dulous gudgeon and the greedy perch. Just up that lane
to the right, on the road to Knap Hill--famed the world over for its
hundreds of acres of rhododendrons--is the nurseryman's shed to which,
in the summer, cart-loads of the small, wild, black cherries came
from Normandy, for seed. Here the boys of the neighbourhood had the
privilege of gorging themselves gratis with the luscious fruit, on the
simple condition that they placed the cherry-stones in bowls provided
for the purpose. As the train moves on, we dash through a deep cutting
of yellow-coloured sand, and emerge upon a wild and dreary region.
On the hills to the right are a gaol, a reformatory, and a lunatic
asylum; and on the left is the "Necropolis," where London, in the
black and sandy soil, deposits the myriads of its dead. All around,
the ground is olive-coloured with unblossomed heath, bright and golden
here and there with the flowerets of the prickly gorse. Dense and
dismal plantations of black-looking Scotch firs are enlivened at
intervals by the delicate and tender green spikelets of a sprouting
larch. On we rush for miles through this sombre region, through dank
morasses, and past dark and gloomy pools, from one of which a heron
rises majestically. On, until, in a broad and airy region, the red
coats of soldiers are seen dotted here and there amongst the heather.
In the distance are the serried lines of the tents of Aldershot. Just
beyond this point the train suddenly enters the chalk formation,
and comes simultaneously into a cultivated district. A mile or two
further, and the train stops at Farnham; birthplace of Toplady,
who wrote the beautiful hymn, "Rock of Ages;" of William Cobbett,
sturdiest of English yeomen; and of Charles Vince, who, coming to
Birmingham an utter stranger, so endeared himself to its people, that
he was universally beloved; and when he died, was followed to his
grave by thousands of the principal inhabitants, amid the tearful
regrets of the entire population.

As I leave the station, and approach the town, I see on my left,
nestling under a cliff, an old timbered house, bearing on its front
the inscription, "Cobbett's birthplace." It is an inn, and I enter in
search of refreshment. A somewhat surly man appears, and tells me that
he "ain't got no cold meat." I persevere, and am told that I _can_
have some bread and cheese, which are accordingly served. I ask the
landlord--for such the man is--if there are any relics of Cobbett