A WINTER VIGNETTE 
27 
the lenjjth of our excursion, fatigue had no share, full of thankful gratitude to 
that great Being, Who has, in His measureless goodness, poured out into the 
lap of Nature so much of luxury for the mind of meditative man, and made 
medicine for the wounded spirit in the groves, and hills, and fields, and harmony 
of universal Nature. 
Grave of Gilbert White. 
From the place where White drew his first breath, and where, with short 
and unfrequent interrruptions, he spent a long and happy life, a few paces 
brought us to his grave. 
Me lies undistinguished in the village churchyard. There are, in the south 
side of the chancel, five lowly tenements of the dead, the fifth from the chancel 
is that of Gilbert White ; his grave is, like his life, lowly and peaceful. I was 
glad that he was laid here ; nor could I help thinking that the grass was more 
green, and the moss more richly verdant on that grave. He lies tranquilly in the 
lap of his mother earth ; and even in death within the influences of that Nature, 
he, living, loved so well. He lies nobly — the world is his tomb, the heavens his 
canopy, the dew of evening scatters with diamonds the spot where his ashes 
repose, his requiem is chanted by the warbling choristers of spring, and starry 
lamps that never die illumine his sepulchre. 
The Writer’s Peroration. 
Our pilgrimage was done — we had traversed the classic ground of the 
philosopher, we had wandered in his footsteps, and we had calmed and soothed 
our spirits into tranquillity in the contemplation of his peaceful grave. 
Why did we come here — why leave our homes and families to wander over 
spots which make no part of our world, which have no connection with our hopes, 
of fears, or interests or prejudices, or passions? Why did we come here ? 
I will answer for my.self that I came here to pay my humble homage to a 
peaceful spirit — a meek possessor of the earth — a man without gall or bitterness 
in his nature, one who gained fame without making an enemy, and bequeathed 
to posterity a reputation as unenvied as extensive. 
Appreciate him as a naturalist I cannot, for I am not qualified. No one 
save an observer of Nature can sufficiently appreciate the fidelity of his descrip- 
tions, the accuracy of his observations, the clear lucidity of his delineations of 
natural phenomena — but I can sufficiently appreciate the man — the ease, grace 
and simplicity of his style have an indescribable charm for the general reader ; 
the holiness of his pursuit ; his unaffected, serene and cheerful piety ; the ten- 
dency of every line he wrote to advance the interests of religion, humanity and 
goodness ; the tranquillising influence of his writings on the mind of man. 
Surely if the memory of the illustrious dead is to derive honour from a 
pilgrimage to the scenes he has familiarised to every one — and what fitter 
homage can the illustrious dead receive ? — you will forgive me, reader, that I 
stole from business, and turbulence, and care, the few tranquil hours I dissipated 
in my pilgrimage to happy, peaceful and classic Selborne. 
A WINTER VIGNETTE. 
INTER is so near us now that in the mornings and 
evenings we seem to feel his cold wings ushering in 
the Frost Spirit. All Nature resents his approach : 
the sun hides his splendour behind fog-laden clouds : 
the leafless trees stretch out their bare arms deprecatingly : 
flowers die, and the bird world is silenf. On all sides Winter’s 
coronation day is disputed, and again and again Queen Autumn 
tries to resume her sway ; but once Winter becomes settled on 
his throne, his masterful personality forces us to admire him. 
He is a terrible despot at times : his courtiers know this. 
