If you would place yourself just midway between the three seas which form the boundaries of southern England, you shall find yourself on a small knoll, covered with antique elm, walnut, and sycamore trees, which rises out of a vale famous in all time for the natural fertility of its soil, and the moral virtues of its people. On this knoll, fitly called by our ancestors "the Heart of South Britain," stood, distant about half a mile from each other, two monasteries, known by the flowery appellatives of Lilies and Roses; not unaptly setting forth a promise of all that can recommend itself as fair and sweet unto the gentler senses. These edifices have, for many centuries, been no more; but, on the site of the first mentioned of the two, standeth a small mansion, of Tudor architecture, bearing still its ancient name. Of the monastery little memorial, beyond the name, remains; save only that under a small enclosed space, erewhile its cemetery, now a wilderness of flowers, the bones of the monks repose. Two lines of artificial slope to the westward mark the boundaries of the pleasaunce, where they took their recreation, and cultivated their lentils and fruits; and a range of thickly-walled cellar still retains the same destination and office as when it furnished to those holy men their more generous materials of refection. What more shall be said of the mansion, or of the domain, full seventy statute acres, which surrounds it?--of the herds and flocks content to thrive in silence on the richness of its fields, and thrive they do in wondrous measure of prosperity? Nothing.--Nor much of that more gamesome troop of idle steeds, though pleasant to their master's eve, who, on its green expanse, frisk and gambol out a sportive colthood, or graze and hobble through a tranquil old age, with the active and laborious honours of a public life past, but not forgotten. Little shall be said of that smooth and narrow pool, scarce visible among the rising shrubs which belt in and shroud the grounds from the incurious wayfarer; or of such carp and tench as, having escaped the treacherous toils of the nightly plunderer, gasp and tumble on its surface, delighting to display their golden pride in the mid-day sun, before the gaze of lawful possession. Nor shall the casual reader be led carelessly and wearily to note the many sweet memorials of private friendship, records of the living and the dead, which, standing forth from amid the lightsome glades and leafy shadows around, make the place sacred to many a strong affection. Romantic the scenery without is not, and for spacious halls and gorgeous canopies the eye may search in vain within. But for the warm cheer of the little oak library,--for the quaint carvings, the tracery of other times, which abound therein,--for the awful note of the blood-hound, baying upon his midnight chain,--and the pleasing melancholy of the hooting owl from his hereditary chamber in the roof,--and for the