farmer's man, tilling his own ground, and then
tilling other people's;--affording a proof, even in this declining age,
when the circumstances of so many worthy members of the community seem
to have 'an alacrity in sinking,' that it is possible to amend them
by sheer industry. He, who was born in the workhouse, and bred up as
a parish boy, has now, by mere manual labour, risen to the rank of a
land-owner, pays rates and taxes, grumbles at the times, and is called
Master Welles,--the title next to Mister--that by which Shakspeare was
called;--what would man have more? His wife, besides being the best
laundress in the county, is a comely woman still. There she stands at
the spring, dipping up water for to-morrow,--the clear, deep, silent
spring, which sleeps so peacefully under its high flowery bank, red with
the tall spiral stalks of the foxglove and their rich pendent bells,
blue with the beautiful forget-me-not, that gem-like blossom, which
looks like a living jewel of turquoise and topaz. It is almost too late
to see its beauty; and here is the pleasant shady lane, where the high
elms will shut out the little twilight that remains. Ah, but we shall
have the fairies' lamps to guide us, the stars of the earth, the
glow-worms! Here they are, three almost together. Do you not see them?
One seems tremulous, vibrating, as if on the extremity of a leaf of
grass; the others are deeper in the hedge, in some green cell on
which their light falls with an emerald lustre. I hope my friends the
cricketers will not come this way home. I would not have the pretty
creatures removed for more than I care to say, and in this matter I
would hardly trust Joe Kirby--boys so love to stick them in their hats.
But this lane is quite deserted. It is only a road from field to field.
No one comes here at this hour. They are quite safe; and I shall walk
here to-morrow and visit them again. And now, goodnight! beautiful
insects, lamps of the fairies, good-night!

THE SHAW.

September 9th.--A bright sunshiny afternoon. What a comfort it is to
get out again--to see once more that rarity of rarities, a fine day! We
English people are accused of talking overmuch of the weather; but the
weather, this summer, has forced people to talk of it. Summer! did
I say? Oh! season most unworthy of that sweet, sunny name! Season of
coldness and cloudiness, of gloom and rain! A worse November!--for in
November the days are short; and shut up in a warm room, l