of womanhood, and died lamented by high and affluence of wood dappled with villages and low. She is succeeded in the management of gentlemen's seats, the wide-spreading town that respectable hostelry by two light-footed of B― lying in the distance with its spires and light-hearted lasses of twelve and thirteen, and towers, the Thames and the Kennett windwho skip about after their good bustling father ing along their lines of light like glittering with an officious civility that the guests find serpents, and the O— hills rising beyond; irresistible, and conduct the house-keeping one glance at that glorious prospect, and here with a frugality and forethought beyond their we are at the top of the hill, on the open comyears. mon, where the air is so fresh and pure, and the sun shines so gaily on the golden furze. The white house, with the limes in front, has also lost, though not by death, our good vicar and his charming family. They have taken possession of their own pretty dwelling; and their removal has given me an opportunity of becoming intimately acquainted with all the crooks and turnings, the gates, ponds, and pollards of the vicarage lane;-a walk which on that event I suddenly discovered to be one of the prettiest in the neighbourhood. Ah! here is Lizzy, half leaning half riding on the gate of her own court, looking very demure, and yet quite ripe for a frolic. Lizzy has in some measure outgrown her beauty; which desirable possession does very often run away from a young lady at six years old, and come back again at twelve. I think that such will be the case here. She is still a very nice little girl, quick, clever, active, and useful; goes to school; cooks upon occasion her father's dinner; and is beyond all comparison the handiest little waiting-woman in the parish. She is waiting now to speak to her playmate and companion the wheelwright's daughter, who, with all her mother's attentive politeness, is running down the street with an umbrella and her clogs, to fence their lodger, Mrs. Hay, from the ill effects of a summer shower. I think that we have had about a dozen drops of rain, and where they came from no mortal can guess, for there is not a cloud in the sky; but there goes little Mary with a grave civility, a curtsying earnestness that would be quite amusing in so young a child, if the feelings that dictated the attention were not so good and so real, and the object so respectable. Mrs. Hay is a widow, a slight, delicate elderly person, in a well-preserved black silk gown, a neat quiet bonnet never in fashion, nor ever wholly out, snow-white stockings, and a handsome grey shawl-her invariable walking costume. She makes no visits; cultivates no acquaintance; and seldom leaves her neat quiet room except to glide into church on a Sunday, and to take a short walk on some fine spring morning. No one knows precisely what Mrs. Hay's station has been, but every body feels that she is an object of interest and respect. Now up the hill! past the white cottage of the little mason, whiter than ever, for it has just been beautified; past the darker but still prettier dwelling of the lieutenant, mantled with sweetbriar and honeysuckles, and fruittrees of all sorts; one turn to look at the landscape so glowingly bright and green, with its Did I say there were no alterations in our village? Could I so utterly forget the great doings on the top of the hill, where, by dint of whitening and sash-windowing, and freshdooring, the old ample farm-house has become a very genteel-looking residence? Or the cottage on the common opposite, or rather the two cottages, which have by a similar transmogrification been laid into one, and now form, with their new cart-shed, their double garden, and their neat paling, so pretty and comfortable a home for the respectable mistress of the little village school and her industrious husband? How could I forget that cottage, whose inhabitants I see so often and like so well! Mr. Moore is the greatest market-gardener in the parish; and leads his donkey chaise through the street every summer afternoon, vending fruit and vegetables, and followed by a train of urchins of either sex. Some who walk up boldly to the cart, halfpenny customers, who ask questions and change their minds, balance between the merits of cherries and gooseberries, and gravely calculate under what form of fruit they may get most eating for their money. These are the rich. Others, the shy, who stand aloof, are penniless elves, silent petitioners, who wait about with longing looks, till some child-loving purchaser, or Mr. Moore himself, unable to withstand those pleading eyes, flings them a dole, and gives them the double delight of the frui and the scramble. The dear cricket ground! Even at this hour there are boys loitering about that beloved scene of evening pastime, not quite playing, but idling and lounging, and looking as if they longed to play. My friend, the little Hussar, with his blue jacket and his immovable gravity, is the quietest of the party, and Ben Kirby, youngest brother of Joe, (I think I have spoken of Ben before,) by far the noisiest. Joe no longer belongs to the boys' side, * It is amusing to see how very early poor children become acquainted with the rate of exchange between the smaller denominations of coin and the commodities such as cakes, nuts, and ginger-bread- which they purchase. No better judge of the currency question than a country brat of three years old. Lizzy, before she could speak plain, was so knowing in cakes and halfpence, that it was a common amusement with the people at the shop where she dealt to try to cheat her, and watch her excessive anger when she detected the imposition. She was sure to find them out, and was never pacified till she had all that was due to her. having been promoted to play with the men; and Ben has succeeded to his post as chief and leader of the youngsters. Joe is a sort of person to make himself happy anywhere, but I suspect that he has not at present gained much pleasure by the exchange. It is always a very equivocal advantage when a person is removed from the first place in one class, to the lowest in the rank just above; and in the present instance poor Joe seems to me to have gained little by his preferment except the honour of being Fag general to the whole party. His feelings must be something like those of a provincial actor transplanted to the London boards, who finds himself on the scene of his ambition indeed, but playing Richmond instead of Richard, Macduff instead of Macbeth. Joe, however, will work his way up, and in the mean time Ben fills his abdicated throne with eminent ability. Jem Eusden, his quondom rival, is lost to the cricket ground altogether. He is gone forth to see the world. An uncle of his mother's, a broker by profession, resident in Shoe Lane, came into this neighbourhood to attend a great auction, and was so caught by Jem's scholarship that he carried him off to London and placed him with a hosier in Cheapside, where he is to this hour engaged in tying up gloves and stockings, and carrying out parcels. His grand-uncle describes him as much improved by the removal; and his own letters to Ben (for since they have been parted they are become great friends) confirm the assertion. He writes by every opportunity, full as often, I should think, as once a quarter: and his letters give by far the best accounts of the Lord Mayor's day, as well as of the dwarfs, giants, and other monsters on show in London, of any that arrive in these parts. He is critical on the Christmas Pantomimes, descriptive on the Panoramas, and his narrative of the death of the elephant (whose remains his good kinsman the broker took him to visit) was so pathetic that it made the whole village cry. All the common is in admiration of Jem's genius, always excepting his friend Ben Kirby, who laughs at every thing, even his correspondent's letters, and hath been heard to insinuate that the most eloquent morceaux are "bits out of newspapers." Ben is a shrewd wag and knowing; but in this instance I think he is mistaken. I hold Jem's flights for original, and suspect that the young gentleman will turn out literary. THE TENANTS OF BEECHGROVE. THOSE Who live in a thickly inhabited, and very pretty country, close to a large town, within a morning's ride of London, and an easy distance from Bath or Cheltenham and the sea, must lay their account, (especially if there be also excellent roads, and a capital pack of fox-hounds) on some of the evils which are generally found to counterbalance so many conveniences; such as a most unusual dearness and scarcity of milk, cream, butter, eggs, and poultry-luxuries held proper to rural life, -a general corruption of domestics,—and, above all, a perpetual change and fluctuation of neighbours. The people of the higher class in this neighbourhood, are as mutable as the six-months denizens of Richmond, or Hampstead-mere birds of passage, who, "come like shadows, so depart." If a resident of ten years ago, were, by any chance, to come here now, he would be in great luck if he found three faces of gentility that he could recognise. I do not mean to insinuate that faces in our parts wax old or ugly sooner than elsewhere; but, simply, that they do not stay amongst us long enough to become oldthat one after another, they vanish. All our mansions are let, or to be let. The old manorial Hall, where squire succeeded to squire from generation to generation, is cut down into a villa, or a hunting-lodge, and transferred season after season, from tenant to tenant, with as little remorse as if it were a lodginghouse at Brighton. The lords of the soil are almost as universally absentees as if our fair country were part and parcel of the Sister Kingdom. The spirit of migration possesses the land. Nobody of any note even talks of staying amongst us, that I have heard-except a speculating candidate for the next borough; and he is said to have given pretty intelligible hints that he shall certainly be off, unless he be elected. In short, we H-shire people are a generation of runaways. As "out of evil cometh good," one pleasant consequence of this incessant mutation has ! been the absence of that sort of prying and observation of which country neighbours used to be accused. No street even in London was freer from small gossiping. With us, they who were moving or thinking of moving, had something else to do: and we, the few dull laggards, who remained fixed in our places, as stationary as directing-posts, and pretty nearly as useless, were too much accustomed to the whirl, to take any great note of the passers-by. Yet, even amidst the general flitting, one abode gradually forced itself into notice, for the unrivalled rapidity of succession, with which tenant followed tenant,-the most admired and the most changeable of all. It was an exceedingly pretty inconvenient cottage, a picture of a place,-with its French windows and verandahs, its trellis and porch covered with clematis and jessamine, its baby-house conservatory, and its miniature lawn. It was situated in the midst of woody, winding lanes, lost as it were in the labyrinths of our rich and intricate country; with an open grove of noble beeches on one side of it, and a clear stream crossed by a winding bridge, on the other. In short, Beechgrove, with all its pretty rusticities, its violets and primroses, and nightingales and turtle-doves, was the very place in which to spend the honeymoon. It seemed a spot made expressly for brides and bridegrooms, doomed by the inexorable laws of fashion, to four weeks of connubial felicity, to get creditably weary of solitude and of each other. She never entered it afterwards. Poor thing! guilt was there, but shame and repentance were there also. She was born for better things: and shrank from the eye as if looks were swords. tentions with unalterable sweetness, seemed best pleased to glide away alone, given up to her own thoughts,-sad thoughts, alas! I fear they were!-to her cheerless prospects and mournful recollections. She would walk with her bonnet in her hand, and her beautiful curls put back from her white temples, as if air were necessary to still their throbbing,—and she would so sigh! Poor thing! poor thing!! once she came to church, closely veiled, downcast, and trembling. She had forgotten the! key of her own pew, and was invited by the Accordingly, couple after couple repaired to vicar's lady into hers. And she went in, and Beechgrove. The very postilions, whether knelt in the lowest place, and sate out great from south or north, east or west, knew in- part of the service. But the sermon was afstinctively, where to deposit a new-married fecting; it spake of female frailty; of the pair. There was not so pretty a dovecote woman taken in adultery; of sin and of forwithin twenty miles. Here they came in giveness. She could not bear it, and left the quick succession, and we had great amuse-church. ment in watching them. A bridal party is generally very pleasant to look at,-all white satin, and white lace, and white favours, and finery and gaiety! one likes every thing about it: the horses so sleek and prancing: the Without any intention of watching this carriages so ostentatiously new and grand; lovely downcast penitent-for most lovely she the servants so full of conscious importance, was!-it so happened that I met her frequentparading and bustling, as proud of their mas-ly; and although we never spoke, she grew ter's splendour, as if they belonged to a Sheriff on Lord Mayor's day, or to a winning candidate at an election time! Well! they came, and they went, the fashionable, the titled, the wealthy, and the plain, glad, as it seemed, to come, and certainly glad to go. One couple only remained a little beyond the allotted time. (N. B. that bride was remarkably pretty.) They lingered on; she was charmed with Beechgrove, and they talked of wintering there, and re-engaged the house. But I don't know how it was; she was a sweet pretty woman to be sure, but did not look over-wise; and it happened to her as to Cowley's Beauty in his "Chronicle," her reign was short "One month, three days, and half an hour Judith held the sovereign power." Her husband whisked her off to Paris at the end of five weeks. so familiarized to my passing her in the lanes, as not to start and tremble at my appearance, like a fluttered dove,-as was usual with her, on the sight of strangers. She would even stop to fondle my greyhound, Mayflower, who, with the extraordinary instinct of her kind, had been attracted by her sweet countenance, and never failed to accost her. May and she were quite acquainted; and she had even learnt her name. We used to meet almost every day; especially in one spot, which soon became as much her favourite, as it had long been mine. About half a mile to the right of Beechgrove, a shady lane leads to a beautiful patch of woodland scenery, the lingering remains of an ancient chase. Turfy sheep-walks intersect thick brakes of fern and holly, mingled with rich old thorns, and the light feathery birch, and surmounted by noble oaks and beeches, the growth of centuries. In one of the recesses of the wood, just opposite the deep clear pond, which lets the light so finely into this forest picture, stands a real cottage, rough, rude, irregular, mis-shapen; with its hedged-in garden, and its well-stocked orchard; all evidently cribbed in from the waste, and sufficiently spacious to give an air of unusual comfort to the rural dwelling. The cart-shed, too, and the fagot-pile, and the old horse grazing before the door, indicate a considerable portion of rustic prosperity. They were succeeded by a man in the prime of life, and a woman in its very morning; an elegant but most melancholy pair, who brought with them no bridal favours, no gay carriages, no proud servants, no titles, no name. He was of a person splendidly beautiful-tall, stately, commanding; of a regality of port, and a haughtiness of aspect almost defying, as if expecting inquiry and determined to look it down. It was only when gazing at his fair companion, that his bright eye softened, and his demeanour changed into the most gentle In fact they are a thriving family. Charles expression of tenderness and submission. He North, the head of the house, is a jobbing garappeared devoted to her; and would read to dener, whose services are in such request, that her on the lawn, ride with her, or drive her in they are accorded somewhat in the manner of a little open chaise for hours together. She, favours, and must be bespoken as long beforeon the other hand, although receiving his at-hand as the attendance of a first singer at a L the baby,-a rosy smiling brat, clean amidst all the dirt, and placid amidst all the uproar, who lived out of doors, like a gipsy, and might be seen in its little pink frock, stretching its round hardy limbs on the turf, or sitting in infantine state with its back propped against a tree, from morning to night, the general pet and plaything of the family. musical party. He is a fine athletic man, whose firm upright form, and bold, hale, lively visage contrast rather strangely with the premature grey locks that hang around the latter. In manner, he is singularly agreeable, full of shrewdness and good humour, very merry, and a little arch: perceiving, instantly, the weaknesses of those with whom he converses, and humouring them as much from pliability of This infant was evidently the attraction temper, and a natural sympathy, as from views which drew the fair tenant of Beechgrove to of interest. The rogue is my factotum; and this secluded spot. May and I used to dive sees at a glance which hyacinth to prefer, and into the recesses of the wood, scenery where which geranium to admire. Good gardener you may almost realize the delicious creations as he is, I doubt if this be not the great secret of "Comus," and "As You Like It;" but of Charles North's popularity. Popular he she always paused at the cottage, always as is, that is certain; perhaps the most popular near as possible to the baby. It was a child person of my acquaintance: quite good enough that, for mere childish beauty, would have to please the wise, and not too good to alarm been remarked amongst thousands. the gay; for the rest, an excellent husband square vigorous form; the dimpled hands and and excellent father, a thoroughly sober and feet, and elbows, so firm, so mottled, of so industrious man, except now and then an out-pure a carnation; the fair open forehead, with break at tide-times, which commonly lasts for little rings of brown hair curling round it; a day or two, and leaves him more ardently the large bright blue eye; the delicate fealaborious than ever. One of the most envia-tures; and the sweet look of content, the pasble persons whom I have ever encountered, is Charles North in his blue apron. The she seemed to intend it sometimes; but always stopped, and returned to her old station near the cottage. sionlesss composure, which give a dignity to infant loveliness, would have made Mary He however is very seldom seen at his plea- North a model for Sir Joshua. No one ever sant home. He trudges forth, whistling, at passed without admiring the child, but on no four o'clock every morning, and comes back, one did her beauty produce such an effect as still whistling, about seven at night. The cot-on this unhappy lady. She could not pass : tage at the wood-side is quite populous enough without him. To say nothing of his ailing wife, who is what in a lady would be called nervous; there were, at the time of which I speak, thirteen goodly children, from twenty years old to eight months. Shall I give a catalogue? Yes. First, an eldest son, a baker, (for one of the protuberances which make the dwelling so picturesque, is a huge oven) Charles North, junior,-tall and vigorous as his father,—a staid sober youth, who, by dint of the small-pox and a miraculous gravity, might pass for the father of the family himself. Then an eldest sister, stout and steady; a home-keeping Martha North, acting as regent during her mother's illnesses, which know no pause; deputy mistress and deputy servant of the whole house. Then a fine opencountenanced girl, her father in petticoats, parcel pickle, and parcel coquette,-who puts her hair in curl-papers, and flirts with one half of the parish, and romps with the other, as she carries her brother's bread round the country, -sole driver of the old white horse: we have not a prettier black-eyed lass in the village than Sally North. Then Tom, who goes to work with his father, and is, at a word, Sally in breeches. Then there were four or five urchins, names unknown, who attended Sunday seminaries, some for charity, some for pay. Then three or four others, sex unknown, imps in tattered frocks, dirty, noisy, healthy, and happy, who dabbled by the side of the pond with the ducks and geese, or helped the pigs to find acorns in the wood. Last of all, Her object was, evidently, Mary. At first, she tried to talk to Mrs. North, to Martha, to the little ones that dabbled round the pond; but the effort was visibly painful; and she soon desisted from it; content to hang over the little girl, or sit on the grass by her side, sometimes crying, sometimes with a heartbroken look, as if her tears were gone. The child's name, if accidentally pronounced, always occasioned a convulsive shuddering; and one day, Mrs. North, unable to resist the curiosity excited by these extraordinary proceedings, said to her, "I fancy, ma'am, for so young as you look, that you must have had a little Mary of your own!"-"Once," was the answer, with a burst of bitter grief," once!" "It's a sad affliction," pursued Mrs. North, "to bury a baby, especially the first. I lost mine, poor innocent! but I have thought, since, how much happier she is than my Mary would be, if I was to die now, and leave her motherless in the wide world." “Oh my Mary! my Mary! my child! my child!" cried the unhappy lady, and fell to the ground in strong and obstinate convulsive fits. She was conveyed home; and came no more to the cottage by the wood-side. In a few days, Beechgrove was again vacant, and she was gone; leaving for Mrs. North a little green purse containing eighteen guineas, and some silver, and a small slip of paper on which was written, "For your Mary, from a mother who left her child!"-Poor thing! poor thing! we have never heard of her since. Mary North is now a rosy prattler, the life and joy of her humble home, the loveliest and gayest creature that ever lived. But, better than playing with her doll, better even than base-ball, or sliding or romping, does she like to creep of an evening to her father's knee, and look at the well-hoarded purse, (not a shilling has been taken out,) and gaze, with a mysterious feeling of awe at her little heart, on the slip of uneven writing; and hear, for the hundredth time, the story of the poor lady who was so good to Mary when she was a baby,-the beautiful lady of Beechgrove. EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. THE FRENCH TEACHER. ful protection I began to learn and unlearn, to acquire the habits and enter into the views of my companions, as well disposed to be idle as the best of them. Nobody was less thought of in this respectable school than our respectable governess. She seldom came near us. Her post was to sit all day, nicely dressed, in a nicely furnished drawing-room, busy with some piece of delicate needle-work, receiving mammas, aunts, and godmammas, answering questions, and administering as much praise as she conscientiously could, perhaps a little more. In the school-room she ruled, like other rulers, by ministers and delegates, of whom the French Teacher was the principal. When I first arrived, this high post was filled by the daughter of an emigré of distinction, a gentle drooping creature, who looked downward like a columbine, and was totally unequal to contend with twenty light-hearted and boisterous girls. She was the prettiest piece of melancholy that I have ever seen; as pale as alabaster, with large black eyes, that seemed made for tears, and a voice "far above singing." I do not think she could chide; she did not know how. Nobody could help loving a creature so mild and inoffensive; and there was something, with this gentleness, of purity and dignity, that ensured our respect it clung to her like a garment. She did her duty scrupulously, as far as instruction went, but left all other cares to the English Teacher, -a very different person, coarse and common as could be; a better sort of nursery maid; one who from pure laziness would rather do things herself than take the trouble to see that they were done by another. Under her fosterage our evil habits throve apace: she put away, and hid, and lied for us, till we became the most irregular and untidy generation that ever trod the floor of a school-room. All seemed fair in the sight of the governess; and, whilst our drooping lily Mademoiselle L. re IT is now more than twenty years since I, a petted child of ten years old, born and bred in the country, and as shy as a hare, was sent to that scene of bustle and confusion, a London school. O what a change it was! What a terrible change! The good old nurse, and the sweet gentle mamma, and the dear, dear papa, who in their several ways seemed to have no other object than that of spoiling me from morning to night, to leave them and my own dear home for this strange new place, and these strange new people, what a change! And so many of them! and children too! Men and women I could have endured: but I had been a solitary child, and hated nothing so much as the din, the laughter, the shrill voices, and rapid motions of children. They fairly made me dizzy. I shall never forget the misery of the first two days, blushing to be looked at, dreading to be spoken to, shrinking like a sensitive plant from the touch, ashamed to cry, and feeling as if I never could laugh again. I was broken-mained, all was quiet. But these happy days hearted. These disconsolate feelings are not astonishing, even in recollection: the wonder is, that they so soon passed away. But every body was good and kind. There was just attention enough from the heads of the house, and a merciful neglect from the pupils. In less than a week the poor wild bird was tamed. I could look without fear on the bright happy faces; listen without starting to the clear high voices, even though they talked in French; began to watch the ball and the battledore; and felt something like an inclination to join in the sports. In short I soon became an efficient member of the commonwealth; as efficient as a quiet little girl of ten years old could be; made a friend, provided myself with a school-mother, a fine tall blooming girl, who, having attained the dignity of the first class and the mature age of fourteen, already thought herself a young woman, under whose power could not last long. She left us in the short 66 son |
