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men, dispersed about in their several stations, and have themselves young ones to care and provide for; and the old couple are, as it were, left to begin the world again, alone in their quiet cottage. Those two alone together, as when they entered it fifty years ago, bridegroom and bride--alone, but not forsaken-sons, and daughters, and grandchildren, as each can snatch an interval of leisure, or when the labours of the day are over, come dropping in under the honeysuckle porch, with their hearty greetings; and many a chubby great-grandchild finds its frequent way to Grannum's cottage; many a school truant, and many a "toddlin' wee thing," whose little hand can hardly reach the latch of the low wicket, but whose baby call of" flitcherin' noise an' glee" gains free and fond admittance. And now they are on their way together, the old man and his wife.See-they have just passed through the last field-gate leading thitherward to the church. They are on their way together towards the house of God, and towards the place where they shall soon lie down to rest "in sure and certain hope," and they lean on one another for mutual support; and would it not seem still, as they are thus again drawn closer together as they approach nearer to the term of their earthly union, as if it were a type and token of an eternal re-union in a better and a happier state? I love to gaze upon that venerable pair,-ay, even to note their decent, antiquated Sabbath raiment-what mortal tailor—no modern one to be sure-can have carved out that coat of indescribable coloursomething of orange tawny with a reddish tinge-I suspect it has once been a rich Devonshire brown, and perhaps the wedding-suit of the squire's grandfather, for it has had a silk lining, and it has been trimmed with some sort of lace, gold probably, and there adown each side are still the resplendent rows of embossed, basket-work gilt buttons, as large as crown-piecesit must have been the Squire's grandfather's wedding-suit. And how snowywhite, and how neatly plaited is the single edge of his old dame's plain mob cap, surmounted by that little

black poke bonnet, flounced with rusty lace, and secured upon her head, not by strings, but by two long black corking-pins. That bit of black lace, of real lace, is a treasured remnant of what once trimmed her mistress's best cloak, when she herself was a blithe and buxom lass, in the days of her happy servitude; and the very cloak itself, once a rich mode silk of ample dimensions, now narrowed and curtailed to repair with many cunning engraftings, the ravages of time-the very cloak itself, with a scrap of the same lace frilled round the neck, is still worn on Sundays, through the Summer and Autumn, till early frosts and keener winds pierce through the thin old silk, and the good red-hooded cloak is substituted in its stead. They have reached the church-yard wicket; they have passed through it now, and wherefore do they turn aside from the path, a few steps beyond it, and stop and look down upon that grassy hillock? It is no recent grave, the daisies are thickly matted on its green sod, and the heap itself has sunk to a level nearly even with the flat ground. The little head-stone is half-buried too, but you may read thereon the few words, the only ones ever engraven there" William Moss, aged 22." Few living now remember William Moss. Few at least think of him. The playmates of his childhood, the companions of his youth, his brothers and sisters, pass weekly by his lonely grave, and none turn aside to look upon it, or to think of him who sleeps beneath. But in the hearts of his parents, the memory of their dead child is as fresh as their affections for their living children. He is not dead to them, though, eight-and-twenty years ago, they saw that turf heaped over his coffin-over the coffin of their eldest born. He is not dead to them, and every Sabbath-day they tarry a moment by his lowly grave, and even now, as they look thereon in silence, does not the heart of each parent whisper as if to the sleeper below,-"My son! we shall go to thee, though thou shalt not return to us."

Look down yonder under those arching hawthorns! what mischief is confederating there, amongst those sun

burnt, curly-pated boys, clustering together over the stile and about it, like a bunch of swarming bees? The confused sound of their voices is like the hum of a swarm too, and they are debating of grave and weighty matters; of nuts ripening in thick clusters down in Fairlee Copse, of trouts of prodigious magnitude leaping by the bridge below the Mill-head; of apples-and the young heads crowd closer together, and the buzzing voices sink to a whisper-"Of cherry-cheeked apples hanging just within reach of one who should climb upon the roof of the old shed, by the corner of the south wall of Squire Mills's orchard." Ah Squire Mills! I would not give sixpence for all the apples you shall gather off that famous red-streak to-morrow. But who comes there across the field towards the stile? a very youthful couple-Sweethearts, one should guess, if it were not that they were so far asunder, and look as if they had not spoken a word to each other this half hour. Ah! they were not so far asunder before they turned out of the shady lane into that open field, in sight of all the folk gathering into the church yard, and of those mischievous boys, one of whom is brother to that pretty Fanny Payne, whose downcast looks, and grave, sober walk, so far from the young miller, will not save her from running the gauntlet of their teazing jokes as she passes-and pass she must, through the knot of conspirators. Never mind it, Fanny Payne! Put a good face on the matter, and above all, beware of knitting up that fair brow into anything like a frown, as you steal a passing glance at that provoking brother of yours; it will only bring down upon you a thicker shower of saucy jests. See! see! that little old man, so old and shrivelled, and lean and wizen, and mummy coloured; he looks as if he had been embalmed and inhumed a century ago, and had just now walked out of his swathing bands, a specimen of the year one thousand seven hundred and ten. His periwig is so well plastered with flour and hog's lard, that its large sausage side curls look as durably consistent, as the "eternal buckles cut in Parian stone" that have immortaliz

ed Sir Cloudesley Shovel; and from behind dangles half-way down his back, a long taper pig-tail, wound round with black ribbon, the which, about half-way, is tied into an elegant rosette. On the top of that same periwig is perched a diminutive cocked hat-with such a cock! so fierce! so triangular! the little squat crown so buried within its triple fortification! The like was never seen, save in the shape of those coloured sugar comfits called cock'd hats, that are stuck up in long glasses in the confectioners' windows, to attract the eyes of poor longing urchins; and his face is triangular too, the exact centre of his forehead where it meets the periwig, being the apex thereof-his nose is triangular-his little red eyes are triangular-his person is altogether triangular, from the sloping narrow shoulders, to where it widens out, corresponding with the broad square fantail flaps of that green velveteen coat. He is a walking triangle! and he carries his cane behind him, holding it with both hands wide apart, exactly parallel with the square line of his coat-flaps. See! he is bustling up to join that small group of substantial farmers, amongst whom he is evidently a person of no small conse quence; they think him, as one should say, Sir Oracle," for he knows every fluctuation of stocks to a fraction

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criticizes the minister's discoursesexpounds the prophecies-explains all about the milleniums and the number of the beast-foretells changes of weather-knows something of physic and surgery-gives charms for the ague and rheumatizmakes ink-mends pens, and writes a wonderful fine hand, with such flourishes, that without taking his pen off the paper, he can represent the figures of Adam and Eve, in the involutions composing the initial capi tals of their names! He is "Sir Oracle," and not the less so, because people do not exactly know what he has been, and where he comes from. Some think he has been a schoolmaster-others conjecture that he has been a doctor of some sort, or a schemer in mechanics, about which he talks very scientifi cally-or in the funds or in some foreign commercial concern, for he has

certainly lived long in foreign parts, and is often heard talking to his old grey parrot in some outlandish tongue, and the bird seems to understand it well, and replies in the same language. There are not wanting some, who suspect that he has not been always in his perfect mind; but however that may be, he is perfectly harmless now, and has conducted himself unexceptionably ever since he came to settle in the village of Downe, ten years ago. In all that time he has never been known to receive within his dwelling any former friend or kinsman, and he has never stirred beyond the boundary of the parish, but to go once a-year to the banker's in the nearest town, to receive a small sum of money, for which he draws on a mercantile house in Lombard Street. He boards and lodges with a widow, who has a neat little cottage in the village, and he cultivates the finest polyanthuses and auriculars in the flower-plot, of which she has yielded up the management to him, that were ever beheld in that neighbourhood. He is very fond of flowers, and dumb animals, and children; and also the children in the place love him, and the old white Pomeranian dog, blind of one eye,who follows his master everywhere except to church. Now you know as much as I or any one knows of Master Jacob Marks, more, perhaps, than was worth telling, but I could not leave such an original subject half-sketched. Behold that jolly-looking farmer and his family approaching up the green lane that leads from their habitation, that old substantial-looking farm-house yonder, half embowered in its guar

dian elms.

They are a portly couple, the farmer and his wife! He, a hale, florid, fine looking man, on whose broad open brow time has scarcely imprinted a furrow, though it has changed to silky whiteness the raven hue of those locks, once so thickly clustered about his temples. There is a consciousness of wealth and prosperity, and of rural consequence, in his general aspect and deportment; but if he loves the good things of this world, and prides himself in possessing them,

there is nothing in the expression of his countenance that bespeaks a selfish and narrow heart, or a covetous disposition. He looks willing to distribute of his abundance, and greetings of cordial goodwill, on both sides, are exchanged between the farmer and such of his labourers as fall into the same path, in their way to the church. Arm-in-arm with her spouse marches his portly helpmate, fat, florid, and, like himself, "redolent" of the good things of this world, corn, and wine, and oil, that sustaineth the heart of man, and maketh him of a cheerful countenance.

A comely and a stately dame is the lady of Farmer Buckwheat, when, as now, she paces by his side, resplendent in her Sunday-going garb, of ample and substantial materials, and all of the very best that can be bought for money. One can calculate the profits of the dairy and the bee-hives, the pin-money of the farmer's ladynot to mention his weightier accumulations-by the richness of that black satin cloak and bonnet, full trimmed with real lace, and by the multitudinous plaits of that respectable-looking snuff-coloured silk gown and coat.

It is true, her old-fashioned prejudices would have been in favour of a large double silk handkerchief, pinned neatly down, and a flowered chintz gown, drawn up through the pocketholes over a white quilted petticoat; but the worthy dame has two fair daughters, and they have been brought up at a boarding-school, and they have half-coaxed, half-teazed their Ma'a out of such antiquated vulgar tastes, though even those pertinacious reformists have been obliged to concede the point of a pelisse in favour of the satin cloak. But when they have conceded one point, they have gained at least two. See, the old lady's short sleeves, neatly frilled just below the elbow, are elongated down to the wrists, and finished there by a fashionable cuff, out of which protrudes the red, fat, fubsy hand, with short dumpty fingers nubbed between, broad and turning up at the tips, looking as if they had been created on purpose to knead dough, press curds,

and put up butter; and, lo! on the fore-finger of the right hand a great garnet ring set in silver, massy enough for the edge of a soup tureen. It is an heir-loom from some great-grandmother, who was somehow related to somebody who was first cousin to a “Barrow-knight," and was herself so very rich a lady-and so the misses have rummaged it out, and forced it down upon their Ma'a's poor dear fat finger, which sticks out as stiffly from the sensation of that unwonted compression, as if it were tied up and poulticed for a whitlow; and the poor lady, in spite of all hints and remonstrances, will walk with her gloves dangling in her hands, instead of on them; and altogether the short pillowy arms cased up in those tight cearments, with both hands and all the fingers spread out as if in act to swim, look, for all the world, like the fins of a turtle, or the flaps of a frightened gosling. Poor worthy dame! but a sense of conscious grandeur supports her under the infliction of this fashionable penance. And then come the Misses Buckwheat, mincing delicately in the wake of their Pa'a and Ma'a, with artificial flowers in their Leghorn bonnets, sky-blue spencers, fawn-coloured boots, flounces up to their knees, a pink parasol in one hand, and a pocket-handkerchief dangling from the other; not neatly folded and carried with the handsome prayerbook in the pretty fashion that so well becomes that fair modest girl, their neighbour's daughter, whose profound ignorance of fashionable dress and manners is looked on as quite pitiable, "poor thing!" by the Misses Buckwheat. For what are they intended, I wonder! For farmers' wives? To strain milk, churn butter, fat pigs, feed poultry, weigh out cheeses, and cure bacon hogs Good lack! They paint landskips! and play on the piano! and dance quadrilles ! and make bead purses! and keep Albums! and doat on Moore's Melodies and Lord Byron's poems! They are to be "tutoresses," or companions, or— something or other-very genteel Ladies, for certain, anyway. So they have settled themselves, and so the

weak, doating mother fondly anticipates, though the father talks as yet only of their prosperous establishment (all classes talk of establishing young ladies now,) as the wives of wealthy graziers, or substantial yeomen, or farmers, or thriving tradesmen. But he drinks his port wine and follows the hounds. And then bringing up the rear of the family procession, lounges on its future representative, its sole son and heir. And he is a smart buck, far too genteel to walk arm-in-arm with his sisters; so he saunters behind, cutting off the innocent heads of the dangling brier-roses, and the tender hazel shoots, with that little jemmy switch, wherewith ever and anon he flaps the long-looped sides of his yellow topped boots; and his white hat is set knowingly on one side, and he wears a coloured silk handkerchief knotted loosely round his throat, and fastened down to the shirt bosom by a shining brooch,-and waistcoat of three colours, pink, blue, and buff,—a grassgreen coat, with black velvet collar, and on his little finger, (the wash leather glove is off on that hand,) a Belcher ring as thick as the coil of a ship's cable. Well done, young Hopeful! That was a clever aim! There goes a whole shower of hazel-tops. What a pity your shearing ingenuity is not as active among the thistles in your father's fields! The family has reached the church-gate; they are entering now; and the farmer, as he passes through, vouchsafes a patronizing nod, and a good-humoured word or two, to that poor widow and her daughter, who stand aside holding the gate open for him, and dropping humble curtsies to every member of the family. The farmer gives them now and then a few days' work,— hoeing, weeding, or stoning, or, at hay or harvest time, on his broad acres ; but his daughters wonder "Pa'a should demean himself so far as to nod familiarly to such poor objects." They draw up their chins, flirt their handkerchiefs, and pass on as stiff as pokers. And last, in straggles Master Timothy-(He hates that name, by the by, and wishes his sponsors had favour

ed him with one that might have short ened buckishly into Frank, or Tom, or-Tim won't do, and his sisters scout the barbarous appellation, and have re-christened him "Alonzo." They would fain have bestowed on him the name of Madame Cottin's interesting Saracen, Malek Adhel, but it was impossible to teach their mamma the proper pronunciation of that word, which she persisted in calling "Molly Coddle")-In straggles Timothy Alonzo, but he is even more condescending than his papa, and bestows a very tenderly expressive glance at the widow's daughter, as she drops her eyes, with her last and lowest curtsey to him.

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Well, they are gone by, thank Heaven! and the poor woman and her child follow at humble distance to their Master's house. They will not always be abased there. The widow Maythorn and her daughter Rachel are a very poor, but a very hap py pair. Her daughter is sickly and delicate, and folks say, in our country phrase, hardly so sharp as she should be," but she has sense enough to be a dutiful child, to suffer meekly, to hope humbly, to believe steadfastly.--What profiteth other knowledge? The mother and daughter possess a little cottage, a bit of garden, and a cow that picks its scanty pasture on the waste. They work hard, they want often, but they contrive to live, and are content. The widow Maythorn and her daughter are a happy pair!-Yonder, winding slowly up that shady green lane, come the inmates of the parish workhouse-the in-door poor. First, the master, a respectable-looking middleaged man, with somewhat of pompous sternness in his deportment; but there is nothing hard or cruel in the expression of his eye, as ever and anon he looks back along the line of paupers, of all ages and sexes, so decently marshalled under his command. On the contrary, he hangs back, to speak a few words of hearty encouragement to that weary old man, who totters along so feebly on his crutches, under the burden of his fourscore years of toil and trouble, and the in

creasing load of his bodily infirmities. And the grateful look of old Matthew, and his cheerful," Lord love ye, mas ter!" are eloquent vouchers, that for once, the man "armed with a little brief authority" abuseth not his trust. The mistress has less dignity, but more severity of aspect, as her sharp, quick glance runs back often and suspiciously along the line of femalesand she calls them peremptorily to order, if their voices are heard too voluble; and she rebukes the strag gling children, and denounces exemplary vengeance against those two detected urchins in particular--detected in the misdemeanor of skulking behind to pull those tempting clusters of almost ripe nuts, that peep so invitingly from the high hazel hedge. But her denunciations are not listened to, it should appear, with any very ve hement demonstrations of dread. I believe o' my conscience, "her bark is waur than her bite;" and that half her terrors lie in that long, sharp, bowsprit nose, those little red gimblet eyes, and in the sound of a voice, shrill, cracked, and squeaking, like the tone of a penny trumpet. Very neat, decent, and respectable is the appearance of the long line of parish poor. They are all comfortably clad in whole and clean apparel; and even that poor idiot, who brings up the rear, straggling in and out of the file of children,-who can restrain his vagaries? Even he is clothed in good grey woollen, and a whole new hat, in lieu of the scarlet tatters, and old battered soldier's helmet, with its ragged red and white feather, in which he delights to decorate his poor deformed figure on week-days, calling himself corporal, captain, general, or drum-major, as the whim of the moment rules his wayward fancy, each grade, as he assumes it, the most honourable in his estimation. They are passed on, all of them-men, women, and children-the two culprits still lagging in the rear-I wager they have another pluck at the forbidden fruit, on their way back to the work-house.

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More children still! marshalled in double files-boys and girls, three scores at least; each sex uniformly

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