[1] John Frere was the eldest son of George Frere of Lincoln’s Inn and Twyford, Herts, who was third son of John Frere of Roydon, Norfolk. He was educated at Eton and Trinity College, Cambridge; B.A. 1830, M.A. 1833, 2nd class Classical Tripos, 1st Sen. Op.; Curate of Hadleigh, Suffolk, under Archdeacon Lyall; Chaplain to Blomfield, Bishop of London; Rector of Cottenham, Cambe, 1839. Married Jane B. Dalton, 1839. Died May 21, 1851. He was first curate of Wakes Colne, Essex, at that time held with Messing Vicarage. [2] Possibly Sir Nathaniel Tooke, a celebrated politician of those times. [3] Possibly Rev. George Rowney Green, Fellow of Eton and grandfather to the finder of this paper. [4] These lines were written by Byron in July 1821: Who kill’d John Keats? ‘I,’ says the _Quarterly_, So savage and Tartarly; ‘’Twas one of my feats.’ Who shot the arrow? ‘The poet-priest Milman (So ready to kill man), Or Southey or Barrow.’ ‘_THE WASTREL._’ The black-faced sheep were scattering about the moss when David Moir stopped to shut the loaning gate. It was getting dark and the lonely fells rolled back, blurred and shadowy, to the east. In the foreground, peat-hags showed gashes of oily black among the ling, but some were filled with leaden water, ruffled by the bitter wind. Beneath him, in a hollow, his small, white farmstead stood amidst a few bare ash trees, and a dim gleam to the west indicated the sea. Moir was gaunt and a trifle bent by age and toil, though his eyes were keen. Sheep dealers called him a hard man, but took his word about the flocks he sold. As a matter of fact, he lived with stern frugality because his upland farm was poor and his younger son’s folly had cost him dear. By and by his old collie growled and he saw a line of indistinct figures crossing the moss. As one left the rest and came towards him he recognised a young Territorial sergeant, who was a seed merchant’s clerk in peaceful times. ‘Ye’ll hae had a cauld day amang the fells,’ he remarked. ‘What were ye looking for?’ ‘I don’t know,’ the sergeant answered, smiling. ‘The idea may have been to keep us fit, but we had orders to inquire about the old drove road and note anything suspicious. You’ll have heard the tales about signal lights and mysterious cars that cross the moors after dark.’ ‘Idle clashes!’ ‘I’m not sure. The authorities seem to suspect that something’s going on, and a strange motor launch has been seen off Barennan Sands; then the old north road comes down to the shore this way. I expect you know it?’ Moir nodded. The new road, which led through two towns, followed the water of Ewan down a neighbouring valley; the old one ran straight across the lonely fells. ‘It’s a green ro’d, but the maist o’ it’s no’ so bad. I hae driven a young horse ower it in the dark, and it’s no’ verra steep until ye rin doon to Ewan glen.’