massy tower-a row of superb lime-trees running along one side of the churchyard, and a cluster of dark yews shading the other. Few country churches have so much to boast in architectural beauty, or in grandeur of situation. We lose sight of it as we mount the hill, the lane narrowing and winding between deep banks, surmounted by high hedges, excluding all prospects till we reach the front of the vicarage, and catch across the gate of the opposite field a burst of country the most extensive and the most beautiful-field and village, mansion and cot, town and river, all smiling under the sparkling sun of May, and united and harmonized by the profusion of hedge-row timber in its freshest verdure, giving a rich woodland character to the scene, till it is terminated in the distance by the blue line of the Hampshire hills almost melting into the horizon. Such is the view from the vicarage. But it is too sunny and too windy to stand about out of doors, and time to finish our ramble. Down the hill, and round the corner, and past farmer Thorpe's house, and one glance at the wheat-hoers, and then we will go home. Ah! it is just as I feared. Jem and Mabel have been parted: they are now at opposite sides of the fields. he looking very angry, working rapidly and violently, and doing more harm than good-she looking tolerably sulky, and just moving her hoe, but evidently doing nothing at all. Farmer Thorpe, on his part, is standing in the middle of the field, observing, but pretending not to observe, the little humours of the separated lovers. There is a lurking smile about the corners of his mouth that bespeaks him more amused than angry. He is a kind person after all, and will certainly make no mischief. I should not even wonder if he espoused Jem Tanner's cause; and, for certain, if any one can prevail on the little clerk to give up his squinting favourite in favour of true love, farmer Thorpe is the man. THE VILLAGE schoolMISTRESS. memory was embalmed by a deed of charity and of goodness. She had founded and endowed a girls' school for “the instruction" (to use the words of the deed) "of twenty poor children, and the maintenance of one discreet and godly matron ;" and the school still continued to be called after its foundress, and the very spot on which the school-house stood, to be known by the name of Lady Lacy's Green. It was a spot worthy of its destination,-a spot of remarkable cheerfulness and beauty. The Green was small, of irregular shape, and situate at a confluence of shady lanes. Half the roads and paths of the parish met there, probably for the convenience of crossing in that place, by a stone bridge of one arch covered with ivy, the winding rivulet which intersected the whole village, and which, ' sweeping in a narrow channel round the school garden, widened into a stream of some consequence, in the richly-wooded meadows beyond. The banks of the brook, as it wound its glittering course over the green, were set, here and there, with clumps of forest trees, chiefly bright green elms, and aspens with theit quivering leaves and their pale shining bark; whilst a magnificent beech stood alone near the gate leading to the school, partly overshadowing the little court in which the house was placed. The building itself was a beautiful small structure, in the ornamented style of Elizabeth's day, with pointed roofs and pinnacles, and clustered chimneys, and casement windows; the whole house enwreathed and garlanded by a most luxuriant vine. The date of the erection, 1563, was cut in a stone inserted in the brickwork above the porch; but the foundress had, with an unostentatious modesty, withheld her name; leaving it, as she safely might, to the grateful recollection of the successive generations who profited by her benevolence. Altogether it was a most gratifying scene to the eye and to the heart. No one ever saw Lady Lacy's school-house without admiration, especially in the playhour at noon, when the children, freed from "restraint that sweetens liberty," were clustered under the old beech-tree, revelling in their innocent freedom, running, jumping, shouting, and laughing with all their might; the only sort of riot which it is pleasant to witness. The painter and the philanthropist might contemplate that scene with equal delight. WOMEN, fortunately perhaps for their happiness and their virtue, have, as compared with men, so few opportunities of acquiring permanent distinction, that it is rare to find a The right of appointing both the mistress female unconnected with literature or with and the scholars had been originally vested in history, whose name is remembered after her the Lacy family, to whom nearly the whole monument is defaced, and the brass on her of the parish at one time belonged. But the coffin-lid corroded. Such, however, was the estates, the manor, the hall-house, had long case with dame Eleanor, the widow of Sir passed into other hands and other names, and Richard Lacy, whose name, at the end of three this privilege of charity was now the only centuries, continued to be as freshly and as possession which the heirs of Lady Lacy refrequently spoken, as "familiar" a "house- tained in Aberleigh. Reserving to themselves hold word" in the little village of Aberleigh, the right of nominating the matron, her deas if she had flourished there yesterday. Her scendants had therefore delegated to the vicar and the parish officers the selection of the children and the general regulation of the school-a sort of council of regency, which, for as simple and as peaceful as the government seems, a disputatious churchwarden, or a sturdy overseer, would sometimes contrive to render sufficiently stormy. I have known as much canvassing and almost as much illwill in a contested election for one of Lady Lacy's scholarships, as for a scholarship in grander places, or even for an M. P.-ship in the next borough; and the great schism between the late Farmer Brookes and all his coadjutors, as to whether the original uniform of little green stuff gowns, with white bibs and aprons, tippets, and mob, should be commuted for modern cotton frocks and cottage bonnets, fairly set the parish by the ears.— Owing to the good farmer's glorious obstinacy (which I suppose he called firmness), the green-gownians lost the day. I believe that, as a matter of calculation, the man might be right, and that his costume was cheaper and more convenient; but I am sure that I should have been against him, right or wrong; the other dress was so pretty, so primitive, so neat, so becoming; the little lasses looked like rose-buds in the midst of their leaves: besides, it was the old traditionary dress-the dress contrived and approved by Lady Lacy. -Oh! it should never have been changed, never! Since there was so much contention in the election of pupils, it was, perhaps, lucky for the vestry that the exercise of the more splendid piece of patronage, the appointment of a mistress, did not enter into its duties. Mr. Lacy, the representative of the foundress, a man of fortune in a distant county, generally bestowed the situation on some old dependant of his family. During the churchwardenship of Farmer Brookes, no less than three village gouvernantes arrived at Aberleigh-a quick succession! It made more than half the business of our zealous and bustling man of office, an amateur in such matters, to instruct and overlook them. The first importation was Dame Whitaker, a person of no small importance, who had presided as head nurse over two generations of the Lacys, and was now, on the dispersion of the last set of her nurslings to their different schools, and an unlucky quarrel with a favourite lady's maid, promoted and banished to this distant government. Nobody could be more unfit for her new station, or better suited to her old. She was a nurse from top to toe. Round, portly, smiling, with a coaxing voice, and an indolent manner; much addicted to snuff and green tea, to sit ting still, to telling long stories, and to humouring children. She spoiled every brat she came near, just as she had been used to spoil the little Master Edwards and Miss Julias of her ancient dominions. She could not have scolded if she would-the gift was not in her. Under her misrule the school grew into sad disorder; the girls not only learnt nothing, but unlearnt what they knew before; work was lost-even the new shifts of the Vicar's lady; books were torn; and, for the climax of evil, no sampler was prepared to carry round at Christmas, from house to house-the first time such an omission had occurred within the memory of man. Farmer Brookes was at his wit's end. He visited the school six days in the week, to admonish and reprove; he even went nigh to threaten that he would work a sampler himself; and finally bestowed on the unfortunate ex-nurse, the nickname of Queen Log, a piece of disrespect, which, together with other grievances, proved so annoying to poor Dame Whitaker, that she found the air of Aberleigh disagree with her, patched up a peace with her old enemy, the lady's maid, abdicated that unruly and rebellious principality, the school, and retired with great delight to her quiet home in the deserted nursery, where, as far as I know, she still remains. The grief of the children on losing this most indulgent non-instructress, was not mitigated by the appearance or demeanour of her successor, who at first seemed a preceptress after Farmer Brookes's own heart, a perfect Queen Stork. Dame Banks was the widow of Mr. Lacy's game-keeper; a little thin woman, with a hooked nose, a sharp voice, and a prodigious activity of tongue. She scolded all day long; and for the first week passed for a great teacher. After that time it began. to be discovered, that, in spite of her lessons, the children did not learn; notwithstanding her rating they did not mind, and in the midst of a continual bustle, nothing was ever done. Dame Banks was in fact a well-intentioned, worthy woman, with a restless irritable temper, a strong desire to do her duty, and a woful ignorance how to set about it. She was rather too old to be taught either; at least she required a gentler instructor than the good churchwarden; and so much ill-will was springing up between them, that he had even been heard to regret the loss of Dame Whitaker's quietness, when very suddenly poor Dame Banks fell ill and died. The sword had worn the scabbard; but she was better than she seemed; a thoroughly well-meaning woman-grateful, pious, and charitable; even our man of office admitted this. The next in succession was one with whom my trifling pen, dearly as that light and fluttering instrument loves to dally and disport over the surfaces of things, must take no saucy freedom; one of whom we all felt it impossible to speak or to think without respect; one who made Farmer Brookes's office of adviser a sinecure, by putting the whole school, himself included, into its proper place, setting every body in order, and keeping them so. I don't know how she managed, unless by good sense and good-humour, and that happy art of government, which seems no art at all, because it is so perfect; but the children were busy and happy, the vestry pleased, and the churchwarden contented. All went well under Mrs. Allen. creature: not pretty—a girl of that age seldom is; the beauty of childhood is outgrown, that of youth not come; and Jane could scarcely ever have had any other pretensions to prettiness, than the fine expression of her dark grey eyes, and the general sweetness of her countenance. She was pale, thin, and delicate; serious and thoughtful far beyond her years; Her fondness for Mrs. Allen, and her constant and unremitting attention to her health and comforts, were peculiarly remarkable. Every part of their small housewifery, that her height and strength and skill would enable her to perform, she insisted on doing, and many things far beyond her power she attempted. Never was so industrious or so handy a little maiden. Old Nelly Chun, the char-woman, who went once a week to the house, to wash and bake and scour, declared that Jane did more than herself; and to all who knew Nelly's opinion of her own doings, this praise appeared superlative. She was an elderly woman, nearer perhaps to seventy than to sixty, and of an exceedingly venerable and prepossessing appearance. Deli-averse from play, and shrinking from notice. cacy was her chief characteristic-a delicacy so complete that it pervaded her whole person, from her tall, slender figure, her fair, faded complexion, and her silver hair to the exquisite nicety of dress by which, at all hours and seasons, from Sunday morning to Saturday night, she was invariably distinguished. The soil of the day was never seen on her apparel; dust would not cling to her snowy caps and handkerchiefs: such was the art magic of her neatness. Her very pins did their office in a different manner from those belonging to other people. Her manner was gentle, cheerful, and courteous, with a simplicity and propriety of expression that perplexed all listeners; it In the school-room she was equally assiduseemed so exactly what belongs to the highest ous, not as a learner, but as a teacher. None birth and the highest breeding. She was so clever as Jane in superintending the differhumble, very humble; but her humility was ent exercises of the needle, the spelling-book, evidently the result of a truly Christian spirit, and the slate. From the little work-woman's and would equally have distinguished her in first attempt to insert thread into a pocket any station. The poor people, always nice handkerchief, that digging and ploughing of judges of behaviour, felt, they did not know cambric, miscalled hemming, up to the nice why, that she was their superior; the gentry and delicate mysteries of stitching and buttonof the neighbourhood suspected her of being holing; from the easy junction of ab, ab, and their equal-some clergyman's or officer's ba, ba, to that tremendous sesquipedalian word widow, reduced in circumstances; and would irrefragibility, at which even I tremble as I have treated her as such, had she not, on dis- write; from the Numeration Table to Practice, covering their mistake, eagerly undeceived nothing came amiss to her. In figures she them. She had been, she said, all her life a was particularly quick. Generally speaking, servant, the personal attendant of one dear her patience with the other children, however mistress, on whose decease she had been re- dull or tiresome or giddy they might be, was commended to Mr. Lacy; and to his kindness, exemplary; but a false accomptant, a stupid under Providence, was indebted for a home arithmetician, would put her out of humour. and a provision for her helpless age, and the The only time I ever heard her sweet, gentle still more helpless youth of a poor orphan, far voice raised a note above its natural key, was dearer to her than herself. This avowal, al-in reprimanding Susan Wheeler, a sturdy, though it changed the character of the respect paid to Mrs. Allen, was certainly not calculated to diminish its amount; and the new mistress of Lady Lacy's school, and the beautiful order of her house and garden, continued to be the pride and admiration of Aberleigh. The orphan of whom she spoke was a little girl about eleven years old, who lived with her, and whose black frock bespoke the recent death of some relative. She had lately, Mrs. Allen said, lost her grandmother-her only remaining parent, and had now no friend but herself on earth; but there was One above who was a Father to the fatherless, and He would protect poor Jane! And as she said this, there was a touch of emotion, a break of the voice, a tremour on the lip, very unlike the usual cheerfulness and self-command of her manner. The child was evidently very dear to her. Jane was, indeed, a most interesting square-made, rosy-cheeked lass, as big again as herself, the dunce and beauty of the school, who had three times cast up a sum of three figures, and three times made the total wrong. Jane ought to have admired the ingenuity evinced by such a variety of error; but she did not; it fairly put her in a passion. She herself was not only clever in figures, but fond of them to an extraordinary degree-luxuriated in Long Division, and revelled in the Rule-ofThree. Had she been a boy, she would probably have been a great mathematician, and have won that fickle, fleeting, shadowy wreath, that crown made of the rainbow, that vainest of all earthly pleasures, but which yet is a pleasure-Fame. Happier, far happier, was the good, the lowly, the pious child, in her humble duties! Grave and quiet as she seemed, she had many moments of intense and placid enjoyment, when the duties of the day were over, and she sat reading in the porch, by the side of Mrs. Allen, or walked with her in the meadows on a Sunday evening after church. Jane was certainly contented and happy; and yet every one that saw her, thought of her with that kind of interest which is akin to pity. There was a pale, fragile grace about her, such as we sometimes see in a rose which has blown in the shade; or rather, to change the simile, the drooping and delicate look of a tender plant removed from a hot-house to the open air. We could not help feeling sure (notwithstanding our mistake with regard to Mrs. Allen) that this was indeed a transplanted flower; and that the village school, however excellently her habits had become inured to her situation, was not her proper atmosphere. Several circumstances corroborated our suspicions. My lively young friend Sophia Grey, standing with me one day at the gate of the school-house, where I had been talking with Mrs. Allen, remarked to me, in French, the sly, demure vanity, with which Susan Wheeler, whose beauty had attracted her attention, was observing and returning her glances. The playful manner in which Sophia described Susan's "regard furtif," made me smile; and looking accidentally at Jane, I saw that she was smiling too, clearly comprehending, and enjoying the full force of the pleasantry. She must understand French; and when questioned, she confessed she did, and thankfully accepted the loan of books in that language. Another time, being sent on a message to the vicarage, and left for some minutes alone in the parlour, with a piano standing open in the room, she could not resist the temptation of touching the keys, and was discovered playing an air of Mozart, with great taste and execution. At this detection she blushed, as if caught in a crime, and hurried away in tears and without her message. It was clear that she had once learnt music. But the surest proof that Jane's original station had been higher than that which she now filled, was the mixture of respect and fondness with which Mrs. Allen treated her, and the deep regret she sometimes testified at seeing her employed in any menial office. At last, elicited by some warm praise of the charming child, our good schoolmistress disclosed her story. Jane Mowbray was the grand-daughter of the lady in whose service Mrs. Allen had passed her life. Her father had been a man of high family and splendid fortune; had married beneath himself, as it was called, a friendless orphan, with no portion but beauty and virtue; and, on her death, which followed shortly on the birth of her daughter, had plunged into every kind of vice and extravagance. What need to tell a tale of sin and suffering? Mr. Mowbray had ruined himself, had ruined all belonging to him, and finally had joined our armies abroad as a volunteer, and had fallen undistinguished in his first battle. The news of his death was fatal to his indulgent mother; and when she too died, Mrs. Allen blessed the Providence which, by throwing in her way a recommendation to Lady Lacy's school, had enabled her to support the dear object of her mistress's love and prayers. Had Miss Mowbray no connections?" was the natural question. "Yes; one very near,-an aunt, the sister of her father, richly married in India. But Sir William was a proud and a stern man, upright in his own conduct, and implacable to error. Lady Ely was a sweet, gentle creature, and doubtless would be glad to extend a mother's protection to the orphan; but Sir WilliamOh! he was so unrelenting! He had abjured Mr. Mowbray, and all connected with him. She had written to inform them where the dear child was, but had no expectation of any answer from India." Time verified this prediction. The only tidings from India, at all interesting to Jane Mowbray, were contained in the paragraph of a newspaper which announced lady Ely's death, and put an end to all hopes of protection in that quarter. Years passed on, and found her still with Mrs. Allen at Lady Lacy's Green, more and more beloved and respected from day to day. She had now attained almost to womanhood. Strangers, I believe, called her plain; we, who knew her, thought her pretty. Her figure was tall and straight as a cypress, pliant and flexible as a willow, full of gentle grace, whether in repose or in motion. She had a profusion of light brown hair, a pale complexion, dark grey eyes, a smile of which the character was rather sweet than gay, and such a countenance! no one could look at her without wishing her well, or without being sure that she deserved all good wishes. Her manners were modest and elegant, and she had much of the self-taught knowledge, which is, of all knowledge, the surest and the best, because acquired with most difficulty, and fixed in the memory, by the repetition of effort. Every one had assisted her to the extent of his power, and of her willingness to accept assistance; for both she and Mrs. Allen had a pride-call it independence-which rendered it impossible, even to the friends who were most honoured by their good opinion, to be as useful to them as they could have wished. To give Miss Mowbray time for improvement had, however, proved a powerful emollient to the pride of our dear schoolmistress; and that time had been so well employed, that her acquirements were considerable; whilst in mind and character she was truly admirable; mild, grateful, and affectionate, and imbued with a deep religious feeling, which influenced every action and pervaded every thought. So gifted, she was deemed by her constant friends, the vicar and his lady, perfectly competent to the care and education of children; it was agreed that she should enter a neighbouring family, as a successor to their then governess, early in the ensuing spring; and she, although sad at the prospect of leaving her aged protectress, acquiesced in their decision. 66 She lives there still, its ornament and its pride; and every year Jane Mowbray comes for a long visit, and makes a holiday in the school and in the whole place. Jane Mowbray, did I say? No! not Jane Mowbray now. She has changed that dear name for the only name that could be dearer:-she is married-married to the eldest son of Mr. Lacy, the lineal representative of Dame Eleanor Lacy, the honoured foundress of the school. It was in a voice tremulous more from feeling than from age, that Mrs. Allen welcomed the young heir, when he brought his fair bride to Aberleigh; and it was with a yet stronger and deeper emotion that the bridegroom, with his own Jane in his hand, visited the asylum which she and her venerable guardian owed to the benevolence and the piety of his ancestress, whose good deeds had thus showered down blessings on her remote posterity. FANNY'S FAIRINGS. One fine Sunday in the October preceding this dreaded separation, as Miss Mowbray, with Mrs. Allen leaning on her arm, was slowly following the little train of Lady Lacy's scholars from church, an elderly gentleman, sickly-looking and emaciated, accosted a pretty young woman, who was loitering with some other girls at the church-yard gate, and asked her several questions respecting the school and its mistress. Susan Wheeler (for it happened to be our old acquaintance) was delighted to be singled out by so grand a gentleman, and being a kind-hearted creature in the main, spoke of the school-house and its inhabitants exactly as they deserved. Mrs. Allen," she said, "was the best woman in the world-the very best, except just Miss Mowbray, who was better still,-only too particular about summing, which you know, sir," added Susan," people can't learn if they can't. She is going to be a governess in the spring," continued the loquacious damsel; “and it's A HAPPY boy was Thomas Stokes, the blackto be hoped the little ladies will take kindly smith's son, of Upton Lea, last May morning: to their tables, or it will be a sad grievance to he was to go to B-fair, with his eldest Miss Jane."-" A governess! Where can I brother William, and his cousin Fanny; and make inquiries concerning Miss Mowbray ?" he never closed his eyes all night for thinking "At the vicarage, sir," answered Susan, of the pleasure he should enjoy on the mordropping her little curtsy, and turning away, row. Thomas, for shortness called "Tom," well pleased with the gentleman's condescen- was a lively, merry boy of nine years old, sion, and with half-a-crown which he had rising ten, as the horse-dealers say, and had given her in return for her intelligence. The never been at a fair in his life; so that his stranger, meanwhile, walked straight to the sleeplessness as well as the frequent solilovicarage; and in less than half an hour the quies of triumphant ho! ho! (his usual exvicar repaired with him to Lady Lacy's Green. clamation when highly pleased,) and the perThis stranger, so drooping, so sickly, so petual course of broad smiles in which his emaciated, was the proud Indian uncle, the delight had been vented for a week before, stern Sir William Ely! Sickness and death were nothing remarkable. His companions had been busy with him and his. He had were as wakeful and happy as himself. Now lost his health, his wife, and his children; that might be accounted for in his cousin's and, softened by affliction, was returned to case, since it was also her first fair; for FanEngland a new man, anxious to forgive and to ny, a pretty dark-eyed lass of eighteen, was a be forgiven, and, above all, desirous to repair Londoner, and, till she arrived that winter on his neglect and injustice towards the only re- a visit to her aunt, had never been out of the maining relative of the wife whom he had so sound of bow-bell; but why William, a young fondly loved and so tenderly lamented. In blacksmith of one-and-twenty, to whom fairs this frame of mind, such a niece as Jane were almost as familiar as horse-shoes, why Mowbray was welcomed with no common he should lose his sleep on the occasion is joy. His delight in her, and his gratitude less easy to discover-perhaps from sympatowards her protectress, were unbounded. He thy. Through Tom's impatience the party wished them both to accompany him home, and reside with him constantly. Jane promised to do so; but Mrs. Allen, with her usual admirable feeling of propriety, clung to the spot which had been to her a "city of refuge," and refused to leave it in spite of all the entreaties of uncle and of niece. It was a happy decision for Aberleigh; for what could Aberleigh have done without its good schoolmistress? were early astir; indeed, he had roused the whole house long before daybreak; and betimes in the forenoon they set forth on their progress; -Tom in a state of spirits that caused him to say, Ho! ho! every minute, and much endangered the new hat that he was tossing in the air; William and Fanny, with a more concentrated and far quieter joy. One should not see a finer young couple: he, decked in his Sunday attire, tall, sturdy, and mus |