also to obtain repayment of the money
advanced to Charles the First; but, as
that would have involved something like a
suspension of the laws of Nature, he
received instead a mining grant, for which he
had to raise his own capital. He endeavoured
to stimulate the public to subscribe by issuing
gold medals of his master and patron,
Lord Bacon, and prospectuses of the
Baconian mode of mining. But he never did
any more good, either to himself or to
anybody else.

Sir Hugh Myddleton, whose name is
associated with the New River, gained much of
his money by the silver mines of Merionethshire,
which were leased to him in the reign
of James the First. In the reign of William
the Third, Boyle obtained several acts
modifying the former edicts relating to mines, and
to the refining of metals, and the extraction
of gold and silver from them. The reign of
Queen Anne was rife with joint-stock
companies and speculations; and some of the
prospectuses, with their alluring calculations,
would do credit to our own railway days.
In the reigns of the two first Georges there
was a mania for silver mining. In the reign
of George the Third the gold mines in Wicklow
were discovered, and a general impression
of abundance of gold prevailed; but the
workings were not profitable, the excitement
subsided, and the gold was forgotten. In
eighteen hundred and twenty-five there was
a mania for foreign mining, which was
unprofitable and disastrous to the speculators,
and the very name of gold mine became
synonymous with ruin. Since eighteen
hundred and thirty, however, gold-working in
England has been resumed with some partial
activity; the gold localities have been
ascertained over a considerable district, and have
been formally acknowledged by the ordnance
surveyors; so the sanguine may still hope
that the old popular superstition, of London
streets being paved with gold, may yet be
realised.

THE HOLY WELL.

HIDDEN in a deep wood-hollow,
Girt about with ancient trees,
Where the mocking echoes follow
In the track of every breeze,
Lies the Holy Well.
Hoary stones up-heaped around it,
Worn and mossed with age, surround it,
In the lonely dell.

Down the hill-side frets the water,
Gurgling to the shadowed pool,
With a trickling, ringing laughter
As it fills the basin full,
The grey-green stones among.
And a music like bells pealing,
Wavelets gushing, eddies reeling
With a wild, wild song!

All about its brink the aspen
Quivers into sun and shade;
Asphodel and bindweed, claspen
Tendril-wise, thick bowers have made
The noisy rill about.
And always 'mongst the broad ferns waving,
When the summer storms are raving,
Zephyrs play in and out.

Softly, in the evening twilight,
When the air is hushed and still,
Closed the little peering eye-bright,
And the shadows on the hill
Are fast asleep;
Down the dark and windy hollow,
Where the traitor echoes follow,
Cometh one to weep:

She is young, and fresh, and blooming,
Has a brow most pure and fair;
Through the purple summer gloaming
Come her step and form of air,
Secretly and slow;
Lest some lurking spy should follow,
Down the dark and windy hollow,
Where she fain would go.

Trailing with a laggard foot-fall,
Drawn by hope, withheld by fear,
Through the plumy ferns at night-fall,
When the sky shows dim and drear
Beyond the trees;
With a cheek, now flushing, paling,
To her heart's wild inner wailing,
Starting at each breeze.

Slowly, down the steep green hill-side,
Over slippery, lichened stones,
Slowly, by the Holy Well-side,
Listening to its murmured tones,
Down on her knee;
With the black boughs o'er her swaying,
Softly weeping, softly saying
"Loveth he me?"

By the Holy Well down kneeling,
Watching for her gain or loss,
O'er its mirror-darkness stealing,
Light, with shade of pines across,
Like pale moonbeams;
Slow and solemn as the warning
Eastern light of winter morning,
On our waking dreams.

Brightening still until the lustre
Glows like topaz in the shade:
And the tiny eddies muster
Like a framework round it laid,
Fretted o'er with gold;
And the inner circle glistens,
While the night stands still and listens,
To that question old.

On the brink low bends the maiden,
Peering down into the glass,
All her soul with terror laden,
Asking of the shades that pass,
"Loveth he me?"
With a tone of sad complaining,
While the light is slowly waning,
"Loveth he me?"