WOODSIDE. 



ALL is calm and peaceful. The tranquil air scarcely raising 

 a rustle in the elms above my head or a ripple on the 

 surface of the pond at my feet ; the fragrance of sweet- 

 scented flowers diffused from the garden just behind me, and 

 from the newly mown hay in the field at my side ; the sun 

 brilliant in the deep blue sky, across which an occasional 

 cumulus cloud of varying but fantastic shape slowly sails 

 along far up in the air, whilst here and there stationary 

 lines of fleecy vapour rise high near the zenith ; the warb- 

 ling of the lark as he sings his matin hymn, mounting 

 higher and higher as he pours out his soul in ecstasy, until 

 lost to sight and sound ; all these combine to give me a 

 feeling of perfect rest and contentment, as I lie at full 

 length in the newly mown grass of a meadow, with my feet 

 dangling over the edge of a still pool in whose placid waters 

 the beautiful tints of the elms above me are reflected. 



The meadow is situated just where the roads from 

 Cobham and Grravesend meet and unite to form a single road, 

 which leads into and through Rochester, the venerable city 

 that I can see at the bottom of the hill. This road down 

 the hill is hewn out of the chalk ; its sides are rough and 

 steep, but almost covered with wild rose-bushes, which 

 maintain a precarious position in the clefts and crannies of 



