64

WALKS IN THE COUNTRY.

NUTTING.

if wood can entitle a country to be called Le
Bocage, none can have a better right to the
name. Even this pretty snug farm-house on
the hill-side, with its front covered with the
rich vine, which goes wreathing up to the very
top of the clustered chimney, and its sloping
orchard full of fruit-even this pretty quiet
nest can hardly peep out of its leaves. Ah!
they are gathering in the orchard harvest.
Look at that young rogue in the old mossy

SEPTEMBER 26th.-One of those delicious autumnal days, when the air, the sky, and the earth, seem lulled into an universal calm, softer and milder even than May. We sallied forth for a walk, in a mood congenial to the weather and the season, avoiding, by mutual consent, the bright and sunny common, and the gay high road, and stealing through shady un-apple-tree-that great tree, bending with the frequented lanes, where we were not likely to meet any one, not even the pretty family procession, which in other years we used to contemplate with so much interest-the father, mother, and children, returning from the wheat field, the little ones laden with bristling closetied bunches of wheat-ears, their own gleanings, or a bottle and a basket which had contained their frugal dinner, whilst the mother would carry her babe hushing and lulling it, and the father and an elder child trudged after with the cradle, all seeming weary, and all happy. We shall not see such a procession as this to-day; for the harvest is nearly over, the fields are deserted, the silence may almost be felt. Except the wintry notes of the redbreast, nature herself is mute. But how beautiful, how gentle, how harmonious, how rich! The rain has preserved to the herbage all the freshness and verdure of spring, and the world of leaves has lost nothing of its midsummer brightness, and the harebell is on the banks and the woodbine in the hedges, and the low furze, which the lambs cropped in the spring, has burst again into its golden blossoms.

All is beautiful that the eye can see; perhaps the more beautiful for being shut in with a forest-like closeness. We have no prospect in this labyrinth of lanes, cross-roads, mere cart-ways, leading to the innumerable little farms into which this part of the parish is divided. Uphill or down, these quiet woody lanes scarcely give us a peep at the world, except when, leaning over a gate, we look into one of the small enclosures, hemmed in with hedgerows, so closely set with growing timber, that the meady opening looks almost like a glade in a wood, or when some cottage, planted at a corner of one of the little greens formed by the meeting of these cross-ways, almost startles us by the unexpected sight of the dwellings of men in such a solitude. But that we have more of hill and dale, and that our cross-roads are excellent in their kind, this side of our parish would resemble the description given of La Vendée, in Madame Larochejacquelin's most interesting book.* I am sure

An almost equally interesting account of that very peculiar and interesting scenery, may be found in The Maid of La Vendée," an English novel, remarkable for its simplicity and truth of painting, written by Mrs. Le Noir, the daughter of Christopher Smart, and inheritrix of much of his talent. Her works deserve to be better known.

weight of its golden rennets-see how he pelts
his little sister beneath with apples as red and
as round as her own cheeks, while she, with
her outstretched frock, is trying to catch them,
and laughing and offering to pelt again as
often as one bobs against her; and look at
that still younger imp, who, as grave as a
judge, is creeping on hands and knees under
the tree, picking up the apples as they fall so
deedily, and depositing them so honestly in
the great basket on the grass, already fixed so
firmly and opened so widely, and filled almost
to overflowing by the brown rough fruitage of
the golden-rennet's next neighbour the russet-
ing; and see that smallest urchin of all seated
apart in infantine state on the turfy bank, with
that toothsome piece of deformity a crumpling
in each hand, now biting from one sweet hard
juicy morsel, and now from another.—Is not
that a pretty English picture? And then,
farther up the orchard, that bold hardy lad,
the eldest-born, who has scaled (Heaven knows
how!) the tall straight upper branch of that
great pear-tree, and is sitting there as securely
and as fearlessly, in as much real safety and
apparent danger, as a sailor on the top-mast.
Now he shakes the tree with a mighty swing
that brings down a pelting shower of stony
bergamots, which the father gathers rapidly
up, whilst the mother can hardly assist for
her motherly fear, a fear which only spurs
the spirited boy to bolder ventures.
that a pretty picture? And they are such a
handsome family, too, the Brookers. I do not
know that there is any gipsy blood, but there
is the true gipsy complexion, richly brown,
with cheeks and lips so deeply red, black hair
curling close to their heads in short crisp rings,
white shining teeth-and such eyes!—That
sort of beauty entirely eclipses your mere roses
and lilies. Even Lizzy, the prettiest of fair
children, would look poor and watery by the
side of Willy Brooker, the sober little per-
sonage who is picking up the apples with his
small chubby hands, and filling the basket so
orderly, next to his father the most useful man
Willy!" he hears without see-
in the field. “

Is not

"Deedily,"-I am not quite sure that this word is good English; but it is genuine Hampshire, and is used by the most correct of female writers, Miss Austen. It means (and it is no small merit that it has no exact synonyme) any thing done with a profound and plodding attention, an action which engrosses all the powers of mind and body.

aversion to love in one particular directionthe love matrimonial-and an overflowing of affection in all other channels, that it seems as if the natural course of the stream had been violently dammed up. She has many lovers

the water would have been no defence,-she | that she is Aunt Martha still. I have heard fishes them from the bottom, she delves after hints of an early engagement broken by the them amongst the matted grass-even my fickleness of man;-and there is about her an bonnet-how beggingly she looks at that! "Oh what a pleasure nutting is!-Is it not, May? But the pockets are almost full, and so is the basket-bonnet, and that bright watch the sun says it is late; and after all it is wrong to rob the poor boys-is it not, May?" May-admirers I should say, for there is, amidst shakes her graceful head denyingly, as if she understood the question.-" And we must go home now-must we not? But we will come nutting again some time or other-shall we not, my May ?"

AUNT MARTHA.

ONE of the pleasantest habitations I have ever known is an old white house, built at right angles, with the pointed roofs and clustered chimneys of Elizabeth's day, covered with roses, vines, and passion-flowers, and parted by a green sloping meadow from a straggling picturesque village street. In this charming abode resides a more charming family: a gentleman,

"Polite as all his life in courts had been,

And good as he the world had never seen;" two daughters full of sweetness and talent; and aunt Martha-the most delightful of old maids! She has another appellation I suppose, she must have one;-but I scarcely know it: Aunt Martha is the name that belongs to her-the name of affection. Such is the universal feeling which she inspires, that all her friends, all her acquaintances, (in this case the terms are almost synonymous,) speak of her like her own family:-she is every body's Aunt Martha-and a very charming Aunt Martha she is.

her good-humoured gaiety, a coyness that forbids their going farther; a modesty almost amounting to shyness, that checks even the laughing girls, who sometimes accuse her of stealing away their beaux. I do not think any man on earth could tempt her into wedlock; it would be a most unpardonable monopoly if any one should; an intolerable engrossing of a general blessing; a theft from the whole community.

Her usual home is the white house covered with roses; and her station in the family is rather doubtful. She is not the mistress, for her charming nieces are old enough to take and to adorn the head of the table; nor the house-keeper, though, as she is the only lady of the establishment who wears pockets, those ensigns of authority, the keys, will sometimes be found, with other strays, in that goodly receptacle: nor a guest; her spirit is too active for that lazy post; her real vocation there, and every where, seems to be comforting, cheering, welcoming, and spoiling every thing that comes in her way; and, above all, nursing and taking care. Of all kind employments, these are her favourites. Oh the shawlings, the cloakings, the cloggings! the cautions against cold, or heat, or rain, or sun! the remedies for diseases not arrived! colds uncaught! incipient tooth-aches! rheumatisms to come! She loves nursing so well, that we used to accuse her of inventing maladies for other people, that she might have the pleasure of curing them; and when they really comeas come they will sometimes in spite of Aunt First of all, she is, as all women should be Martha-what a nurse she is! It is worth if they can, remarkably handsome. She may while to be a little sick to be so attended. All be-it is a delicate matter to speak of a lady's the cousins, and cousins' cousins of her conage!-she must be five-and-forty; but few nection, as regularly send for her on the occabeauties of twenty could stand a comparison sion of a lying-in, as for the midwife. I supwith her loveliness. It is such a fulness of pose she has undergone the ceremony of bloom, so luxuriant, so satiating; just tall dandling the baby, sitting up with the new enough to carry off the plumpness which at mamma, and dispensing the caudle, twenty forty-five is so becoming; a brilliant com- times at least. She is equally important at plexion; curled pouting lips! long, clear, weddings or funerals. Her humanity is inbright grey eyes-the colour for expression, exhaustible. She has an intense feeling of that which unites the quickness of the black fellowship with her kind, and grieves or rewith the softness of the blue; a Roman re-joices in the sufferings or happiness of others gularity of feature; and a profusion of rich brown hair.-Such is Aunt Martha. Add to this a very gentle and pleasant speech, always kind, and generally lively; the sweetest temper; the easiest manners; a singular rectitude and singleness of mind; a perfect open-heartedness; and a total unconsciousness of all these charms; and you will wonder a little

with a reality as genuine as it is rare.

Her accomplishments are exactly of this sympathetic order; all calculated to administer much to the pleasure of her companions, nothing to her own importance or vanity. She leaves to the sirens, her nieces, the higher enchantments of the piano, the harp, and the guitar, and that noblest of instruments, the

and fortune would have spoiled if they could. She is one of those striking women whom a stranger cannot pass without turning to look again: tall and finely proportioned, with a bold Roman contour of figure and feature, a delicate English complexion, and an air of distinction altogether her own. Her beauty is duchess-like. She seems born to wear feathers and diamonds, and to form the grace and

human voice; ambitious of no other musical fame than such as belongs to the playing of quadrilles and waltzes for their little dances, in which she is indefatigable: she neither caricatures the face of man nor of nature under pretence of drawing figures or landscapes; but she ornaments the reticules, bell-ropes, ottomans, and chair-covers of all her acquaintance, with flowers as rich and luxuriant as her own beauty. She draws patterns for the ig-ornament of a court; and the noble frankness norant, and works flounces, frills, and babylinen, for the idle; she reads aloud to the sick, plays at cards with the old, and loses at chess to the unhappy. Her gift in gossiping, too, is extraordinary; she is a gentle newsmonger, and turns her scandal on the sunny side. But she is an old maid still; and certain small peculiarities hang about her. She is a thorough hoarder; whatever fashion comes up, she is sure to have something of the sort by heror, at least, something thereunto convertible. She is a little superstitious; sees strangers in her tea-cup, gifts in her finger-nails, letters and winding-sheets in the candle, and purses and coffins in the fire; would not spill the salt "for all the worlds that one ever has to give ;" and looks with dismay on a crossed knife and fork. Moreover, she is orderly to fidgetiness; -that is her greatest calamity!-for young ladies now-a-days are not quite so tidy as they should be,—and ladies' maids are much worse; and drawers are tumbled, and drawing-rooms in a litter. Happy she to whom a disarranged drawer can be a misery! Dear and happy

Aunt Martha !

WALKS IN THE COUNTRY.

THE VISIT.

and simplicity of her countenance and manner
confirm the impression. Destiny has however
dealt more kindly by her. She is the wife of
a rich country gentleman of high descent and
higher attainments, to whom she is most de-
votedly attached,—the mother of a fine little
girl as lovely as herself, and the delight of all
who have the happiness of her acquaintance,
to whom she is endeared not merely by her
remarkable sweetness of temper and kindness
of heart, but by the singular ingenuousness
and openness of character which communicate
an indescribable charm to her conversation.
She is as transparent as water.
You may see
every colour, every shade of a mind as lofty
and beautiful as her person. Talking with
her is like being in the Palace of Truth, de-
scribed by Madame de Genlis; and yet so
kindly are her feelings, so great the indul-
gence to the little failings and foibles of our
common nature, so intense her sympathy with
the wants, the wishes, the sorrows, and the
happiness of her fellow-creatures, that with
all her frank-speaking, I never knew her to
make an enemy or lose a friend.

But we must get on. What would she say if she knew I was putting her into print? We must get on up the hill. Ah! that is precisely what we are not likely to do! This horse, this beautiful and high-bred horse, well fed, and fat and glossy, who stood prancing at our gate like an Arabian, has suddenly turned sulOCTOBER 27th.-A lovely autumnal day; ky. He does not indeed stand quite still, but the air soft, balmy, genial; the sky of that his way of moving is little better-the slowest softened and delicate blue upon which the eye and most sullen of all walks. Even they who loves to rest, the blue which gives such re-ply the hearse at funerals, sad-looking beasts, lief to the rich beauty of the earth, all around glowing in the ripe and mellow tints of the most gorgeous of the seasons. Really such an autumn may well compensate our English climate for the fine spring of the south, that spring of which the poets talk, but which we so seldom enjoy. Such an autumn glows upon us like a splendid evening; it is the very sunset of the year: and I have been tempted forth into a wider range of enjoyment than usual. This walk (if I may use the Irish figure of speech called a bull) will be a ride. A very dear friend has beguiled me into accompanying her in her pretty equipage to her beautiful home, four miles off; and having sent forward in the style of a running footman the servant who had driven her, she assumes the reins, and off we set.

My fair companion is a person whom nature

who totter under black feathers, go faster. It is of no use to admonish him by whip or rein, or word. The rogue has found out that it is a weak and tender hand that guides him now. Oh for one pull, one stroke of his old driver, the groom! How he would fly! But there is the groom half-a-mile before us, out of earshot, clearing the ground at a capital rate, beating us hollow. He has just turned the top of the hill;-and in a moment-ay, now he is out of sight, and will undoubtedly so continue till he meets us at the lawn gate. Well! there is no great harm. It is only prolonging the pleasure of enjoying together this charming scenery in this fine weather. If once we make up our minds not to care how slowly our steed goes, not to fret ourselves by vain exertions, it is no matter what his pace may be. There is little doubt of his getting home by sunset,

certainly rather spoils his beauty, but greatly improves his wit,-I mean the sense of his wit in others. It arrests attention and predisposes to laughter; is an outward and visible sign of the comical. No common man has two such eyes. They are made for fun.

is nearly as good to open the chest as the man of forty, or thereabout; rather thin and dumb-bells,) but in a general restlessness and rather pale, but with no appearance of illfidgetiness of person, the result of his ardent health, or any other peculiarity, except the reand nervous temperament, which can hardly markable circumstance of the lashes of one endure repose of mind or body. He neither eye being white, which gives a singular nongives rest nor takes it. His company is, in- resemblance to his organs of vision. Every deed, in one sense (only one) fatiguing. Lis-one perceives the want of uniformity, and few tening to him tires you like a journey. You detect the cause. Some suspect him of what laugh till you are forced to lie down. The farriers call a wall-eye; some think he squints. medical gentlemen of the place are aware of He himself talks familiarly of his two eyes, this, and are accustomed to exhort delicate the black and the white, and used to liken patients to abstain from Harry's society, just them to those of our fine Persian cat, (now, as they caution them against temptations in alas! no more,) who had, in common with his point of amusement or of diet-pleasant but feline countrymen, one blue as a sapphire, the dangerous. Choleric gentlemen should al-other yellow as a topaz. The dissimilarity ways avoid him, and such as love to have the last word; for, though never provoked himself, I cannot deny that he is occasionally tolerably provoking,-in politics especially (and he is an ultra-liberal, quotes Cobbett, and goes rather too far)-in polities he loves to put his antagonist in a fume, and generally In his occupations and pleasures Harry is succeeds, though it is nearly the only subject pretty much like other provincial gentlemen; on which he ever listens to an answer-chiefly loves a rubber, and jests all through, at aces, I believe for the sake of a reply, which is kings, queens, and knaves, bad cards, and commonly some trenchant repartee, that cuts good, at winning and losing, scolding and off the poor answer's head like a razor. Very praise ;-loves a play, at which he out-talks determined speakers would also do well to the actors whilst on the stage, to say nothing eschew his company-though in general I of the advantage he has over them in the innever met with any talker to whom other tervals between the acts;-loves music, as a talkers were so ready to give way; perhaps good accompaniment to his grand solo;-loves because he keeps them in such incessant a contested election above all. That is his laughter, that they are not conscious of their real element,-that din and uproar, and riot silence. To himself the number of his listeners and confusion! To ride that whirlwind and is altogether unimportant. His speech flows direct that storm is his triumph of triumphs! not from vanity or lust of praise, but from sheer He would make a great sensation in parlianecessity;the reservoir is full, and runs over. ment himself, and a pleasant one. (By the When he has no one else to talk to, he can be way, he was once in danger of being turned content with his own company, and talks to out of the gallery for setting all around him himself, being beyond a doubt greater in soli- in a roar.) Think what a fine thing it would loquy than any man off the stage. Where he be for the members to have mirth introduced is not known, this habit sometimes occasions into the body of the house! to be sure of an considerable consternation, and very ridiculous honest, hearty, good-humoured laugh during mistakes. He has been taken alternately for the session! Besides, Harry is an admirable an actor, a poet, a man in love, and a man be-, speaker, in every sense of the word. Jesting side himself. Once in particular, at Windsor, is indeed his forte, because he wills it so to he greatly alarmed a philanthropic sentinel, by holding forth at his usual rate whilst pacing the terrace alone; and but for the opportune arrival of his party, and their assurances that it was only "the gentleman's way," there was some danger that the benevolent soldier might have been tempted to desert his post to take care of him. Even after this explanation, he gazed with a doubtful eye at our friend, who was haranguing himself in great style, sighed and shook his head, and finally implored us to look well after him till he should be safe off the terrace." You see, ma'am," observed the philanthropist in scarlet, it is an awkward place for any body troubled with vagaries. Suppose the poor soul should take a fancy to jump over the Wall "

In his exteruals he is a well-looking gentle

be; and therefore, because he chooses to play jigs and country dances upon a noble organ, even some of his stanchest admirers think he can play nothing else. There is no quality of which men so much grudge the reputation as versatility of talent. Because he is so humorous, they will hardly allow him to be eloquent; and, because he is so very witty, find it difficult to account him wise. But let him go where he has not that mischievous fame, or let him bridle his jests and rein in his humour only for one short hour, and he will pass for a most reverend orator,-logical, pathetic, and vigorous above all. But how can I wish him to cease jesting even for an hour? Who would exchange the genial fame of good-humoured wit for the stern reputation of wisdom? Who would choose to be Socrates, if with a wish he could be Harry L.?