On inquiring of a native, we were told that this place was the residence of "Mr. _Antiquary Streatfeild_." We doubt, however, if he has any just pretensions to that designation, a divine across the border assuring us that he is skilled in glamoury, and illustrating his account by stating that 'where there was a hill, there he would have a hollow, where there was a dell, there we should find a mound'; and, indeed, we ourselves experienced the delusion, for the spot which we had known for many years as a bleak desert, appeared sheltered and decorated with thriving plantations, a house new from the kiln, cheated us with its Elizabethan air; neither was the spell broken when we found ourselves in the interior; there we saw, or thought we saw, one of Raphael's loveliest easel pictures, one of Rembrandt's deep toned yet brilliant interiors, and a goodly row of ancestors in flowing wigs and ample ruffles; whilst, in fact, the former were no more than a foxy Italian copy of the divine Urbino, and a modern English attempt to mimic the glorious Fleming, and the latter, Cockneys and Kentish Yeomen." Such a concatenation of studied insults might be supposed to have finished with a libel action. But it is the only description of a neighbouring house which has a hint of raillery, and a pencilled note in a copy I found of the little old book adds the explanation. Chart's Edge belonged to the author of _Lympsfield and its Environs_. I imagine, also, that Mr. Antiquary Streatfeild was the author of _The Old Oak Chair_, republished in the same volume by his friend "H.G.," and described as a ballad "sung at an anniversary dinner of the Westerham Amicable Benefit Society, to which the author has proved a steady friend." This is the ballad of _The Old Oak Chair_:-- My good sire sat in his old oak chair, And the pillow was under his head, And he raised his feeble voice, and ne'er Will the memory part From my living heart Of the last few words he said. "When I sit no more in this old oak chair, And the green grass has grown on my grave, And like armed men, come want and care, Know, my boys, that God's curse Will not make matters worse, How little soever you have. "The son that would sit in my old oak chair, And set foot on his father's spade, Must be of his father's spirit heir, And know that God's blessing Is still the best dressing, Whatever improvements are made." And he sat no more in his old oak chair; And a scape-thrift laid his hand On his father's plough, and he cursed the air, And he cursed the soil, For he lost his toil, But the fault was not in the land.