The Shakespearian passage which earliest impressed my childish mind and carried with it my heartiest sympathies was the song of old Autolycus: "Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a: Your merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a." Over how many miles of "foot-path way," under how many green hedges, has my childish treble chanted that enlivening ditty!