He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assum'd a sable hue;
But, being old, continu'd just

As threadbare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues :
He smok'd his pipe and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sernions next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At christ'nings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whose sow had farrow'd last;
Against dissenters would repine,

And stood up firm for "right divine;'

Found his head fill'd with many a system: But classic authors, he ne'er miss'd 'em.

Thus having furbish'd up a parson,

Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.
Instead of homespun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edg'd with colberteen ;
Her petticoat, transform'd apace,
Became black satin flounc'd with lace.
"Plain Goody," would no longer down,
'Twas "Madam," in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprise,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amaz'd to see her look so prim;
And she adinir'd as much at him.

Thus happy in their change of life,
Were sev'ral years this man and wife :
When on a day, which prov'd their last,
Discoursing o'er old stories past,
They went by chance, amid their talk,
To the churchyard to take a walk;

When Baucis hastily cry'd out,

My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"_

"Sprout!" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us?

I hope you don't believe me jealous!

But yet, methinks, I feel it true ;
And really yours is budding too

Nay, now I cannot stir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root."
Description would but tire my muse,
In short, they both were turned to yews.
Old goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight;
On Sundays, after ev'ning pray1r,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew :
Till once a parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd
How much the other tree was griev'd,
Grew scrubbed, died atop, was stunted ́;
So the next parson 'stubb'd and burnt it.

SWIFT.

THE COUNTRY PARSON AND HIS WIFE.

DEAR SIR,

York, June the 14th, 1751.

THE reason that for these last five weeks is, been have engrossed all my time and attention. Perhaps you will be surprised to hear, that I have lived a complete month with our old friend the rector of South Green, "and his honest wife.

you have not heard from me that the people where I have

You know with what compassion we used to think of

them; that a man, who had mixed a good deal with the world, and who had always entertained hopes of making a figure in it, should foolishly, and at an age when people generally grow wise, throw away his affections upon a girl worth nothing: and that she, one of the liveliest of women, as well as the finest, should refuse the many advantageous offers which were made her, and follow a poor parson to his living of fifty pounds a year, in a remote corner of the kingdom. But I have learnt, from experience, that we have been pitying the happiest couple of our acquaintance. I am impatient to tell you all I know of them.

The parish of South Green is about seventeen miles from this place, and is in my opinion the most pleasing spot of ground in all Yorkshire. I should have first told you, that our friend, by the death of a relation, was enabled to carry his wife from London with a neat two hundred and fifty guineas in his pocket; with which sum he has converted the old parsonage house into a little palace, and fourteen acres of glebe into a farm and garden, that even a Pelham or a Southcote might look upon with pleasure.

The house stands upon an eminence, within the 'bending of a river, with about half an acre of kitchen garden, fenced in with a good old wall, well planted with fruit trees. The river, that almosts surrounds this little spot, affords them fish at all seasons. They catch trout there, and plenty of them, from two to five pounds weight. Before the house is a little lawn, with trees planted in clumps; and behind it a yard, well stocked with poultry, with a barn, cow-house, and dairy. At the end of the garden a drawbridge leads you to a small piece of ground, where three or four pigs are kept. Here they are fattened for pork or bacon; the latter they cure for themselves; and in all my life I never ate better.

In the seven years of this retirement, they have so

planted their little spot, that you can hardly conceive any thing more beautiful. The fields lie all together, with pasture ground enough for two horses and as many cows, and the rest arable. Every thing thrives under their hands.

The hedges, all of their own planting, are the thickest of any in the country, and within every one of them is a sand-walk between a double row of flowering shrubs, hardly ever out of blossom. The produce of these fields supplies them abundantly with the means of bread and beer, and with a surplus yearly for the poor, to whom they are the best benefactors of any in the neighbourhood. The husband brews, and the wife bakes; he manages the farm, and she the dairy; and both with such skill and industry, that you would think them educated to nothing else.

Their house consists of two parlours and a kitchen below, and two bed-chambers and a servant's room above. Their maid is a poor woman's daughter in the parish, whom they took at eleven years old, and have made the handiest girl imaginable. She is extremely pretty, and might marry herself to advantage, but she loves her mistress so sincerely, that no temptation is strong enough to prevail upon her to leave her.

In this sweet retirement they have a boy and a girl; the boy six years old, and the girl four; both of them the prettiest little things that ever were born. The girl is the very picture of her mother, with the same softness of heart and temper. The boy is a jolly dog, and loves mischief: but, if you tell him an interesting story, he will cry for an hour together. The husband and wife constantly go to bed at ten, and rise at six. The business of the day is commonly finished by dinner time; and all after is amusement and pleasure, without any set forms. They are almost worshipped by the parishioners, to whom the doctor is not only the spiritual director, but the physician, the surgeon, the apothecary, the lawyer, the steward, the

#friend, and the cheerful companion. The best people in the country are fond of visiting them; they call it going to see the wonders of Yorkshire, and say, that they never eat so heartily as of the parson's bacon and greens. $ I told you, at the beginning of this letter, that they were the happiest couple of our acquaintance; and now I will tell you why they are so. In the first place, they love and are delighted with each other. A seven years' marriage, instead of lessening their affections, has increased them." They wish for nothing more than what their little income affords them; and even of that little they lay up. Our friend showed me his account of expenses, or rather his wife's account; by which it appears, that they have saved yearly from fifteen shillings to a guinea, exclusive of about the same sum, which they distribute among the poor, beside barley, wheat, and twenty other things. Their only article of luxury is tea; but the doctor says he would forbid that, if his wife could forget her London education. However, they seldom offer it but to their best company, and less than a pound will last them a twelvemonth. Wine they have none, nor will they receive it as a present. Their constant drink is small beer and ale, both of which they brew in the highest perfection. Exercise and temperance keep them in perpetual health and good humour. All the strife between them is who shall please and oblige most. Their favourite amusement is reading: now and then, indeed, our friend scribbles a little; but his performances reach no farther than a short sermon, or a paper of verses in praise of his wife. Every birthday of the lady is constantly celebrated in this manner; and though you do not read a Swift to his Stella, yet there is something so sincere and tender in these little pieces, that I could never read any of them without tears. In the fine afternoons and evenings, they are walking arm in arm, with their boy and girl, about their grounds; but how cheerful, how