grove, and Kayland the cow's region. At
Oxford and Oxton, the ox; at Kelvedon or
Calverley, the calf; at Hartford the hart; at
Kidderminster and Ticehurst the kid (Anglo-
Saxon Tic); at Gatcome the goat; at
Harbottle the hare; at Horsham the horse; at
Shipley, also at Farleigh, Fairfield, and
Farve Islands, the sheep (in Scandinavian,
Faar); at Lamberhurst the lamb; the sow at
Sowerby; the swine at Swinburn; the wolf
at Wolverton and Wolverhampton; the dog
at Hounslow, the cony at Colney Hatch; the
squirrel (dray) at Drayton, were all animals
attached by name as well as nature to the
soil.

The general home of the birds (Fouls-ham)
was Fulham. Aylesbury was the eagle's
city; and from the eagle's name of Erne or
Arin, we get Earnley and Arley, the eagle's
meadow, as well as Arnold the eagle's wood.
The daw names Dawley, the owl Ulcombe,
the crow (Scandinavian Kraka) Crowland,
Crawley, Crackenthorp. The crane waded
in Cranbourne. The dove nested on Culver
cliffs. Geese passed by the ford at Gosforth.
Even the beetle settled permanently on some
portions of the land; Wigga, his old name,
is in Wigmore and in Wigton.

Trees are in such names as Oswestry and
Coventry; shrubs in Shrewsbury and Shropshire;
herbs or wort in Wortley. Then, as
to particular trees, we have ac, the ock, in
Acton, Auckland, Wok-ing, Askew (Ake-
skeugh, the oak knoll) or Mart-ock (the
market oak.) The ash is in Ashby, and in
many other names; the alder in Aldershot,
and Allerton or Ellerton. The broom is
in Brompton, the birch in Berkeley and
Berkhampstead, the apple in Appleby
and Appuldurcombe, the hazel in Haslemere,
the fern in Farnham, grass (gaers) in
Yearsly and Gretna, moss in Moseley, sedge
in Sedgemoor, the reed in Ridley, wheat in
Whitfield, beans in Binstead.

There was clay in the hill at Claydon,
cisel or gravel at Chisledon; and the most
famous gravel-bank in our island, now that
the Plymouth Breakwater is being made, is
known still by its old name as the Chesil
bank. Chalk is in Chalcots and the Chiltern
Hundreds. Marl in Marston Moor, in
Marlborough and Marlow; salt in Saltash and
Salcombe; sand at Sandhurst; stone (stan)
in Stoneleigh, Stanley (stone-meadow),
Staines, and many places more.

Truly there is a fossil geography worth
studying in names that are thus found to
have a by-gone meaning in them. We know
Basinghall Street as it is close to the London
Exchange, with the commerce of the world
in its intensest form gathered about it. But
its name tells us that here once stood the
haugh of the Basings, the quiet patch of
grass before the house-door of an
Anglo-Saxon family. Berkshire, the bare oak shire,
retains in its name the memory of a lopped
oak in Windsor Forest, around which meetings
were held centuries ago. We give to a
house of correction the name of Bridewell,
and the name reminds us of a palace near
Saint Bridget's Well in London which was
turned into a workhouse. By the Charter
house we are reminded of the Carthusian
Friars, monks of the Chartreuse, and in
Crutched Friars, of the frères croisés, friars
signed with the cross, which, in old English,
was often called a crouch. The flame of
beacon fires lives in the name Flamborough
Head, and there is a Celtic word for fire in
the word Thanet, that tells of the beacons
lighted by the watchers there against
incursions of the Danes who commonly made
Thanet their landing-place and accustomed
rendezvous while in this kingdom. During
the Danish wars the English Saxon kings
resided at the Cynges-tun still known as
Kingston-upon-Thames. Also—although the
etymology is doubtful—in the midst of the
wonders of Melbourne the gold city, the
great metropolis of the remotest end of the
earth peopled and gloriously sustained by
English enterprise, we may be reminded of
the old day of William the Conqueror, when
a water-mill represented so much of a town's
wealth and enterprise that it was called after
its chief glory, Mill-bourn.

                      A BAD NAME.

I DO not know why; except that I wore a
great beard and seldom left my rooms; but
when I retired to Stepchester to write a book,
people thought I was mad.

Heedless of all around me, I worked on,
day after day, week after week, month after
month, and on the thirty-first of April I
walked into my little garden, and if I did not
feel exactly as proud as did our great
historian, Gibbon, when he completed the Rise
and Fall, I nevertheless thanked Heaven,
from the bottom of my heart, that the
business was at an end.

On the following morning I rose in high
spirits. It was as beautiful a day as ever
was seen. I had now leisure to admire the
flowers that were blooming around me and
perfuming the air, and to watch the wanton
birds on the wing, chasing each other from
bough to bough.

I gave orders for the hair-dresser to be
summoned; after a brief delay, he came.
He was a tall thin man with a long red nose,
and a very liquorish eye. His manner was
so nervous and restless that I was half afraid
to trust him to shave me, and I was not a
little glad when the operation was over—his
hand trembled so violently, and he looked at
me in such a strange and terrified fashion.
Whilst he was cutting my hair I began to
talk to him; but all that I could extract
from him was, "Yes, sir; O yes, sir; you
are quite right, sir." Even when I asked
him a question—for instance, "Have you any
idea how far is it from this to Hastings by