Some day they'll turn up.
Nightingale was much pleased to find himself recorded in my "Farley Heath," as to both verse and prose.

He has been in the Better World some twelve years, and his widow gave me the collections he called his Tupperiana.
I confess that the following poem wherein my genial friend figures,--and which many judges have liked as among my best balladisms, is one reason for this record of B.N.
_Farley Heath._ "Many a day have I whiled away Upon hopeful Farley Heath, In its antique soil digging for spoil Of possible treasure beneath; For Celts, and querns, and funereal urns, And rich red Samian ware, And sculptured stones and centurions' bones May all lie buried there! "How calmly serene, and glad have I been From morn till eve to stay, My men, no serfs, turning the turfs The happy livelong day; With eye still bright, and hope yet alight, Wistfully watching the mould, As the spade brings up fragments of things Fifteen centuries old! "Pleasant and rare it was to be there On a joyous day of June, With the circling scene all gay and green Steep'd in the silent moon; When beauty distils from the calm glad hills, From the downs and dimpling vales; And every grove, lazy with love, Whispereth tenderest tales! "O then to look back upon Time's old track, And dream of the days long past, When Rome leant here on his sentinel spear And loud was the clarion's blast;-- As wild and shrill from Martyr's Hill Echoed the patriot shout; Or rush'd pell-mell with a midnight yell The rude barbarian rout! "Yes; every stone has a tale of its own, A volume of old lore; And this white sand from many a brand Has polish'd gouts of gore; When Holmbury Height had its beacon light, And Cantii held old Leith, And Rome stood then with his iron men On ancient Farley Heath! "How many a group of that exiled troop Have here sung songs of home, Chanting aloud to a wondering crowd The glories of old Rome! Or lying at length have basked their strength Amid this heather and gorse, Or down by the well in the larch-grown dell Water'd the black war-horse! "Look, look! my day-dream right ready would seem The past with the present to join,-- For see! I have found in this rare ground An eloquent green old coin, With turquoise rust on its Emperor's bust-- Some Caesar, august lord, And the legend terse, and the classic reverse, 'Victory, valour's reward!' "Victory--yes! and happiness, Kind comrade, to me and to you, When such rich spoil has crown'd our toil And proved the day-dream true; With hearty acclaim how we hail'd by his name The Caesar of that coin, And told with a shout his titles out, And drank his health in wine! "And then how blest the noon-day rest, Reclin'd on a grassy bank, With hungry cheer and the brave old beer, Better than Odin drank; And the secret balm of the spirit at calm, And poetry, hope, and health,-- Ay, have I not found in that rare ground A mine of more than wealth ?" Another long-time friend also of the antiquarian sort was Walter Hawkins, with whom I was intimate for many years.

His private collection of coins and curiosities was even larger and costlier than Nightingale's, and was given by his administratrix to the United Service Museum, where I believe the bulk of it (perhaps morally mine) still remains in cases not yet unpacked.

He died suddenly, to my great financial loss; for he was very fond of me, offering himself sponsor and giving his name to a son of mine; and as a rich old bachelor he used, to make humorously half promises of benefits to come.

In fact, he had called in his lawyer to take instructions for a new will, and partly at least had erased or destroyed the old one of a twelve years agone, when, one raw and wintry morning, he insisted upon seeing a lady from and to her carriage without his hat (punctilio being his _forte_ and his fault), caught cold, took to his bed, and was dead in four days! Accordingly a relative with whom he had not been on the best of terms for years, administered to his half will, and succeeded to his possessions.