and also the episcopal house at Lincoln's-inn.
Then there arose Fleming, founder
of Lincoln College, Oxford, who threw
Wycliffe's ashes into the Swift to be
carried round the world; Chadeston, who
preached a sermon against marriage at
Cambridge, in which he compared a good
wife to an eel hid in a barrel of snakes;
Barlow, whom the Puritans called "the
barley loaf;" Sanderson (Charles the First),
the last bishop who wore a moustache;
Barlow the second, nicknamed Bishop of
Buckden, because he never once visited
his cathedral; and, last of all to deserve
record, Bishop Thomas, who married five
times.

And now a word for poor cracked Great
Tom, the third largest bell in England.
The verger may well call it, in punning
slang, "a stunner," for it weighs four tons
fourteen hundredweight, and holds four
hundred and twenty-four gallons ale
measure: a tall man might stand upright in it.
The "mighty Tom" of Oxford, overweighs
Lincoln by three tons, the Exeter Goliath by
two tons, and "Tom Growler," the giant of
St. Paul's, by one ton. Canterbury, Gloucester,
and Beverley, rank after these four
mammoths. Lincoln Tom was always
dangerously big for the tower; but it used
to boom out over the fens when the judges
entered the city. It only dates back to the
eighth year of James the First, and it was
cast in the minster yard, so it has never
travelled far.

And now, though faithfully believing
that the cathedral was made expressly for
his perch, the crow strikes eastward
towards Horncastle. Here are "the glooming
flats," "the lonely poplars trembling in the
dusk," and here in the dark fen the oxen
low as once round Mariana's moated grange.
A lane at Winceby, up in the rounded
wolds, five miles east of Horncastle, is still
called "Slash Lane," a record of a "short,
sharp fight," as Mr. Walter White tersely
calls it, during the civil wars. It was
here Sir Ingram Hopton's cavalry met
Cromwell. It indeed went hard with Oliver,
whose charger was shot under him as he
led the van of the Ironsides. He had
scarcely struggled from his dying horse
when a Cavalier (probably Sir Ingram)
felled him again; but Cromwell shook
himself sullenly, mounted another horse,
and routed the Cavaliers. It was all over
in half an hour. Charles's men were
slashed down the lane, and shot and cut
down at every hedge and gate. Many
were drowned in the ditches and quagmires,
and brave Sir Ingram was slain with
the rest. He now lies in Horncastle
church, and is described in his epitaph as
having fallen "in the attempt of seizing
the arch-rebel in the bloody skirmish near
Winceby." This storm cleared the air, for
immediately after the rough melée in Slash
Lane, Bolingbroke Castle surrendered to
the Parliamentarians, and Lincolnshire
was freed from the king's freebooters.

Past Spilsby, where the father of Sir
John Franklin was a small draper, the
crow comes to Somersby, where our great
modern poet, Tennyson, was born. The
scenery is described as a warm wooded
vale, a streamlet meandering by a mill, a
curving road overshadowed by elms; a
deep lane beset with grand trees, and a
clear spring reflecting the ferns that edge
its brink, border the hill on which the
vicarage of the poet's father stands. It is
a comfortable, plain, but not picturesque
house; screened from the road by large
chestnut-trees. There are still the poplars
behind the house, and the brook of which
the laureate sings with such tenderness in
his Ode to Memory.

DONALD MACLEOD.

DONALD MACLEOD! Woulds't hear his story told?
No stormy legend of the days of old,
Of war and tournament and high emprize,
Or knightly feuds beneath fair ladies' eyes;
But a true story of our modern time,
Such as befel, in cold Canadian clime
A dozen winters past. Donald MacLeod,
A poor man—one of millions—in the crowd.

A stalwart wight he was, whom but to see
Were to wish friend rather than enemy;
A smith by trade, a bluff, hard-working man,
Proud of his sires, his race, his name, his clan.
His strong right arm could hurl a foeman down
Like ball a skittle; his broad brow was brown
With honest toil, and in his clear blue eye
Lurked strength to conquer fortune or defy.
Few were his words, and those but rough at best,
But truthful ever as his own true breast;
Of homely nature, not of winning ways,
Or given to tears, or overmuch of praise;
But with a heart as guileless as a child's
Of seven years old that frolics in the wilds.

Ere Donald left his shieling in the glen,
By the burn-side that tumbles down the Ben
On grey Lochaber's melancholy shore,
And sighed, like others, "I return no more,"
To try his fortune in the fight of life
In a new world, with fairer field for strife
Than Scotland offers, overfilled with brains,
Yet scant of acres to reward their pains,
He woo'd with simple speech a Highland maid,
Sweet as the opening flow'ret in the shade,
And asked her, "Would she quit her native land,
Her mother's love, her father's guiding hand,
And make another sunshine far away,
For him alone?" She blessed the happy day
That a good man, so honest and so brave,
Had sought the heart and hand she freely gave.