Geo. An insect!-how can insects make such a thing? Tut. It is a sort of a fly, that has a power of piercing the outer skin of the oak boughs, under which it lays its eggs. The part then swells into a sort of ball, and the young insects, when hatched, eat their way out. Well; this ball, or apple, is a pretty strong astringent, and is sometimes used in dying black. But in the warm countries, there is a species of oak which bears round excrescences of the same kind, called galls, which become hard, and are the strongest astringents known. They are the principal ingredient in the black dyes, and common ink is made with them, together with a substance called green vitriol, or copperas, which contains iron.

I have now told you the chief uses that I can recollect of the oak; and these are so important, that whoever drops an acorn into the ground, and takes proper care of it when it comes up, may be said to be a benefactor to his country. Besides, no sight can be more beautiful and majestic than a fine oak wood. It is an ornament fit for the habitation of the first nobleman in the land.

Har. I wonder, then, that all rich gentlemen, who have ground enough, do not cover it with oaks.

Tut. Many of them, especially of late years, have made great plantations of these trees. But all soils do not suit them: and then there is another circumstance which prevents many from being at this trouble and expense, which is, the long time an oak takes in growing, so that no person can reasonably expect to profit by those of his own planting. An oak of fifty years is greatly short of its full growth, and they are scarcely arrived at perfection under a century. Some say, not under five centuries. However, it is our duty to think of posterity as well as ourselves; and they who receive oaks from their ancestors, ought certainly to furnish others to their successors.

Har. Then I think that every one who cuts down an oak should be obliged to plant another.

Tut. Very right-but he should plant two or three for one, for fear of accidents in their growing.

I will now repeat to you some verses, describing the oak in its state of full growth, or rather of the commencement of decay, with the various animals living upon it and then we will walk.

"See where yon Oak its awful structure rears,
The massive growth of twice a hundred years;
Survey his rugged trunk, with moss o'ergrown,
His lusty arms in rude disorder thrown,
His forking branches wide at distance spread,
And, dark'ning half the sky, his lofty head;
A mighty castle, built by nature's hands,
Peopled by various living tribes, he stands.
His airy top the clamorous rooks invest,
And crowd the waving boughs with many a nest.
Midway the nimble squirrel builds his bower;
And sharp-bill'd pies the insect tribes devour,
That gnaw beneath the bark their secret ways,
While unperceived the stately pile decays."

Alfred. How retired and quiet is everything in this little spot! The river winds its silent waters round this retreat; and the tangled bushes of the thicket fence it from the attack of an enemy. The bloody Danes have not yet pierced into this wild solitude. I believe I am safe from their pursuit. But I hope I shall find some inhabitants here, otherwise I shall die of hunger. Ha! here is a narrow path through the wood; and I think I see the smoke of a cottage rising between the trees. I will bend my steps thither.

Scene-Before the Cottage.

GUBBA coming forward. GANDELIN within. Alfred. Good even to you, good man. Are you disposed to show hospitality to a poor traveller?

Gubba. Why truly there are so many poor travellers now-a-days, that if we entertain them all, we shall have nothing left for ourselves. However, come along to my wife, and we will see what can be done for you. Wife, I am very weary; I have been chopping wood all day.

Gandelin. You are always ready for your supper, but it is not ready for you, I assure you; the cakes will take an hour to bake, and the sun is yet high; it has not yet dipped behind the old barn. But who have you with you, I trow?

Alfred. Good mother, I am a stranger; and entreat you to afford me food and shelter.

Gandelin. Good mother, quotha! Good wife, if you please, and welcome. But I do not love strangers; and the land has no reason to love them. It has never been a merry day for Old England, since strangers came into it.

Alfred. I am not a stranger in England, though I am a stranger here. I am a true-born Englishman.

Gubba. And do you hate those wicked Danes, that eat us up, and burn our houses, and drive away our cattle ?

Alfred. I do hate them.

Gandelin. Heartily! he does not speak heartily, husband.

Alfred. Heartily I hate them ;-most heartily. Gubba. Give me thy hand, then; thou art an honest fellow.

Alfred. I was with King Alfred in the last battle he fought.

Gandelin. With King Alfred? Heaven bless him!
Gubba. What is become of our good King?
Alfred. Did you love him, then?

Gubba. Yes, as much as a poor man may love a king; and knelt down and prayed for him every nihgt, that he might conquer those Danish wolves; but it was not to be so.

Alfred. You could not love Alfred better than I did.

Gubba. But what is become of him?

Alfred. He is thought to be dead.

Gubba. Well, these are sad times; Heaven help us! Come, you shall be welcome to share the brown loaf with us; I suppose you are too sharp-set to be

nice.

Gandelin. Ay, come with us; you shall be as welcome as a prince! But hark ye, husband; though I am very willing to be charitable to this stranger (it would be a sin to be otherwise), yet there is no reason he should not do something to maintain himself; he looks strong and capable.

Gubba. Why, that's true. friend?

What can you do,

Alfred. I am very willing to help you in anything you choose to set me about. It will please me best to earn my bread before I eat it.

Gubba. Let me see. Can you tie up faggots neatly?

Alfred. I have not been used to it. I am afraid I should be awkward.

Gubba. Can you thatch? There is a piece blown off the cow-house.

Alfred. Alas! I cannot thatch.

Gandelin. Ask him if he can weave rushes; we want some new baskets.

Alfred. I have never learned.
Gubba. Can you stack hay?
Alfred. No.

Gubba. Why, here's a fellow! and yet he hath as many pair of hands as his neighbours. Dame, can you employ him in the house? He might lay wood on the fire, and rub the tables.

Gandelin. Let him watch these cakes, then; I must go and milk the kine.

Gubba. And I'll go and stack the wood, since supper is not ready.

Gandelin. But pray, observe, friend! do not let the cakes burn; turn them often on the hearth. Alfred. I shall observe your directions.

ALFRED, alone.

Alfred. For myself, I could bear it; but England, my bleeding country, for thee my heart is wrung with bitter anguish!-From the Humber to the Thames the rivers are stained with blood—My brave soldiers cut to pieces! My poor people-some massacred, others driven from their warm homes, stripped, abused, insulted; and I, whom Heaven appointed their shepherd, unable to rescue my defenceless flock from the ravenous jaws of these devourers!-Gracious Heaven, if I am not worthy to save this land from the Danish sword, raise up some other hero to fight with more success than I have done, and let me spend my life in this obscure cottage, in these servile offices! I shall be content, if England be happy.

O! here come my blunt host and hostess.

Enter GUBBA and GANDelin.

Gandelin. Help me down with the pail, husband. This new milk, with the cakes, will make an excellent supper; but, mercy on us, how they are burnt! black as my shoe! they have not once been turned; you oaf, you lubber, you lazy loon

Alfred. Indeed, dame, I am sorry for it; but my mind was full of sad thoughts.

Gubba. Come, wife, you must forgive him; perhaps he is in love. I remember when I was in love with thee

Gandelin. You remember!

Gubba. Yes, dame, I do remember it, though it is many a long year since: my mother was making a kettle of furmety—