and vas buried within the Temple. Beneath
the cloisters of Lincoln's Inn moulders the dust
of the upright and incorruptible Edward Thurloe,
secretary of Cromwell, and minister of England
during the Commonwealth, styled in its records,
"One of the Fellows of this Society." The
Thurloe papers, famous as memorials of our
history, were accidentally discovered many years
after his death in a false ceiling to the chambers
he had occupied in Lincoln's Inn. Within the
same cloisters rests one and one only of the
gentler sex. The greatest living ornament of the
profession, Henry Lord Brougham, selected, as a
bencher, the chapel of Lincoln's Inn for the
grave of his only child, Eleanor Louisa Brougham,
who was buried there on the fourth of
December, one thousand eight hundred and thirty–
nine, aged eighteen. It may be, that when the
learned and venerable octogenarian shall
terminate his earthly career—distinguished in the
varied circles of law, literature, eloquence,
philosophy, and public utility—his mortal
remains will repose by the side of her whom he
held dear, and to whom, his only direct descendant,
he was devoted.

THE CHICKLEBURY SILVER CUP.

As I happen to live in a little stone cottage
standing close to the road that leads to
Chicklebury Butts, I had many opportunities of
observing the local excitement which was
occasioned by the announcement that Captain St.
Ives was going to give a silver cup to be shot
for by the Chicklebury Company, at the
Chicklebury Butts, Bufton Magna. I could see from
my windows that gay Lothario of our countryside,
O'Donnell the handsome young Irish
exciseman, clothed in a black velvet coatee,
trotting by on his fast cob, with his rifle gallantly
slung behind him. I heard the butcher
discussing the forthcoming match with the village
gunmaker, who lives nearly opposite to me.
The Buyborough Independent announced the
match in thrilling paragraphs all about the
"steel–clad chivalry of other days," the tournament
at Ashby–de–la–Zouch, "the smiles of
beauty," "lion hearts," and other fine editorial
furniture.

The shooting began at twelve. About half–
past eleven a white tilt–cart, bristling with
rifles and resonant with negro melodies, jolted
over the little grey two–arched bridge opposite
my cottage. This cart contained the Chicklebury
Company, rejoicing in their holiday. The
landlord of the Flying Sun, the glazier of Melsome,
the two farmers from Redfont, with one
sergeant and several rank and file from Brattleton,
including two of the Marquis of Flintshire's
gamekeepers, were all ambushed in that
jogging cart, on their way to the butts at
Stranger's Corner.

I snatched up my hat, struggled into my
great–coat, and sallied off after them to the
Upper Downs, through a lane that a rainy and
intolerable March had almost turned into a trout
stream, In that sloping field to my right-
hand, sharp green tongues of the young barley
were rising thick and fast; far away to the left
the stone-pickers were spread out like
skirmishers over the grey fallows; on the ridge above
them, the smoke of weed–fires drifted as from
a burning village; while over my head a plover
screamed, and some wild–ducks fled in alarm.
Down the budding hedges the blackbirds
chattered in dismay; and out yonder in a rank green
field of young tares a large reddish hare, big as a
pointer, sat up and stared at me with frightened
astonishment. I could track down the lane where
the children had been, by the spoil of primroses
they had scattered after picking; for children
believe the final cause of a flower is to be picked.
Where the lane ended with a mossy direction-
post whose foot is buried in nettles, and where
a lichened stone indicates that I was XII miles
from Buyborough, and XC. from Great Babylon,
I crossed the road by some pools cut in the
turf for the sheep, and was on the downs. Dark
masses of fir plantations crowd the horizon like
clouds of advancing Frenchmen just above
Stranger's Corner, and in a moment I caught
sight of the butts.

A massive wall of chalk, faced with green
squares of turf. The two targets, one a little
slip, looked from here like a visiting card, "good
up to 300 yards;" and a larger one, about the
size of a soap-dish, "good up to 700." The one
represents the height and breadth of two men,
and the other of three men abreast. The small one
has an outer black ring and a black bull's eye;
the larger has only a large black centre; for
seven hundred yards is too long a distance for
very fine shooting. The sloping wall of loose
chalk to the left, bastioned with hurdles and
piled stakes, is the mantlet for sheltering the
scorer with his three flags.

There, too, was St. Ives and the Chicklebury
Company drawn up in line. When the
firing began, I could see the puff of white smoke,
and hear the subsequent sharp report, and the
"tang," as the conical bullet struck the iron
shield of the target, four hundred yards off.
How small and toy–like the men looked at this
distance! Their rifles were mere bulrushes.

There were the Lothario Exciseman; that
handsome brown–skinned fellow the young
miller from Applewood; Serjeant Brotherhood,
honest landlord of the Flying Sun; and
privates Randall, Barnes, Archer, Ridler, Anstie,
Jefferies, Nott, Farret, Butler, Vincent, Sherrin,
Lenthall, Humphries, &c. &c. To the left of
them stood a chair and a rough deal table, covered
with writing materials; and, near these, a
suspicious–looking object, wrapped up neatly in brown
paper, which, no doubt, was the silver cup.

The men were not in uniform, because the
match was a private one. St. Ives alone appeared
in the grey with the rhubarb lace, he being the
commander, having to regulate the proceedings.
There were numerous by–standers, farmers,
small tradesmen, and others. All whispered bets
to one another on their special favourites. There
was a momentary pause; for there had been a