rcy lion on the bridge over the little river at
Alnwick,--the leaden lion with his tail stretched out straight like a
pump-handle,--and why? Because of the story of the village boy who must
fain bestride the leaden tail, standing out over the water,--which
breaking, he dropped into the stream far below, and was taken out an
idiot for the rest of his life.

Arrow-heads must be brought to a sharp point, and the guillotine-axe
must have a slanting edge. Something intensely human, narrow, and
definite pierces to the seat of our sensibilities more readily than
huge occurrences and catastrophes. A nail will pick a lock that defies
hatchet and hammer. "The Royal George" went down with all her crew, and
Cowper wrote an exquisitely simple poem about it; but the leaf that
holds it is smooth, while that which bears the lines on his mother's
portrait is blistered with tears.

My telling these recollections sets me thinking of others of the same
kind that strike the imagination, especially when one is still young.
You remember the monument in Devizes market to the woman struck dead
with a lie in her mouth. I never saw that, but it is in the books. Here
is one I never heard mentioned;--if any of the "Note and Query" tribe
can tell the story, I hope they will. Where is this monument? I was
riding on an English stage-coach when we passed a handsome marble
column (as I remember it) of considerable size and pretensions.--What
is that?--I said.--That,--answered the coachman,--is _the hangman's
pillar_. Then he told me how a man went out one night, many years ago,
to steal sheep. He caught one, tied its legs together, passed the rope
over his head, and started for home. In climbing a fence, the rope
slipped, caught him by the neck, and strangled him. Next morning he was
found hanging dead on one side of the fence and the sheep on the other;
in memory whereof the lord of the manor caused this monument to be
erected as a warning to all who love mutton better than virtue. I will
send a copy of this record to him or her who shall first set me right
about this column and its locality.

And telling over these old stories reminds me that I have something
that may interest architects and perhaps some other persons. I once
ascended the spire of Strasburg Cathedral, which is the highest, I
think, in Europe. It is a shaft of stone filigree-work, frightfully
open, so that the guide puts his arms behind you to keep you from
falling. To climb it is a