t Sir Isaac Brock was my near relative (his mother
bearing my name), and that he had saved Canada by his death in victory.

CHAPTER XLI.

A FEW OLDER FRIENDSHIPS.

It is only fair and right that I make special mention of some
friendships of many years, connected more or less with literary matters.
Among such names in the past occurs one, if not very eminent, to me at
least very kindly, that of Benjamin Nightingale, an antiquarian friend
for nearly forty years. We first became acquainted in Sotheby's auction
room, where I perceived at once his generous nature, by this token: we
had been competing for a miscellaneous lot of coins, which he
bought,--and then lifting his hat he asked me which of them I had
specially wanted; these I indicated, of course thinking that he meant me
to buy them of him,--but he immediately insisted upon giving them, if I
would allow him. This fair beginning led to better acquaintance, often
improved under our mutual roof-trees. It was his ambition to be my
Boswell, as he has sometimes told me; and probably there are bundles
somewhere of _his_ MSS. and of _our_ antiquarian letters (he wrote very
well), about which I have vainly made inquiry of a near relative, who
knew nothing about them. Some day they'll turn up.

Nightingale was much pleased to find himself recorded in my "Farley
Heath," as to both verse and prose. He has been in the Better World some
twelve years, and his widow gave me the collections he called his
Tupperiana.

I confess that the following poem wherein my genial friend figures,--and
which many judges have liked as among my best balladisms, is one reason
for this record of B.N.

_Farley Heath._

"Many a day have I whiled away
Upon hopeful Farley Heath,
In its antique soil digging for spoil
Of possible treasure beneath;
For Celts, and querns, and funereal urns,
And rich red Samian ware,
And sculptured stones and centurions' bones
May all lie buried there!

"How calmly serene, and glad have I been
From morn till eve to stay,
My men, no serfs, turning the turfs
The happy livelong day;
With eye still bright, and hope yet alight,
Wistfully watching the mould,
As the spade brings up fragments of things
Fifteen centuries old!

"Pleasant and rare it was to be there
On a joyous day of June,
With the circling scene all gay and green
Steep'd in the silent moon;