summer morning there, we seemed to have reached the height of bliss. The
grove was separated from Elswick Lane by sloping fields, where wheat and
barley grew luxuriantly, and the narrow path by which we ran, shouting
with joy, through these fields to our haven among the trees led past a
little fountain at which we always stopped to drink. The grove itself was
a small wood of oak and fir trees, covering a piece of rising ground from
which the most delightful views of the beautiful Tyne Valley and the
country lying south of the river were to be obtained. How often as a
child, when tired with my boyish games, I have sat with my brother
beneath one of the trees of the grove, and looked with eyes of wonder on
the scene before me! The noble river seemed to flow almost at our feet,
and the only signs of life upon its surface were the great keels passing
slowly up and down. Beyond it were the green meadows of Dunstan, whilst,
rising behind them, was the fine amphitheatre crowned by the pretty
village of Wickham and the woods of Ravensworth and Gibside. Young as I
was, I could quote poetry; and I remember how, as I looked upon this
scene, there invariably occurred to me the lines--

"Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood
Stand dressed in living green;
So to the Jews old Canaan stood
While Jordan rolled between."

Away yonder, across the brimming river, was the Canaan of my
imagination--the mysterious, unknown land into which my little feet were
so eager to wander, reckless of what might happen there. Why do I dwell
upon this simple scene? I do so because, alas, it is now a scene of the
past. Where my young comrades and I made merry fifty years ago in the
shade of the oak trees, or beside the well in the meadow, there is now a
vast cemetery, and some of those who played with me there now sleep