brain, debilitated by overfatigue and long fasting (for every one knows the early hour at which a German dinner takes place); and on subsequent inquiry, I could not hear of any cart having passed in that quarter at all.

It was singular how long I wandered about, and every now and then in cultivated districts, without hearing a single human voice even in the earlier portion of the evening—nay, any sound whatever, save once or twice the fierce warning bark of a shepherd's dog, when I had inadvertently approached too near a sheepfold—the startling rush of some affrighted bird in the wood, flapping wildly up through the foliage—a distant village clock in some indefinite direction over the hill-top—or, finally, as on one occasion, a few remote shots, which I at first fancied might have been fired off by my friends to direct me homewards, but afterwards ascribed, more correctly, perhaps, to poachers in the woods. The manner in which the peasantry live here—in separate villages, built occasionally a good deal apart, and not in cottages scattered everywhere over the country, as with us—sufficiently accounts for this wide-spread silence.

Just as I was losing faith in the correctness of my present course, the chimes of a clock were distinctly heard, coming apparently over the top of the wooded hill on my left. I immediately turned into the wood once more, and strove to make a march directly through the trees in the direction of the sound, and right up the steep ascent, which was clothed by them to the summit. But this I soon found to be totally impracticable, in the absence of anything like a path or opening; for though I made my way well enough through the old trees, which stood far apart, and were pretty free from branches near the ground, yet towards the upper part of the hill, I got entangled in such a close-growing rising generation as it was almost impossible to penetrate. I was often almost in despair of being able to extricate myself even from my present entanglement, and to retrace my steps to the open ground below; in my exhausted condition, as it was already long past midnight, I was making up my mind to roost with the owls on the fork of a tree; and was even anticipating the possibility of becoming a permanent scarecrow there, when my very bones would be concealed in the thicket from the anxious search of my friends.

It was under the influence of excessive fatigue, perhaps, and the relaxation of the will generally consequent thereon, that my resolution now at length seemed on the point of giving way; nay, the very attachment to life itself, on my own individual account, seemed fading, and a disinclination to continue the struggle farther appeared to be gradually creeping over me. I was becoming reconciled to what appeared inevitable, and could look upon my own probable fate almost as calmly as if it had been that of a stranger. I believe something very similar not unusually takes place, under the merciful disposition of Providence, in the death-bed, where debility is the chief feature of the case. After a few moments of repose and dreamy reverie, however, I roused myself from this state of apathy, and, influenced by a sense of duty, as well as by a sympathy for the feelings of those dearer than life itself, sprang to my feet once more, and struggled manfully out of the mesh of branches in which I had been entangled, till, after a few more violent efforts, I found myself getting into a rather opener and more advanced growth of wood, and at length succeeded in working my way out—almost to the very spot in the meadow I had started from!

Whilst still within the wood, I had been favoured with some novel experiences there—novel, at least, to me, as it was my first night in such a position. Thus, almost every branch I grasped in the dark to help me onward seemed crowded with snails, which smashed slimily under my shuddering hand! Glowworms were sparkling in the underwood in such myriads as I never witnessed before, save once in an evening-walk near Salerno. The sense of utter solitude and unbroken silence within these gloomy woods was truly awful. From time to time, as I advanced, a casual opening in the branches exhibited a momentary glimpse of the sky, with all its thousand twinkling fires; and shooting-stars of intense brilliancy were darting across its dark, blue depths in almost as great frequency as in those celebrated days of August and November, when the path of our earth crosses the thickest showers of these celestial fireworks.

On regaining the meadow, I felt quite at a loss whither to turn, or what to attempt next. I had already been floundering about for some half-dozen hours, and been ignorant all the while whether each additional step were not only taking me a step further, not from home alone, but from the very habitations of men. Almost done up at length, and hopeless of extricating myself from my labyrinth till daylight should come to my aid, I was again for a moment inclined quietly to resign myself to what seemed my inevitable fate, and drop down to sleep on a bank of earth under a hedge by which I was standing, and so await the dawn. But the dank grass, the trees dropping with dew, the creeping autumnal fog, and increasing cold, made me pause, and feel that to sleep in my light summer dress under such circumstances was, if not to die, at least to contract, during the night, such disease as would render existence not worth the having—racking rheumatism for life, or fever, or inflammation, in some of their many forms, and endless consequences. So I resolved to keep moving as long as I had power to stir a limb, as this would give me a chance of maintaining the circulation and animal heat throughout the remaining hours of the night, if my strength would but hold out so long. Like a drowning man, I struck out once more for life; again I tried the field-road I had lately too rashly abandoned; floundered once more through its pools and its ruts; clambered again on its high banks, or moved along under the shadow of the wood by its side. At length, after scarcely half an hour's additional walking, my perseverance had its reward, as I found myself at the entrance of a village, and heard, not far off, the busy clatter of some industrious flaxdressers, who were turning night into day, at their work. This proved to be the termination of my mishap; for the instructions I received enabled me to find my way home by three o'clock.

It was my amusement during several subsequent days, to endeavour by daylight to retrace accurately my midnight wanderings. I found I could not have walked less than twenty miles, though never at any time more than three distant from home. I had been incessantly in motion during nearly eight hours; and was at least thrice on right tracks, which, if they had been followed up steadily only a little longer, would have brought me to my quarters. The chiming of the old convent-bells, which I had mistaken for those of our own pretty little church, came really from the very opposite direction to what I fancied—the sound I heard being merely their echo, reflected to my ear from the wooded hill-side.

Thus, the proposition with which I started—namely, that German woods are not to be trifled with, or rashly entered without a guide or compass—is fully sustained by my own luckless experience. Much of the surrounding country was already well known to me, and in my various walks I had skirted along and even intersected some of these very woods; but the way in which they are parcelled out, for the supply of neighbouring, but unconnected villages with firewood, and the puzzling manner in which they are shuffled together when the estates of several proprietors run into one another at a given point, render it singularly difficult to steer through them even by day, and to the uninitiated, quite impracticable by night.



AN A.D.L.L. ADVENTURE IN LIVERPOOL.

Liverpool has perhaps fewer relics of an archaeological nature than any other town in the United Kingdom; and this at first seems a little singular, when we remember that it is not without its place in the more romantic eras of our history, and that a castle of considerable strength once lent it protection. Its old castle, its towers, and the walls by which it was surrounded, have all been swept away by the busy crowds that now throng its thoroughfares. Even the former names of places have in most instances been altered, as if to obliterate all recollections and associations connected with its early history. Thus a row of houses, which a few years ago bore the not very euphonious name of Castle Ditch, from its having followed a portion of the line of the moat by which the fortress which once stood near it was surrounded, was changed into St George's Crescent, and many others underwent similar transmutations. But if the physical aspect of the place holds out few or no attractions to the antiquary, the moral one of its inhabitants, in so far as his favourite subject is concerned, is equally uninviting; for, taken as a whole, it would be difficult to find a population less influenced by, or interested in, such studies.

The only relic of the olden times which Liverpool has for a long time past retained, was a long, low, picturesque-looking thatched cottage in the small village of Everton (of toffee notoriety), which went by the name of Prince Rupert's Cottage, from its having been the head-quarters of that fiery leader when he besieged the town from the ridge on which the village is situated. But even this was swept away about six years ago by the proprietor, to allow a street which he had mapped out to abut upon the village at the point it occupied. The project did not succeed, and the outline of the contemplated street is all that as yet marks out the spot where this interesting object stood.

I confess to the soft impeachment of having been, at a very early period of my life, inoculated with the true Monkbarns enthusiasm, and I have always been a great admirer of that beautiful remark of Lord Bacon's, that 'antiquities may be considered as the planks of a wreck which wise and prudent men gather and preserve from the deluge of time.'

Some months ago, I was walking along what is called the Breck Road, leading out of the little village of Everton, of which I have been speaking, when my attention was arrested by a market-cross in a field on the opposite side of the road. I was somewhat surprised that it had escaped my notice when I formerly passed that way, and I immediately crossed over to examine it. It was formed, as all the English market-crosses are, of a series of flat steps, with an upright shaft in the centre, was built of the red sandstone of the district, and bore the appearance of great antiquity. The field was not far from what might be called the principal street of the village; and as I was aware that considerable changes had taken place of late years in the neighbourhood, it occurred to me as possible, that at one time the cross might have occupied the centre of a space on which the markets were held. My time, however, being limited, I was unable to make any immediate inquiries regarding it, but resolved to take an early opportunity of making myself acquainted with its early history, so as to rescue one interesting relic at least of the place from apparently a very undeserved obscurity. This opportunity did not present itself for some weeks; but at length it did occur, and I started for the place, to collect all the information, both traditional and otherwise, which I could regarding it.

On arriving at the spot, my surprise may be conceived, for it cannot be described, when, on looking at the field where it stood, I found that it had been removed, and all that remained to point out the place, was the bare mark on the grass of the spot which it had occupied. The consternation of Alladin, when he got up one fine morning and found that his gorgeous palace had vanished during the night, was hardly greater than mine on making this sad discovery; and, like him, I daresay, I rubbed my eyes in hopes that my visual organs had deceived me, but with as little success. On looking to the other side of the road, I observed a mason at work repairing the opposite wall with some very suspicious-looking stones, and I immediately crossed over, and commenced a categorical examination of the supposed delinquent. I inquired whether he could explain to me the cause of the removal of the ancient cross, which used to be in the field exactly opposite to where we were then standing; but he said that, although he was an old residenter in Everton, he had not even been aware of the existence of such an object. This I set down as an additional instance of the want of interest which the natives of the place take in archaeological subjects. He told me, however, that about three weeks previously, he had observed several men facing the wall opposite with large stones, which they brought apparently from some place close at hand; but that, having his own work to attend to, he had not bestowed any particular thought on the matter. He said the field was rented by a person for the purpose of cleaning carpets, and that he had no doubt the removal had been accomplished by his directions.

On stepping across the road, I found these suspicions completely realised; for there, resting on the top of the wall, were the time-honoured steps of the cross of my anxiety. Luckily for me, at least, the tenant was not at hand at the time, as in the state of excitement in which I was, I might have done or said something which I should afterwards have regretted. I had no alternative but to return to town, 'nursing my wrath to keep it warm,' and thinking over the best and most efficacious method in which I could accomplish the punishment of the aggressor, whoever he might be, and procuring the restoration of the cross in all its primitive simplicity. I thought of an article in the papers, into which all my caustic and sarcastic powers were to be concentrated and discharged on the head of the desecrator—then of calling on the lord of the manor, and mentioning the matter to him, so as, if possible, to carry his influence along with me, although I thought it quite probable that he might have sanctioned the spoliation, to save the expense of new stones for the repair of his tenant's wall. Under this latter impression, therefore, and previous to carrying either of these belligerent intentions into effect, I thought it would only be fair to give the obnoxious man an opportunity of explaining the circumstances under which he had assumed such an unwarranted responsibility. Accordingly, a short time afterwards, I again wended my way towards the field, determined to bring the matter in some way or other to a bearing, when I saw a very pleasant-looking man standing at the door of the house in which the carpet-cleansing operations are carried on. Supposing him to be the delinquent, I endeavoured to bridle my rising choler as much as possible, while I asked him whether he could tell me anything about the removal of the cross which had once stood in that field. With a gentle smile, which I thought at the time almost demoniac, he mildly replied, that he had removed it, because the object for which he had erected it, about twelve months before, had ceased to exist, and he had taken the stones to repair the wall close by where it had stood!

The shock which the nervous system of our worthy friend Monkbarns received when the exclamation of Edie Ochiltree fell upon his ear, of 'Pretorium here, pretorium there, I mind the biggin' o't,' was not greater than that which mine sustained on receiving this death-blow to all my hopes of rescuing this interesting relic of antiquity from its unmerited oblivion. Gulping down my mortification as I best could, I, in as indifferent a manner as I could assume, craved the liberty of inquiring what the circumstances were which had led to such a fanciful employment of his time. He told me that he had been a carpet-manufacturer in Oxfordshire, but had been unsuccessful in business, and had come here and set up his present establishment for the cleaning of the articles which he formerly manufactured; and that, wishing to add to his income by every legitimate means within his power, he had been supplied regularly with a quantity of Banbury cakes, for the sale of which he had erected a temporary wooden-hut in one corner of his field; that one morning early, about eighteen months ago, as he was lying awake in bed, the thought struck him, that as there were a great many large flat stones lying in a corner of the field, he would erect them, in front of the hut, into the form of the well-known cross of equestrian nursery-rhyme notoriety. He immediately rose, and, summoning his workmen, succeeded in making a very tolerable imitation of the world-wide-known cross; but that, after about twelve months' trial of his cake-speculation, finding it did not succeed, he gave it up; and removing the cross of which it was the sign, turned the stones to a more useful purpose.

Thus ended my day-dream connected with this interesting relic; and nothing, I am sure, but that indomitable enthusiasm which distinguishes all genuine disciples of the Monkbarns school, could have sustained me under my grievous disappointment.



'TWENTY-FOUR HOURS OF A SAILOR'S LIFE AT SEA.'

In the article with the above title, in No. 431, the pay of seamen is stated at from L.2, 10s. to L.3 a month; but this does not bring the information down to the latest date. At present, we are informed, the very best A. Bs. (able-bodied seamen) receive only from L.2 to L.2, 5s.; and 'ordinary' hands only from L.1, 10s. to L.1, 15s. In the navy, the pay is still less than in the merchant service, which is the reason why our best men so constantly desert to the American navy, where they obtain, on an average, about twelve dollars a month. It ought to be added, that when one of our ships is short of hands in a foreign port, these rates do not prevail. Captains are sometimes obliged to bid as high as L.6 a month, to make up their complement.



EXCESSIVE MODESTY.

D'Israeli tells us of a man of letters, of England, who had passed his life in constant study; and it was observed that he had written several folio volumes, which his modest fears would not permit him to expose to the eye even of his critical friends. He promised to leave his labours to posterity; and he seemed sometimes, with a glow on his countenance, to exult that they would not be unworthy of their acceptance. At his death, his sensibility took the alarm; he had the folios brought to his bed; no one could open them, for they were closely locked. At the sight of his favourite and mysterious labours, he paused; he seemed disturbed in his mind, while he felt at every moment his strength decaying. Suddenly he raised his feeble hands by an effort of firm resolve, burnt his papers, and smiled as the greedy Vulcan licked up every page. The task exhausted his remaining strength, and he soon afterwards expired.



THE KHUNJUNEE.

[The little, disregarded wagtail of our own land, which we may frequently see wherever insects abound—on the green meadow, or by the margin of the brook—is the khunjunee of the Hindoo, by whose romantic and fanciful mythology he has been made a holy bird, bearing on his breast the impression of Salagrama, the stone of Vishnoo, a sacred petrified shell. Protected by this prestige, the little creature ranges unmolested near the habitations of man, and may in this respect be styled the robin of the East. To Europeans in the East, this bird is also an object of interest, as being a precursor of the delightful cold season, the advent of which is anxiously looked for by every Anglo-Indian. The little khunjunee makes his appearance in the early part of November, and departs as the hot season approaches—I think in March or April. The note of this little bird can hardly aspire to be called a song; I used, however, to think it a pleasing twitter. I paid particular attention to two khunjunees, which used to return every season and haunt our habitation: they would pick up insects from the pavement, and eat the crumbs with which they were plentifully supplied. I have watched them pluming themselves on the balustrade, while their sparkling black eyes glanced fearlessly and confidingly in my face. When I now see a wagtail at home in Scotland, I cannot but look upon it as an old friend, reminding me of my departed youth, and recalling many soothing as well as mournful recollections.]

Welcome to thee, sweet khunjunee! Which is thy best-loved home?— Over the sea, in a far countrie, Or the land to which thou art come?

What carest thou?—thou revelest here In the bright and balmy air; And again to regions far remote Thou returnest—and summer is there!

Thou art sacred here, where the Brahmin tells Of the godhead's seal impressed By Vishnoo's hand—that thou bearest still His gorget on thy breast.

And welcomed thou art, with grateful heart, For well doth the Hindoo know, That at thy approach the clouds disperse, And temperate breezes blow.

Yet little he cares where thy sojourn hath been So long, since he saw thee last; Nor in what far land of storm or calm The rainy months have passed.

But others there be, who think with me, Thou hast been to that favoured land, Which restores the bloom to the faded cheek, And strength to the feeble hand.

And my children believe, that since thou wert here, Thou hast compassed half the earth, And that now thou hast come, like a thought in a dream, From the land of their father's birth;

Bringing with thee the healthful breeze That blows from the heath-clad hill, And the breath of the primrose and gowan that bloom On the bank by the babbling rill.

Then welcome to thee, little khunjunee! May thy presence a blessing confer; Still of breezes cool, and returning health, The faithful harbinger.

OLD INDIAN.

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THE END