growe neither greater nor higher. This
people do commonly tell the reason to bee,
for that there was one burnt upon that place
for the profession of the Gospell." There
was also some connecting link between the
walnut-tree and the Seven Sisters by which
it was surrounded. There were seven elms
planted by seven sisters, one by each. The
tree planted by the most diminutive of the
sisters was always irregular and low in its
growth. But now comes another legend
of the walnut-tree. There was an eighth
sister, who planted an elm in the midst of
the other seven; it withered and died when
she died, and then a walnut-tree grew in its
place. But now the walnut-tree is gone,
one of the elms is gone, and the others are
gradually withering. In Ireland there is a
legend connected with a lonely castle on the
coast of Kerry, telling, in like manner, of
seven sisters. The lord of the castle was a
grim and cruel man, who had seven beautiful
daughters. Seven brothers, belonging
to a band of Northmen rovers, were
cast on that coast, and fell desperately in
love with the seven ladies. A clandestine
escape was planned; this being discovered,
the heartless parent threw all the seven
lovely damsels down a chasm into the
raging surf below. Something more is
known about that paradise of bird-cages,
that emporium of birds and bird-lime, that
resort of bird-catchers and bird-buyers,
Seven-dials. Evelyn, writing in 1694, said:
"I went to see the building beginning near
St. Giles's, where seven streets make a star
from a Doric pillar placed in the middle of
a circular area." This erection was said
to be seven feet square at the top, had
seven faces or sides, and seven sun-dials
on those seven faces. The seven dials
faced seven streets: Great Earl, Little
Earl, Great St. Andrew's, Little St.
Andrew's, Great White Lion, Little White
Lion, and Queen streets. The pillar and
its seven dials were removed about three-
quarters of a century ago. Were they not
taken to Walton-on-Thames, and are they
in existence now?

Those friends of our boyish years, the
Seven Champions of Christendom, have
been a subject of more learned discussion
than most boys—even old boys—would
suppose. It would seem a daring question
to ask whether Shakespeare condescended
to borrow any of his beautiful language,
any of his rich imagery, from this book.
And yet such a question has been asked.
Mr. Keightley, author of the Fairy
Mythology, started the subject a few years
ago in Notes and Queries. It appears that
Richard Johnson, the author of the Seven
Champions, was one of the contemporaries
of Shakespeare, and that the book was
published at about the same time as many
of the plays of our great poet. Let us cite
three passages pointed out by Mr. Keightley.
The Champions say: "As they passed
along by the river-side, which, gently
running, made sweet music with the enamelled
stones, and seemed to give a gentle kiss to
every sedge he overtook in his watery
pilgrimage." Compare this with a passage
in the Second Act of the Two Gentlemen
of Verona:

The current that with gentle murmur glides
Thou knowest, being stopped, impatiently doth rage;
But, when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with the enamel'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage.

The italicised words in the latter show how
many are the points of resemblance in the
imagery and language. A second passage
runs thus: "Where they found in Duke
Ursini, Death's pale flag advanced in his
cheeks." With this compare a passage in
the Fifth Act of Romeo and Juliet:

Beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And Death's pale flag is not advanced there.

Once more: "It seemed indeed that the
leaves wagged, as you may behold when
Zephyrus with a gentle breath plays with
them." Now turn to the Fourth Act of
Cymbeline:

As Zephyrs, blowing beneath the violet, not
Wagging his sweet head.

We cannot go into the critical questions of
bibliography involved here; but may simply
state that an opinion is held by commentators
in favour of Johnson having had precedence
of Shakespeare in these passages. At any
rate, Number Seven is very much honoured
by such comparisons.

Not the least curious among these
associations of Number Seven, is that with
the seventh son. Whoever has the good
fortune to be the father of seven boys,
especially if no girl intervene to break the
continuity of the series, is to be congratulated
forthwith. Let him not talk about
too many olive-branches in his garden, or
too many arrows in his quiver, or too
many little folks around his table: his
seventh boy will be a wonder. In the
district around Orleans in France, a seventh
son, without a daughter intervening, is
called a marcou. His body is (or is
supposed by the peasantry to be) marked in
some spot or other with a fleur-de-lis. If