Let them talk of finger-tips, Pearly teeth, or coral lips, Cheeks the morning rose that mock, _Still_ there _is_ a charm in Stock! Solid mortgage, five per cent, Freehold with "improving" rent, Russia bond, and railroad share, Steal _my_ soul, Miss Millionaire. Let your rhymers (all are crackt) Rave of cloud or cataract; On the Rhine, or Rhone, or Arve, Let romancers stroll and starve. Cupid loves a gilded cage, (Let _me_ choose your equipage,) Passion pants for Portman Square, (Be but mine,) Miss Millionaire. There you'll lead a London life, More a goddess than a wife; Fifty thousand pounds a-year Making our expenses clear; Giving, once a-week, a _fete_, Simply to display our plate. Never earth saw such a pair, Exquisite Miss Millionaire! But a steeple starts up from its green thickets; not one of the hideous objects which the architects of our district churches perpetrate, to puzzle the passer-by as to the purpose of its being,--whether a brewer's chimney, or a shot-tower,--a perch for city pigeons, or a standing burlesque on the builders of the nineteenth age of the fine arts in England. This steeple is an old grey turret, ivy-mantled, modest, and with that look of venerable age which instinctively makes us feel, that it has witnessed memorable things in its time. And it _has_ witnessed them. On the slope of the hill above this church once waved the banners of a king, and the opposing banners of his nobles: the one receiving the lesson, that kings have duties as well as their subjects; and the others enforcing the lesson by the sight of lines and columns of the stout bowmen and billmen of the Norman chivalry.--On this spot, just this day six hundred and thirty years ago, was held the grand conference between John and the Barons. Further inland, but rising on the view, is Swainscomb, the hill on which the Danish armies encamped, in their pirate rovings of the British seas, and their invasions of the Thames. What a contrast between the green landscape of this moment, and the camp of Sweno. All before me was the luxury of cultivation, the yellowing crop, the grazing cattle, the cottage smoke curling slowly upward on the back-ground of noble beech, ash, and sycamore. On the summit, the sun gleamed on a rectory house, half buried in roses, where the most learned of our Orientalists perused the Koran in the peace of a Mahometan paradise, and doubtless saw, on the dancing waters of the mighty river at his feet, perpetual visions of houris.