small neighbourhood is as good in sober waking reality as in poetry
or prose; a village neighbourhood, such as this Berkshire hamlet in
which I write, a long, straggling, winding street at the bottom of a
fine eminence, with a road through it, always abounding in carts,
horsemen, and carriages, and lately enlivened by a stage-coach from
B---- to S----, which passed through about ten days ago, and will I
suppose return some time or other. There are coaches of all
varieties nowadays; perhaps this may be intended for a monthly
diligence, or a fortnight fly. Will you walk with me through our
village, courteous reader? The journey is not long. We will begin
at the lower end, and proceed up the hill.

*White's 'Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne;' one of the
most fascinating books ever written. I wonder that no naturalist
has adopted the same plan.

The tidy, square, red cottage on the right hand, with the long
well-stocked garden by the side of the road, belongs to a retired
publican from a neighbouring town; a substantial person with a
comely wife; one who piques himself on independence and idleness,
talks politics, reads newspapers, hates the minister, and cries out
for reform. He introduced into our peaceful vicinage the rebellious
innovation of an illumination on the Queen's acquittal.
Remonstrance and persuasion were in vain; he talked of liberty and
broken windows--so we all lighted up. Oh! how he shone that night
with candles, and laurel, and white bows, and gold paper, and a
transparency (originally designed for a pocket-handkerchief) with a
flaming portrait of her Majesty, hatted and feathered, in red ochre.
He had no rival in the village, that we all acknowledged; the very
bonfire was less splendid; the little boys reserved their best