deliver him in time of trouble."

Rural scenery, amid all

its passive cheerfulness, is ever impressive, and to the reflective mind, full of practical admonitions.

"The evening cloud, the morning dew,
The withered grass, the faded flower,
Of earthly joys are emblems true;—
The glory of a passing hour!"

There is that in the heart of man that loves adventure and rural scenery, and I verily believe that where dishonesty has made one poacher, a dozen have been made by a love of the pursuit of wild creatures, and by the delight experienced in night watching and roaming at liberty, with a stimulating motive, the pathless woods and solitary glens. After all, however, the garden of a cottager supplies him with his safest out-door pastime, his most innocent and productive enjoyment. This is his antidote to the brawling beer shop, and an unfailing source of quiet pleasure. Honour and profit to the farmer who by his industry supplies his own homestead with plenty, and practises hospitality; but double honour, and double profit be his, who adds to the comfort of the labouring poor. May his “barns be filled with plenty," and his "presses burst out with new wine!"

Akenside says

"Ask the swain

Who journeys homeward from a summer day's
Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils,

And due repose, he loiters to behold

The sun shine gleaming as through amber clouds,
'O'er all the western sky! Full soon, I ween,
His rude expression and untutor❜d airs,
Beyond the power of language will unfold
The form of beauty, smiling at his heart :
How lovely! How commanding!"

Akenside to witness this scene, must have been more fortunate than most of us. Never yet did I behold a cottager, in the attitude of voluntarily observing, much less admiring, the rising or the setting sun, yet do I not from this draw the conclusion that cottagers and country people have not the love of nature, and of natural objects in their hearts.

A cottager's love of natural beauty is not expressed by the excited start, the uplifted hands and eye-brows, nor by the ejaculations “beautiful! wonderful!" It blends with his peaceful feelings, and becomes unknown to himself, a part of his existence. This is proved by his restlessness when in towns and cities, and by his yearnings after those things, without which, though he has never burst into rapturous exclamations about them, he cannot be happy.

The same thing may be said of his affection for his wife and children. This affection is not told in gazing on them, and telling them they are angels, but in cheerfully toiling for them, hour after hour, and year after year, in the dry and the wet, the hot and the cold, the summer and the winter. True he may be found dandling his little ones on his knee, and carrying them in his arms, but his love is to be seen mostly in his labour, and in the wages that he brings home to the partner of his cottage.

In my rural pickings I would not pass over without a word, the simple and pathetic relations that are sometimes given by cottagers, of the trials and troubles that cast a shadow on the dwelling of the poor. Cottagers oftentimes bear patiently and silently, what would fill the mouths of many with continual repinings, and go on, labouring day after day, enduring bodily afflictions that would consign the rich to a sick bed and the doctor.

One has a blind father; another a bed-ridden mother. A

third has a son who has turned out wild, and become a wandering vagabond; or a daughter, once the light, the life and sunshine of the cottage, is now an inmate of a lunatic asylum: with all its peace and contentment, the cottage has its cares.

There

Poor widow Gill, who lives at the cottage by the common, had a son, the only one she ever had, and he went to sea. Oh Harry! Harry! It is a bitter thing to forsake a widowed mother, and bitterly, I fear, hast thou paid for it! Harry went as cabin boy, on board the good ship Rover, and soon after the Rover was "missing." Some say the vessel was wrecked in the West Indies; others that she was crushed by two icebergs in the Frozen ocean. are reports, too, of her running adrift on the coast, among the cannibals who slaughtered her crew, while it may be that the ship was destroyed by fire. Whichever of the reports may be true, widow Gill, at different times, believes them all, and yet cherishes the fond hope, that Harry may yet come back again. Years and years have rolled away, but on stormy wintry nights the poor widow still watches and weeps in her lonely dwelling, thinking of ships and shipwrecked sailors.

The Rover is "missing!" her mariners sleep,
As we fear, in the depths of the fathomless deep;
And no tidings shall tell if their death-grapple came
By disease, or by famine, by flood or by flame.
The storm beaten billows, that ceaselessly roll,
Shall hide them for ever from mortal control;
And their tale be untold, and their history unread,
Till the dark caves of ocean shall give up their dead

CHAPTER X.

ON SERVING-MEN, OR MEN-OF-ALL-WORK.

Usefulness of serving-men.-George Glossop.-His varied occupations and great strength.-Proud of his talent in hair-cutting.-George hives the bees and plays the parts of farrier and butcher.-Harvest time.-Robert Hadley.-Edwin Horton.-Old Samuel Green.-John Andrews.John's occupations.-The garden, the stable, the carriage-house and the cellar. John Andrews always to be found when wanted.

WHOEVER has moved about much in the country, with an ordinary degree of observation, must have felt some interest in the serving-men, or men-of-all-work, which are found in different situations. This class of men are, I think, among the most useful of any, and when integrity and skill are united, as they frequently are, in their character, they can hardly be too highly valued. Your labouring man pursues his accustomed employment in the fields, varied only by the change in the season; the shepherd attends to his flock, and the cowherd to his cattle; they have their distinct duties to perform, but your man-of-all-work, however occupied, can never tell in what he may be engaged the following hour. This peculiar position; this continual liability to be called upon in all emergences and on all occasions, makes him a man of resources. He who is expected to turn his hand to everything, has need to understand everything, but I must here indulge in a few sketches.

A friend of mine, a gentleman of independent fortune, lives in a village, where his neighbours are mostly farmers; he must needs, therefore, do a little in the farming way himself, and succeeds as most men do, who merely make an amusement of that which requires great attention. He loses money every year by agricultural pursuits, but annual losses cannot make him relinquish farming. These losses puzzle him not a little; for, as he takes credit with himself for being a wiser man than his neighbours, he cannot account for his want of success. When farmers turn gentlemen, or gentlemen turn farmers, they very seldom reap any advantage by the change.

George Glossop is his man-of-all-work; his employments are varied, and he is seldom kept long at the same kind of labour. George is suddenly summoned in all domestic exigencies; whatever may be his work at the moment, he leaves it, and obeys his call. Sometimes he is despatched with parcels and carpet-bags to the nearest town, and carries burdens more fitted for a horse than a man of moderate strength; but he laughs at burdens that many would sink under, and is proud of displaying the great strength he possesses.

Lighter employment, too, is reserved for his ready fingers, for George can clean boot-tops excellently; fix a square of glass when wanted in the kitchen windows; take a lock to pieces, and put it together again; and cut hair: sometimes, indeed, he crops the head of his master. He is very proud of his acquirements; and once-but this was when he was younger-he was about to leave his place, and seek his fortune in London, where he thought of succeeding as a hairdresser; even now, when in his cups, he shakes his head, and thinks he threw a chance away by neglecting to try his fortune in the great city. But George is a shrewd fellow

F