Ascending the hill are two couples of different description, Daniel Tubb and Sally North, walking boldly along like licensed lovers; they have been asked twice in church, and are to be married on Tuesday; and closely following that happy pair, near each other, but not together, come Jem Tanner and Susan Green, the poor culprits of the wheat-hoeing. Ah! the little clerk hath not relented! The course of true love doth not yet run smooth in that quarter. Jem dodges along, whistling "Cherry Ripe," pretending to walk by himself, and to be thinking of nobody; but every now and then he pauses in his negligent saunter, and turns round outright to steal a glance at Susan, who, on her part, is making believe to walk with poor Olive Hathaway, the lame mantua-maker, and even affecting to talk and to listen to that gentle humble creature as she points to the wild flowers on the common, and the lambs and children disporting amongst the gorse, but whose thoughts and eyes are evidently fixed on Jem Tanner, as she meets his backward glance with a blushing smile, and half springs forward to meet him; whilst Olive has broken off the conversation as soon as she perceived the preoccupation of her companion, and began humming, perhaps unconsciously, two or three lines of Burns, whose "Whistle and I'll come to thee, my love," and "Gi'e me a glance of thy bonny black ee," were never better exemplified than in the couple before her. Really it is curious to watch them, and to see how gradually the attraction of this tantalizing vicinity becomes irresistible, and the rustic lover rushes to his pretty mistress like the needle to the magnet. On they go, trusting to the deepening twilight, to the little clerk's absence, to the good humour of the happy lads and lasses, who are passing and re-passing on all sides—or rather, perhaps, in a happy oblivion of the cross uncle, the kind villagers, the squinting lover, and the whole world. On they trip, linked arm-in-arm, he trying to catch a glimpse of her glowing face under her bonnet, and she hanging down her head and avoiding his gaze with a mixture of modesty and coquetry, which well becomes the rural beauty. On they go, with a reality and intensity of affection, which must overcome all obstacles; and poor Olive follows with art evident sympathy in their happiness, which makes her almost as enviable as they; and we pursue our walk amidst the moonshine and the nightingales, with Jacob Frost's cart looming in the distance, and the merry sounds of Whitsuntide, the shout, the laugh, and the song echoing all around us, like "noises of the air."—Monthly Magazine.
SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.
THE LETTER-WRITER.
Fortune surely shifted me from my birth, or first looked on me in a mood as splenetic as that of nature, when she produced that most sombre and unpleasing of trees, the olive; to pursue the simile; I may have conduced to the comfort of others, nay, even to their convenience and luxury, but it never availed aught to my own appearance or circumstances; I went on, like that unhappy-looking tree, decaying in the trunk and blighting in the branches, and yielding up the produce of a liberal education and an active nature to the public, but reaping for my own portion only misfortune and disappointment; I had sprung up in the wilderness of the world, and I was left to grow or wither as I might; every one was ready to profit by me when a fruitful season rendered me available to them, but none cared to toil to give me space for growth, or to enrich the perishing earth at my unlucky root!
I was educated for the church, but my father died while I was at college, and I lost the curacy, which was in the gift of my uncle, through the pretty face of a city merchant's daughter, who wrote a sonnet to my worthy relative on his recovery from a fit of the gout, and obtained the curacy for her brother in exchange for her effusion. What was to be done? I offered myself as tutor to a young gentleman who was to study the classics until he was of age, and then to turn fox-hunter to supply the place of his deceased father; but I was considered by his relations to be too good-looking to be domesticated in the house of a rich widow under fifty, and I had the satisfaction of seeing the vacant seat in the family coach filled by an old, sandy-haired M.A., with bow legs and a squint—handsome or ugly, it availed not; a face had twice ruined my prospects; I was at my wit's end! I could not turn fine gentleman, for I had not brass enough to make my veracity a pander to my voracity; I could not turn tradesman, for I had not gold enough even to purchase a yard measure, or to lay in a stock of tapes. My heart bounded at the idea of the army; but I thought of it like a novice—of wounds and gallant deeds; of fame and laurels; I was obliged to look closer—my relations were neither noblemen nor bankers, and I found that even the Colonial corps were becoming aristocratical and profuse; the navy—I walked from London to Chatham on speculation; saw the second son of an earl covered with tar, out at elbows and at heels, and I returned to town, fully satisfied that here I certainly had no chance. I offered myself as clerk to a wealthy brewer, and, at length, I was accepted—this was an opening! I registered malt, hops, ale, and small-beer, till I began to feel as though the world was one vast brewhouse; and calculated, added, and subtracted pounds, shillings, and pence, until all other lore appeared "stale, flat, and unprofitable." I was in this counting-house four years, and was, finally, discharged by my prudent principal as an unthrifty servant, for having, during a day of unusual business, cut up two entire quills, and overturned the inkstand on a new ledger! Again "the world was all before me where to choose"—but enough of this; suffice it that my choice availed me nothing, and after years of struggling and striving, I found myself, as free as air, in a small market town in England, with five shillings in my pocket, and sundry grey hairs on my head. From mere dearth of occupation, I took my station at the window of a small stationer's shop, and commenced a survey of the volumes and pamphlets which were attractively opened at the title-pages to display their highly coloured frontispieces. The first which I noticed was, "The Young Gentleman's Multiplication Table, or Two and Two make Four"—I sighed as I remembered how little this promising study had availed me! Then came "Little Tom Tucker, he sang for his Supper"—I would have danced for one. "Young's Night Thoughts," with a well dressed gentleman in mourning, looking at the moon. "How to Grow Rich, or a Penny Saved is a Penny Got;" I would have bought the book, and learned the secret, though I had but five shillings left in the world, had not the second part of the title intimated to me that I ought to keep my money. "The Castle of St. Altobrand," where a gentleman in pea-green might be seen communing with a lady in sky-blue. "Raising the Wind"—I turned away with a shudder; I had played a part in this drama for years, and I well knew it was no farce. "The Polite Letter-Writer, or"—I did not stop to read more; an idea flashed through my mind, and in two minutes more I was beside the counter of the stationer; we soon became acquainted; I left two and sixpence in his shop, and quitted it with renewed hope; the promise of a recommendation, two quires of letter paper, twelve good quills, and some ink in a small phial. I rejoiced at having made a friend, even of the stationer, for my pride and my property had long been travelling companions, and were seldom at home. On the following day, a placard was pasted to a window on the ground floor of a neat house, in the best street, announcing that "within, letters were written on all subjects, for all persons, with precision and secrecy;" I shall never forget the tremor with which I awaited the arrival of a customer! I had sunk half of my slender capital, and encumbered myself with a lodging; I did not dare to think, so I sat down and began, resolutely, to sharpen my penknife on the sole of my fearfully dilapidated shoe; then, I spread my paper before me; divided the quires; looked carefully through a sheet of it at the light; laid it down again; began to grow melancholy; shook off reflection as I would have done a serpent, and again betook myself most zealously to the sharpening of my penknife. A single, well articulated stroke on the door of my apartment, roused me at once to action, and I shouted, "come in," with nervous eagerness; it opened, and gave egress to a staid matron, of high stature, and sharp countenance; I would have pledged my existence on her shrewishness from the first moment I beheld her. When I had placed a chair for her, and reseated myself, this prelude to my prosperity commenced business at once.
"You're a letter-writer, Mr. What-d'ye-call-'em."
I bowed assent.
"Silent—"