hoped for. So I admired and envied; and her fair kinswomen pitied and scorned, and tried to teach; and Mary, never made for a learner, and as full of animal spirits as a schoolboy in the holidays, sang, and laughed, and skipped about from morning to night.

It must be confessed, as a counterbalance to her other perfections, that the dear Cousin Mary was, as far as great natural modesty and an occasional touch of shyness would let her, the least in the world of a romp! She loved to toss about children, to jump over stiles, to scramble through hedges, to climb trees; and some of her knowledge of plants and birds may certainly have arisen from her delight in these boyish amusements. And which of us has not found that the strongest, the healthiest, and most flourishing acquirement has arisen from pleasure or accident; has been in a manner self-sown, like an oak of the forest? Oh she was a sad romp! as skittish as a wild colt, as uncertain as a butterfly, as uncatchable as a swallow! But her great personal beauty, the charm, grace, and lightness of her movements, and, above all, her evident innocence of heart, were bribes to indulgence which no one could withstand. I never heard her blamed by any human being. The perfect unrestraint of her attitudes, and the exquisite symmetry of her form, would have rendered her an invaluable study for a painter. Her daily doings would have formed a series of pictures. I have seen her scudding through a shallow rivulet, with her petticoats caught up just a little above the ankle, like a young Diana, and a bounding, skimming, enjoying motion, as if native to the element, which might have become a Naiad. I have seen her on the topmost round of a ladder, with one foot on the roof of a house, flinging down the grapes that no one else had nerve enough to reach, laughing, and garlanded, and crowned with vine-leaves, like a Bacchante. But the prettiest combination of circumstances under which I ever saw her, was driving a donkey-cart up a hill one sunny windy day in September. It was a gay party of young women, some walking, some in open carriages of different descriptions, bent to see a celebrated prospect from a hill called the Ridges. The ascent was by a steep, narrow lane, cut deeply between sand-banks, crowned with high, feathery hedges. The road and its picturesque banks lay bathed in the golden sunshine, whilst the autumnal sky, intensely blue, appeared at the top as through an arch. The hill was so steep that we had all dismounted, and left our different vehicles in charge of the servants below; but Mary, to whom, as

incomparably the best charioteer, the conduct of a certain nondescript machine, a sort of donkey curricle, had fallen, determined to drive a delicate little girl, who was afraid of the walk, to the top of the eminence. She jumped out for the purpose, and we followed, watching and admiring her as she won her way up the hill, now tugging at the donkeys in front, with her bright face towards them and us, and springing along backwards-now pushing the chaise from behind—now running by the side of her steeds, patting and caressing them-now soothing the half-frightened child

-now laughing, nodding, and shaking her little whip at us-darting about like some winged creature-till at last she stopped at the top of the ascent, and stood for a moment on the summit, her straw bonnet blown back, and held on only by the strings; her brown hair playing on the wind in long natural ringlets; her complexion becoming every moment more splendid from exertion, redder and whiter; her eyes and her smile brightening and dimpling; her figure in its simple white gown, strongly relieved by the deep blue sky, and her whole form seeming to dilate before our eyes. There she stood under the arch formed by two meeting elms, a Hebe, a Psyche, a perfect goddess of youth and joy. The Ridges are very fine things altogether, especially the part to which we were bound, a turfy breezy spot, sinking down abruptly like a rock into a wild foreground of heath and forest, with a magnificent command of distant objects;—but we saw nothing that day like the figure on the top of the hill.

After this I lost sight of her for a long time. She was called suddenly home by the dangerous illness of her mother, who, after languishing for some months, died; and Mary went to live with a sister much older than herself, and richly married in a manufacturing town, where she languished in smoke, confinement, dependence, and display (for her sister was a matchmaking lady, a manoeuvrer), for about a twelvemonth. She then left her house and went into Wales—as a governess! Imagine the astonishment caused by this intelligence amongst us all; for I myself, though admiring the untaught damsel almost as much as I loved her, should certainly never have dreamed of her as a teacher. However, she remained in the rich baronet's family where she had commenced her vocation. They liked her apparently, there she was; and again nothing was heard of her for many months, until, happening to call on the friends at whose house I had originally met her, I espied her fair blooming face, a rose

amongst roses, at the drawing-room window, and instantly with the speed of light was met and embraced by her at the hall-door.

"

There was not the slightest perceptible difference in her deportment. She still bounded like a fawn, and laughed and clapped her hands like an infant. She was not a day older, or graver, or wiser, since we parted. Her post of tutoress had at least done her no harm, whatever might have been the case with her pupils. The more I looked at her the more I wondered; and after our mutual expressions of pleasure had a little subsided, I could not resist the temptation of saying "So you are really a governess?" "Yes." "And you continue in the same family?" "Yes.' "And you like your post?" "O yes! yes!" "But, my dear Mary, what could induce you to go?" "Why, they wanted a governess, so I went." "But what could induce them to keep you?" The perfect gravity and earnestness with which this question was put set her laughing, and the laugh was echoed back from a group at the end of the room, which I had not before noticed -an elegant man in the prime of life showing a portfolio of rare prints to a fine girl of twelve, and a rosy boy of seven, evidently his children. "Why did they keep me? Ask them," replied Mary, turning towards them with an arch smile. "We kept her to teach her ourselves," said the young lady. "We kept her to play cricket with us," said her brother. kept her to marry," said the gentleman, advancing gaily to shake hands with me. "She was a bad governess, perhaps; but she is an excellent wife-that is her true vocation." And so it is. She is, indeed, an excellent wife; and assuredly a most fortunate one. I never saw happiness so sparkling or so glowing; never saw such devotion to a bride, or such fondness for a step-mother, as Sir W. S. and his lovely children show to the sweet Cousin Mary.

SONG.

"We

MISS MITFORD.

Tell me, maiden-maiden dear!
Tell me what is love?
In thy brown eyes shining clear:
On thy lips, O maiden dear,
Can I see it move?

It is two hearts, two hearts true,
Two hearts with one beat:
Two souls shining, sighing through
Lips and eyes of morning dew,
With one wish between the two,
And that wish to meet.

ISA CRAIG-KNOX.

REAL MOURNERS.

[Rev. George Crabbe, born in Aldborough, Suffolk, 24th December, 1754; died in Trowbridge, 3d February, 1832. His parents were in humble circumstances, but they managed to afford their son a good education. He was apprenticed to a surgeon, but not liking the profession he determined to try his fortune in literature. With a few pounds, which he had borrowed, he worked his way on board a sloop to London. The Candidate was published in 1780, but the bookseller failed, and Crabbe gained nothing from the work. After enduring much distress he wrote to Edmund Burke, who at once afforded him generous help and encouragement. Burke's influence secured the publication by Dodsley of The Library and The Village, and by his advice Crabbe entered the Church, and was ultimately (1813) appointed rector of Trowbridge, Wiltshire. The Newspaper appeared in 1785; The Parish Register, Sir Eustace Grey, and various short poems, in 1807. In 1819 Mr. Murray gave him of his previous works, £3000. The most prominent for his Tales of the Hall, and the remaining copyright characteristics of his poetry are simplicity and faithful description of men and nature. Byron in the Barda says he was, "Though nature's sternest painter, yet

the best."]

Yes! there are real Mourners-I have seen
A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd;
Attention, through the day, her duties claim'd,
Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t' expect
But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;
Then to her mind was all the past display'd,
She sought her place to meditate and weep;
That faithful Memory brings to Sorrow's aid:
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;
In ev'ry place she wander'd, where they'd been,
And sadly-sacred held the parting scene
Where last for sea he took his leave:-that place
With double interest would she nightly trace.

Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took, That he should softly sleep and smartly look; White was his better linen, and his check Was made more trim than any on the deck; And every comfort men at sea can know, Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow: For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told, How he should guard against the climate's cold; Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood, Nor could she trace the fever in his blood: His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek, And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak; For now he found the danger, felt the pain, With grievous symptoms he could not explain.

He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message-"Thomas, I must die.

Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head.
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart she sigh'd; alone she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so- "Perhaps he will not sink."
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard;-
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair.
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way, she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people-death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she
press'd,

And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest." "I go," he said: but, as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound; Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, and all was past!—

She placed a decent stone his grave above, Neatly engraved-an offering of her love; For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed, Awake alike to duty and the dead;

But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

THE STRANGER GUEST.1

A considerable portion of my youth, and some intervals in my subsequent life, were spent in the country; and when my professional pursuits fixed my residence in the metropolis, I often looked back upon the hours I had passed amongst rural scenes, with blended sensations of pleasure and regret; while one of my principal excitements for pressing forward in the path I had chosen was supplied by the hope of some day arriving at that point from which I might diverge into the peaceful haunts of my childhood.

I was ever an interested spectator of the occupations of husbandry, and not unfrequently mingled in the society of those who pursued

them. The British farmer is one of the most useful members of the middle rank of life, and the character which he generally sustains places him among the most honourable. He is not exactly the description of person which existed under that name a hundred years ago, nor is it very likely that he should be; and I confess I could never join in the general clamour, and pronounce those effects of a refined state of society, which are termed improvements in other classes of men, degeneracy in him. The peasantry, too, of England, in the majority of instances where they have regular employment, I have found to be a very contented and wellordered race; although, it may be, they do not possess the spirit and intellectuality ascribed by modern tourists to the denizens of the Alps and the Abruzzi, whose fingers, by the way, are more familiar with the trigger of a musket than the handle of a plough.

There was in my neighbourhood a farmhouse which was remarkable, as well for the peculiarity of its structure as the very beautiful country by which it was surrounded. It was a very extensive building, and of a style of architecture quite distinct from any that prevails in houses of that description. It presented (I know not if I shall make myself understood by the terms I use) the appearance

to spare

The least assistance-'twas her proper care.

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;

which rose a staff or spire, very much resembling a sceptre. Hence, I suppose, originated

1 From Tales of a Physician. By W. H. Harrison. London, 2 vols.

a tradition current in the country, that the structure was formerly the residence of a Saxon prince. I am not sufficient of an antiquarian to venture an opinion upon the correctness of the hypothesis, but certain it is, the building was a very ancient one. The principal apartment on the ground-floor was a spacious brickpaved hall, extending from the front of the house to the back, and communicating with other rooms on either side. It was decorated with the horns of the stag and the buck, which had grown black with age, and the smoke proceeding from a very large fire-place, graced by brand-irons, to support the wood which was the only description of fuel consumed throughout the house. The upper rooms opened into a long gallery or corridor, ornamented by some very antique and curious carved work in black oak, of which the panels and flooring were generally composed. The surrounding buildings, appropriated as barns and stables, were of comparatively recent erection. There were two fish-ponds, apparently of ancient formation, within a few hundred yards of the house: one of them was tolerably stocked, the other was nearly dry. The circumjacent scenery was chiefly of a silvan character, occasionally opening into vistas of an undulating and highly cultivated country; the effect of which was considerably heightened by the windings of a rapid and clear stream, celebrated for the fineness and abundance of its trout.

The farm was of considerable extent, and formed part of the estate of a nobleman who had large possessions in the county, but who rarely visited them. As a young man, he was conspicuous for the generosity of his disposition, a nice sense of honour, and the mildness and affability of his manners. His classical and intellectual attainments were of a high order; and his wit, like Yorick's, was wont to "set the table in a roar." He formed an attachment to a young lady, who, a month before the day fixed for their union, suddenly, and without assigning a reason for the alteration in her sentiments, married a nobleman of higher rank. He received the intelligence of her faithlessness without uttering a syllable, or betraying an indication of anger or sorrow; nor was he ever known to allude to the subject: but from that hour he was a changed man. He withdrew entirely from female society, and became a member of a fashionable club, where a great portion of his time was passed. He engaged for a season in play; but although his losses were insignificant, he soon grew disgusted with the pursuit and his companions. He then plunged deeply into politics, and was

constant in his attendance at the House; but the vacuum in his mind was too vast to be filled by such expedients. He then quitted England, and travelled rapidly through France, Italy, and Germany, but could not outstrip the phantom that pursued him. At length he took up his residence entirely on the Continent, and thus his talents were lost to his country, whose senate he had so often charmed by his eloquence and enlightened by his wisdom.

The management of his estates, in the meantime, was confided to his steward, Mr. Giles Jenkins; a man who, although he would have made a grenadier among Lilliputians, was but a Lilliputian among grenadiers, being in stature exactly five feet two inches. His sallow complexion and forbidding aspect were by no means improved by an obliquity of vision and a red nose, which latter decoration was obtained at the expense of his temperance. He had been originally bred to the law, to the tortuosities of which his mind was admirably adapted. Diminutive as was his person, there was room enough in his bosom for the operation of some of the fiercest passions that deform humanity. His indomitable arrogance, grasping avarice, and insatiable revenge, made him the terror of all who were subjected to his influence, particularly of the tenants, among whom he exercised the most tyrannical sway. He was, moreover, a consummate hypocrite, and, as far as regarded his master, a successful one.

The farm, at the period of which I am writing, was tenanted by Andrew Hodson, whose ancestors had cultivated the same soil for more than a century.

Andrew had passed his fiftieth year; but the temperance of his habits, and the healthful nature of his employment, had protected him, in a great degree, from the inroads of time, and gave him the appearance of being much younger. His complexion exhibited the ruddy hue of health; and, although naturally fair, was imbrowned by the sun of many summers. His hair, as I have often remarked in persons engaged in agricultural pursuits, was somewhat scanty; a circumstance which, as it imparted a semblance of greater expansiveness to his forehead, improved rather than detracted from the general effect of his fine countenance. He was tall and well formed, although, probably from having in his early days taken an active share in the labours of the field, he had contracted a slight stoop in his shoulders. His eye, though of a light blue, which is generally considered indicative rather of vivacity than sense, was not deficient in intelligence; while it added to the expression of that benevolence

which had its home in his heart.

dress was a gaberdine or linen frock, which was, however, laid aside on a Sunday for more befitting habiliments.

Andrew's wife, who had been pretty, and was then a very comely dame, was somewhat younger than himself. Her domestic virtues and acquirements were admirably adapted for a farmer's wife; and although a shrewd, she was a very kind-hearted woman. They had two children, a son and a daughter; the former about one-and-twenty, and the latter two years younger.

Frank Hodson, very like his father in person, was an industrious, good-humoured lad; and, when dressed in a smart green riding-frock, light corduroy breeches, and long leather gaiters, or leggings, as they are called, was a very likely object to draw a second look from the village maidens, or even from dames of higher degree, as, mounted on his rough-coated forester, he passed on his way to the market town.

Of Amy Hodson, I fear I shall be able to give but an inadequate description. I am, at best, but a sorry hand at depicting female beauty, and I know I shall fail in the portraiture of hers. Although I have not a larger share of modesty than my neighbours, I know not how it is, but I never could look a lady long enough in the face to catch such an idea of her beauty as to bring a description of it within anything like an approximation to the original. I am not, it would seem, altogether singular in this particular, with regard to Amy Hodson; for even the sun, who, by his heathen alias, was not conspicuous for the unobtrusive quality I have named, had not turned his glances with sufficient pertinacity on her countenance, to sully the delicacy of the lily which nature had there planted by the rose.

Those who, in their estimate of a rustic belle, are unable to separate the idea of vulgarity from the character, would do gross injustice to Amy Hodson, both as regards the style of her beauty, and the gentleness of manner by which it was graced. Nature is no respecter of persons, and in the formation of our race has little reference to the stations we are destined to fill; since she as often bestows the fair heritage of beauty on the child of a peasant as on the heiress of a peer. Nor am I aware of anything in the habits or occupation of a farmer's daughter which has not a tendency rather to improve than to impair the symmetry of the form. Amy rose with the lark, breathing as sweet a hymn to the portals of heaven, and returning the first glance of

The family, parents and children, were bound together, not only by links of the strongest affection, but by the firmer bands of religion, of which they had all a deep and influential sense. The voice of contention was never heard in their dwelling.

Andrew Hodson for many years had prospered in the world, but on the expiration of the lease, which had descended to him from his father, a reluctance to quit a spot which so many recollections had endeared to him, induced him to take the farm at a rent above its value; so that, instead of saving money every year as he was wont to do, he began to find it a losing concern. At length, however, the failure of a provincial banker deprived him of the few hundreds he had laid by, and placed him in circumstances of much difficulty. Thus it happened, that, in lieu of having his homestead surrounded by wheat-stacks, the growth of former years, his sheaves were transferred directly from the harvest-field to the thrashing-floor, and the produce was sent to market, under all the disadvantages of a forced sale, to meet his Michaelmas rent. Again, if a horse died, or was worn out, he was unable, for want of money, to supply its place; and thus the strength on his farm became gradually so much reduced, that many acres of his land, which might have been made productive, remained uncultivated.

Andrew and his family met this reverse of fortune as became them, by the sacrifice of very many comforts, in which, under more prosperous circumstances, they were warranted in indulging. The old man exchanged his favourite hackney for a cart-horse, and superintended the operations on his farm on foot. Frank gave up his forest galloway to the harrow and light plough; and poor Amy's pony was sold to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who had taken a fancy to it for his daughter. The privation, however, which they most lamented was the necessity of contracting, not only the scale of their hospitality, but the sphere of their charity. It is true the wayfaring man never passed their door unrefreshed, nor the houseless wanderer unrelieved; and their hearth still shed its genial warmth upon the poor dependant, whom they had not the heart to displace from his seat in the chimney-corner; but there were many who were left bitterly