The road from Hawarden to Boughton is exceedingly grand: we come upon one of the widest panoramas of the Dee and one of the most typical of English country scenes. A vast sweep of country unsurpassed in richness spreads along the river on the Cheshire side: sixty square miles of fields and pastures are in sight, with elms, sycamores and formal rows of Lombardy poplars. Wherever the trees cluster in a grove they usually mark the site of a country-house or a cherished ruin, like this one of old Hawarden, where one enormous oak tree sweeps its branches on the ground on every side, and forms a canopy whence you can peer out, as through the delicate tracery of a Gothic window, at the landscape beyond. The mouth of the Dee is visible from this road, whence at low water it seems reduced to a huge sandbank, through which the tired river trickles like a brook. The dun sky and yellow sands and gray sea, with the island of Hilbree, a counterpart of Lindisfarne both in its legend of a recluse and its continual alternation twice a day between the state of an island and a peninsula, make a picture pleasant to look back upon. Hence too come the shoals of cockles and mussels that go to delight Londoners. Then the open-sea fishing, the lithe boats that seem all sail, the wide waste of waters, with the point of Air and the Great Orme's Head walling it in on the receding Welsh coasts, the remembrance of the shipwreck a little beyond the mouth of the Dee which led to Milton's poem of _Lycidas_ (containing the phrase "wizard stream" which has become peculiar to the Dee),--all claim our notice, and it seems impossible that we are so few miles from Manchester and so far from the historic, romantic times of old. LADY BLANCHE MURPHY. [Illustration: OVERTON CHURCH.] FOR ANOTHER. Sweet--sweet? My child, some sweeter word than sweet, Some lovelier word than love, I want for you. Who says the world is bitter, while your feet Are left among the lilies and the dew? Ah? So some other has, this night, to fold Such hands as his, and drop some precious head From off her breast as full of baby-gold? I, for her grief, will not be comforted. S.M.B. PIATT. AMONG THE KABYLES. CONCLUDING PAPER. [Illustration: ROMAN SEPULCHRE AT TAKSEBT.]