many others to fight with-most of them, of course, of her own seeking. What she would have done without a grievance, it is difficult to guess; but she had so great a genius for making one out of every thing and every person connected with her, that she was never at a loss in that particular. Her stepmother she had always regarded as a natural enemy; and at her father's death, little as she, generally speaking, coveted money, she contrived to quarrel with her whole family on the division of his property, chiefly on the score of an old japanned chest of drawers, not worth ten shillings, which her brothers and sisters were too much of her own temper to relinquish. Then her son, on whom she doted with a peevish, grumbling, fretful, discontented fondness that always took the turn of finding fault, was, as she used reproachfully to tell him, just like his father. The poor child, do what he would, could never please her. If he were well, she scolded; if he were sick, she scolded; if he were silent, she scolded; if he talked, she scolded. She scolded if he laughed, and she scolded if he cried. Then the people about her were grievances, of course, from Mr. Pierre Leblanc downward. She turned off her porter for apprehending a swindler, and gave away her yard-dog for barking away some thieves. There was no foreseeing what would displease her. She caused a beggar to be taken up for insulting her, because he, with his customary cant, blessed her good-humoured face; and she complained to the mayor of the fine fellow Punch for the converse reason, because he stopped before her windows and mimicked her at her own door. Then she met with a few calamities of which her temper was more remotely the cause; such as being dismissed from the dissenting congregation that she frequented, for making an over-free use of the privilege which pious ladies sometimes assume of quarrelling with their acquaintance on spiritual grounds, and venting all manner of angry anathema for the love of God; an affront that drove her to church the very next Sunday. Also, she got turned off by her political party, in the heat of a contested election, for insult ing friends and foes in the bitterness of her zeal, and thereby endangering the return of her favourite candidate. A provincial poet, whose works she had abused, wrote a song in her dispraise; and three attorneys brought actions against her for defamation. These calamities notwithstanding, Deborah's life might, for one and twenty years, be accounted tolerably prosperous. At the end of that time, two misfortunes befell her nearly at once,-Pierre Leblanc died, and her son attained his majority. "Mother!" said the young man, as they were dining together off a couple of ducks "Mother!" said John Tomkins, mustering up his courage, "I think I was one and twenty last Saturday." "And what of that?" replied Deborah, putting on her stormiest face; "I'm mistress here, and mistress I'll continue: your father, poor simpleton that he was, was not fool enough to leave his house and business to an ignorant boy. The stock and trade are mine, sir, and shall be mine, in spite of all the undutiful sons in Christendom. One and twenty, forsooth! What put that in your head, I wonder? What do you mean by talking of one and twenty, sirrah ?" 66 Only, mother," replied John, meekly, "that, though father left you the house and business, he left me three thousand pounds, which, by your prudent management, are now seven thousand; and uncle William Ford, he left me the new Warren Farm; and so, mother, I was thinking, with your good will, to marry and settle." 66 Marry!" exclaimed Mrs. Tomkins, too angry even to scold-" marry!" and she laid down her knife and fork, as if choking. "Yes, mother!" rejoined John, taking courage from his mother's unexpected quietness, Rachel May's pretty grand-daughter Rebecca; she is but half a Quaker, you know, for her mother was a Churchwoman: and so, with your good leave-" and smack went all that remained of the ducks in poor John's face; an effort of nature that probably saved Deborah's life, and enabled her to give vent to an oration to which I have no power to do justice; but of which the non-effect was so decided, that John and his pretty Quakeress were married within a fortnight, and are now happily settled at the new Warren House; whilst Mrs. Tomkins, having hired a goodhumoured, good-looking, strapping Irishman of three and twenty, as her new foreman, is said to have it in contemplation, by way, as she says, of punishing her son, to make him, the aforesaid Irish foreman, successor to Simon Tomkins, as well as to Pierre Leblanc, and is actually reported, (though the fact seems incredible,) to have become so amiable under the influence of the tender passion, as to have passed three days without scolding any body in the house or out. The little God of Love is, to be sure, a powerful deity, especially when he comes somewhat out of season; but this transition of character does seem to me too violent a change even for a romance, much more for this true history; and I hold it no lack of charity to continue doubtful of Deborah's reformation till after the honey-moon. Note. MADAME PERNELLE, ELMIRE, MARIANNE, CLEANTE, DAMIS, DORINE, FLIPOTE. MADAME PERNELLE. two days after the old shopman's funeral; Allons, Flipote, allons; que d'eux je me délivre. Vouz marchez d'un tel pas qu'on a peine à vous suivre. S'il le faut écouter et croire à ses maximes, On ne peut faire rien qu'on ne fasse des crimes : Car il contrôle tout, ce critique zélé. MADAME PERNELLE. Et tout ce qu'il contrôle est fort bien contrôlé. MADAME PERNELLE, a Elmire. Voilà les contes bleus qu'il vous faut pour vous plaire, Ma bru. L'on est chez vous contrainte de se taire : Voilà-t-il pas monsieur qui ricane déjà. Allez chercher vos fous qui vous donnent à rire, (a Elmire.) Et sans... Adieu, ma bru; je ne veux plus rien dire. Allons, vous, vous rêvez, et bayez aux corneilles. TARTUFE-ACTE I., SCENE I. THE YOUNG MARKET-WOMAN. BELFORD is so populous a place, and the country round so thickly inhabited, that the Saturday's market is almost as well attended as an ordinary fair. So early as three or four o'clock in the morning, the heavy wagons (one with a capital set of bells) begin to pass our house, and increase in number-to say nothing of the admixture of other vehicles, from the humble donkey-cart to the smart gig, and hosts of horsemen and foot-people-until nine or ten, when there is some pause in the Votre monsieur Tartufe est bien heureux, sans doute. affluence of market folk till about one, when MADAME PERNELLE. C'est un homme de bien, qu'il faut que l'on écoute; Et je ne puis souffrir, sans me mettre en courroux, De le voir quereller par un fou comme vous. DAMIS. Quoi! je souffrirai, moi, qu'un cagot de critique the lightened wains, laden, not with corn, but with rosy-cheeked country lasses, begin to show signs of travelling homeward, and continue passing at no very distant intervals until twilight. There is more traffic on our road in one single Saturday than on all the other days of the week put together. And if we feel the stirring movement of "market-day" so strongly in the country, it may be imagined how much it must enliven the town. Saturday at noon is indeed the very time to see Belford, which in general has the fault, not uncommon in provincial towns, of wanting bustle. The old market-place, always picturesque from its shape (an unequal triangle), its size, the diversified outline and irregular architecture of the houses, and the beautiful Gothic church by which it is terminated, is then all alive with the busy hum of traffic, the agricultural wealth and the agricultural population of the district. From the poor farmer with his load of corn, up to the rich mealman and the great proprietor, all the landed interest” is there, mixed with jobbers and chapmen of every description, cattledealers, millers, brewers, maltsters, justices going to the Bench, constables and overseers following to be sworn, carriers, carters, errandboys, tradesmen, shopmen, apprentices, gentlemen's servants, and gentlemen in their own persons, mixed with all the riff-raff of the town, and all the sturdy beggars of the country, and all the noisy urchins of both. 66 Noise indeed is the prime characteristic of the Belford market-day-noise of every sort, from the heavy rumbling of so many loaded wagons over the paved market-place, to the crash of the crockery-ware in the narrow passage of Princes' Street, as the stall is knocked down by the impetus of a cart full of turnips, or the squall of the passengers of the Southern caravan, upset by the irresistible momentum of the Hadley-mill team. But the noisiest, and perhaps the prettiest places, were the Piazza at the end of Saint Nicholas's church, appropriated by long usage to the female venders of fruit and vegetables, where certain old women, as well known to the habitués of the market as the church-tower, were wont to flyte at each other, and at their customers, with the genius for vituperation for which ladies of their profession have long been celebrated; and a detached spot called the Butter-market, at the back of the Market-place proper, where the more respectable basket-women, the daughters and wives of farmers, and the better order of the female peasantry, used to bring eggs, butter, and poultry for sale on Wednesdays and Saturdays. A pretty and a diversified place was the Butter-market; for besides the commodities, Idead and alive, brought by the honest countrywomen, a few stalls were set out with straw hats, and caps and ribbons, and other feminine gear, to tempt them in return; and here and there an urchin of the more careful sort would bring his basket of tame rabbits, or wood-pigeons, or young ferrets, or squeaking guinea-pigs, or a nest of downy owls or gaping jackdaws, or cages of linnets and thrushes, to tempt the townsfolk. Nay, in the season, some thoughtful little maid of eight or ten would bring nosegays of early primroses or sweet violets, or wall-flowers, or stocks, to add a few pence to the family store. A pleasant sight was the Butter-market, with its comely country wives, its modest lasses and neat children,-pleasant and cheerful, in spite of the din of so many women, buyers and sellers, all talking together, and the noise of turkeys, geese, ducks, chickens, and guinea-pigs;-but the pleasantest sight there was a young damsel famous for eggs and poultry, and modest beauty, known by the name of "pretty Bessy,"-but not a regular attendant of the market, her goods being in such request that she seldom had occasion to come so far, the families round, ourselves among the rest, dealing constantly with her. We are persons of great regularity in our small affairs of every class, from the petty dealings of housekeeping to the larger commerce of acquaintanceship. The friends who have once planted us by their fireside, and made us feel as if at home there, can no more get rid of our occasional presence, than they could root out that other tenacious vegetable, the Jerusalem artichoke; even if they were to pull us up by the stalk and toss us over the wall (an experiment by the way, which, to do them justice, they have never tried,) I do verily believe, that in the course of a few months we should spring up again in the very same place: and our tradespeople, trifling as is the advantage to be derived from our custom, may yet reckon upon it with equal certainty. They are, as it happens, civil, honest, and respectable, the first people in their line in the good town of Belford; but, were they otherwise, the circumstance would hardly affect our invincible constancy. The world is divided between the two great empires of habit and novelty; the young following pretty generally in the train of the new-fangled sovereign, whilst we of an elder generation adhere with similar fidelity to the ancien régime. I, especially, am the very bond-slave of habitlove old friends, old faces, old books, old scenery, old flowers, old associations of every sort and kind-nay, although a woman, and one not averse to that degree of decoration which belongs to the suitable and the becoming, I even love old fashions and old clothes; and can so little comprehend why we should tire of a thing because we have had it long, that, a favourite pelisse having become shabby, I this very day procured with some difficulty silk of the exact colour and shade, and, having ordered it to be made in direct conformity with the old pattern, shall have the satisfaction next Sunday of donning a new dress, which my neighbours, the shoemaker's wife and the baker's daughters, who have in their heads an absolute inventory of my apparel, will infallibly mistake for the old one. After this striking instance, the courteous reader will have no difficulty in comprehending that the same "auld-lang-syne" feeling, which leads me to think no violets so fragrant as those which grow on a certain sunny bank in Kibes Lane, and no cherries so sweet as those from the great mayduke, on the south wall of our old garden, should also induce me to prefer before all oranges those which come from Mrs. Hollis's shop, at the corner of the churchyard-a shop which we have frequented ever since I knew what an orange was; and, for the same reason, to rank before all the biscuits which ever were invented, a certain most seducing, thin, and crisp composition, as light as foam and as tasteless as spring-water, the handiwork of Mrs. Purdy, of the Marketplace in the good town of Belford; as well as to place above all other poultry that which cackles in the baskets of "pretty Bessy." The oranges and biscuits are good in themselves, and so are the ducks and chickens; but some of their superiority is undoubtedly to be ascribed to the partiality generated by habit. Another of the persons with whom we had in our small way dealt longest, and whom we liked best, was old Matthew, the matseller. As surely as February came, would Matthew present his bent person and withered though still ruddy face at our door, with the three rush mats which he knew that our cottage required; and as surely did he receive fifteen shillings, lawful money of Great Britain, in return for his commodity, notwithstanding an occasional remonstrance from some flippant housemaid or domineering cook, who would endeavour to send him off with an assurance that his price was double that usually given, and that no mat ever made with rushes was or could be worth five shillings. "His honour always deals with me," was Matthew's mild response, and an appeal to the parlour never failed to settle matters to his entire satisfaction. In point of fact, Matthew's mats were honestly worth the money; and we enjoyed in this case the triple satisfaction of making a fair bargain, dealing with an old acquaintance, and relieving, in the best way that of employment-the wants of age and of poverty; for, although Matthew's apparel was accurately clean and tidy, and his thin, wrinkled cheek as hale and ruddy as a summer apple, yet the countless patches on his various garments, and the spare, trembling figure, bent almost double and crippled with rheumatism, told a too legible story of infirmity and penury. Except on his annual visit with his merchandise, we never saw the good old matmaker; nor did I even know where he resided, until the want of an additional mat for my greenhouse, towards the end of last April, induced me to make inquiry concerning his habitation. I had no difficulty in obtaining a direction to his dwelling; and found that, for a poor old matmaker, Matthew was a person of more consideration and note in our little world than I could have expected, being, in a word, one of the honestest, soberest, and most industrious men in the neighbourhood. He lived, I found, in Barkham Dingle, a deep woodland dell, communicating with a large tract of unenclosed moors, and commons in the next parish, convenient doubtless to Matthew, as affording the rushes of which his mats were constructed, as well as heath for brooms, of which he was said to have lately established a manufacture, and which were almost equally celebrated for durability and excellence with the articles that he had made for so many years. In Barkham Dingle lived old Matthew, with a grand-daughter, who was, I found, also renowned for industry and good-humour; and, one fine afternoon towards the end of April, I set forth in my little ponyphaeton, driven by that model of all youthful serving-men, our boy John, to make my purchase. Our road lay through a labyrinth of crosscountry lanes, intermingled with tiny patches of village greens, where every here and there a score or two of sheep, the small flock of some petty farmer, were nestled with their young lambs among the golden gorse and the feathery broom, and which started up, bleating, at the sound of our wheels and the sight of Dash (far too well-bred a dog to dream of molesting them), as if our peaceful procession had really been something to be frightened at. Rooks were wheeling above our heads, woodpigeons flying across the fields; the shrill cry of the plover mixed with the sweet song of the nightingale and the monotonous call of the cuckoo; whilst every hedge echoed with the thousand notes of the blackbird, the linnet, the thrush, and "all the finches of the grove." Geese and ducks, with their train of callow younglings, were dabbling in every pool; little bands of straggling children were wandering through the lanes; everything, in short, gave token of the loveliest of the seasons, the fresh and joyous spring. Vegetation was, however, unusually backward. The blossom of the sloe, called by the country people "the blackthorn winter," still lingered in the hedges, mingling its snowy garlands with the deep, rich brown of the budding oak and the tender green of the elm; the primroses of March still mingled with the cowslips, pansies, orchises, and wild hyacinths of April; and the flower of the turnip was only just beginning to diffuse its honeyed odours (equal in fragrance to the balmy tassels of the lime) in the most sheltered nooks or the sunniest exposures. The "blessed sun" himself edge of the pool, and surrounded by a little garden redeemed from the forest- - a small clearing, where cultivated flowers, and beds of berry-bushes, and pear and cherry trees, in full blossom, contrasted strangely yet pleasantly with the wild scenery around. seemed rather bright than warm: the season | destination, a low-browed, thatched cottage, was, in short, full three weeks backwarder perched like a wild-duck's nest at the very than it should have been according to the almanac. Still it was spring, beautiful spring! and, as we drew near to the old beech-wood called Barkham Dingle, we felt in its perfection all the charm of the scene and the hour. Although the country immediately round was unenclosed, as had been fully proved by the last half mile of undulating cominon, interspersed by old shaggy trees and patches, (islets, as it were) of tangled underwood, as well as by a few rough ponies and small cows belonging to the country people; yet the lanes leading to it had been intersected by frequent gates, from the last of which a pretty, little, rosy, smiling girl, to whom I had tossed a penny for opening it, had sprung across the common, like a fawn, to be ready with her services at that leading into the Dingle, down which a rude cart-track, seldom used unless for the conveyance of fagots or brushwood, led by a picturesque but by no means easy descent. The cottage was very small, yet it had the air of snugness and comfort which one loves to associate with the dwellings of the industrious peasantry. A goodly fagot-pile, a donkey-shed, and a pig-sty evidently inhabited, confirmed this impression; and geese and ducks swimming in the water, and chickens straying about the door, added to the cheerfulness of the picture. As I approached, I recognised an old acquaintance in a young girl, who, with a straw basket in her hand, was engaged in feeding the cocks and hens-no less a person than pretty Bessy the young market-woman, of whom I have before spoken, celebrated for rearing the earliest ducks and the fattest and whitest chickens ever seen in these parts. Any Wednesday or Saturday morning, during the spring or summer, might Bessy be seen on the road to Belford, tripping along by the side of her little cart, hardly larger than a wheelbarrow, drawn by a sedate and venerable donkey, and laden with coops full of cackling or babbling inmates, together with baskets of fresh eggs-for Bessy's commodities were as much prized at the breakfast as at the dinner table. She meant, as I have said, to keep the market; but, somehow or other, she seldom reached it; the quality of her merchandise being held in such estimation by the families around, that her coops and baskets were generally emptied before they gained their place of destination. Leaving chaise, and steed, and driver, to wait our return at the gate, Dash and I pursued our way by a winding yet still precipitous path to the bottom of the dell. Nothing could be more beautiful than the scene. On every side, steep, shelving banks, clothed with magnificent oaks and beeches, the growth of centuries, descended gradually, like some vast amphitheatre, to a clear, deep piece of water, lying like a mirror in the midst of the dark woods, and letting light and sunshine into the picture. The leaves of the beech were just bursting into a tender green from their shining sheaths, and the oaks bore still the rich brown, which of their unnumbered tints is perhaps the loveliest; but every here and there a scattered horse-chestnut, or plane, or sycamore, had assumed its summer ver- Perhaps the popularity of the vender had dure: the weeping birch, "the lady of the something to do with the rapid sale of her woods," was breaking from the bud, the holly poultry-ware. Never did any one more comglittering in its unvarying glossiness, the haw-pletely realize the beau idéal of a young, hapthorn and the briar-rose in full leaf, and the ivy and woodbine twisting their bright wreaths over the rugged trunks of the gigantic foresttrees; so that green formed even now the prevailing colour of the wood. The ground, indeed, was enamelled with flowers like a parterre. Primroses, cowslips, pansies, orchises, ground-ivy, and wild hyacinths, were blended in gorgeous profusion with the bright wood-vetch, the light wood-anemone, and the delicate wood-sorrel,* which sprang from the mossy roots of the beeches, unrivalled in grace and beauty, more elegant even than the lily of the valley that grew by its side. Nothing could exceed the delightfulness of that winding wood-walk. I soon came in sight of the place of my There is a pink variety of this beautiful wild flower; but the pencilled white is the most elegant. py, innocent, country girl, than Matthew's grand-daughter. Fresh and fair, her rosy cheeks mantling with blushes, and her cherry lips breaking into smiles, she was the very milk-maid of Isaac Walton; and there was an old-fashioned neatness and simplicity, a complete absence of all finery, in her attire, together with a modest sweetness in her round young voice, a rustic grace in her little curtsy, and, above all, a total unconsciousness of her charms, which not only heightened the effect, but deepened and strengthened the impression. No one that ever had seen them could forget Bessy's innocent smiles. At present, however, the poor girl was evidently in no smiling mood; and, as I was thridding with care and labour the labyrinths of an oak newly felled and partly barked, which lay across the path, to the great improvement of its picturesqueness (there are |
