sink into your shoes with remorse and shame. There was no cringing about her-far from it! She quarrelled with everyone, including her house agent and solicitor. She was not popular --the truly great seldom are. In the village she seems to have been regarded as a sort of ogress, and for weeks after our arrival we were regaled with anecdotes of an unflattering nature regarding her dealings. Far be it from me to repeat these petty slanders ; let me rather describe one or two of the more pleasing and humorous traits of her character, as follows.

In common with most of the landed aristocracy, she had a taste for game, which she was accustomed to gratify in the following novel and economical manner. Perceiving that her grounds were frequented by pheasants—fairly tame birds in these daysshe scattered liberal handfuls of rice and raisins, and having by this means won the confidence and affection of the feathered throng, she bided her time, and when a fine healthy bird came within easy distance, she darted nimbly forward and wrung its neck. Was not this a delightful though somewhat unsportsmanlike method of providing one's supper ?

She had a playful disposition, which showed itself even in matters of business. Thus it was her habit to order articles to be specially made for her and then refuse to take them ; sometimes she would summon builders and other artificers from neighbouring towns, and after engaging them in interviews of several hours, in which she went into details of elaborate alterations for her house, and gave instructions for drawing up neat plans, &c., she would inform them that she had changed her mind, and had no further need for their services. Little jokes like this were highly appreciated by the parties interested. To her sense of humour was also joined an occasional spirit of benevolence. Once she apprised the rector of the parish that she would like to give a school treat. The offer was accepted with alacrity, and this is how she set about it. She went round to various neighbours ; from one she got a promise of jam, from another of

; tea, from another of cake, and so on. Finally, after securing nearly everything that was needful, she herself provided the bread and butter; and thus was instituted what was long known afterwards as Mrs. Grummles' School Treat.' This was not the only occasion on which she displayed her economical turn of mind. She once drove down to the station with a sack of potatoes, and had a serious difference with the stationmaster,

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because he objected to her conveying it by rail as 'personal luggage.' In bargaining, too, she delighted to drive down estimates to their lowest possible figure; in consequence of which ---so small is the appreciation of thrift in the vulgar mind-she was latterly unable to get anyone to work for her.

Our own relations with Mrs. Grummles, though pleasant at first, ended, I regret to say, by being somewhat 'strained. We forgave her for getting by far the best of us in the house negotiations, and for wheedling us into taking a number of fittings' that we did not require; but when, after entering into possession, we found that she had cunningly concealed, by means of plaster and paper, all sorts of defects in our new domicile; when dryrot fungus' was discovered vegetating with great luxuriance under the drawing-room floor; when the rain fell in little impromptu shower-baths through the patched-up roof, and oozed through chinks in the window-sashes; when the nice clean wall-paper (recently pasted on) began to peel off and disclose rotten woodwork and crumbling masonry—then our feelings underwent a change, and we did not bless Mrs. Grummles, We thought she had gone just a little too far.

Such are a few outlines of Mrs. Grummles' character, but it would take volumes to do it full justice; and where, I would ask, in your crowded towns, could you find a nature so interesting and original ? Over-reaching, grasping people of the vulgar type you have no doubt in plenty, but you could never produce a Mrs. Grummles; the thing is impossible.

Though we can boast of human oddities, it must on the other hand be admitted that we have but little society.' Social

• gatherings are of rare occurrence; an afternoon tea is an event, a dance is a festival to be treasured in the memory for years. Amusements, too, are rather scarce. In summer we have a few cricket matches, a flower show, and a school treat ; in winter we indulge in a couple of concerts and a penny-reading. Then, once in six months, an adventurous organ grinder wanders down our way, and delights us with the popular airs of last year. That about fills up the list of our 'amusements :' what more can you expect when owing to laissez faire and free trade the country is getting more depopulated every day? Do not suppose, however, that we are utterly swamped in dullness and ennui : no, we have pursuits and enjoyments of which you know nothing, and which, though involving a certain amount of trouble and anxiety, are

more enthralling and satisfying than any variety or music-hall entertainment. I will mention only one-horticulture; as long as we have this, we can compete with you in the matter of amusements, though your big towns should drain out nearly all our young blood, and reduce our society' to that of sheep and cows. The person, whether male or female, who does not take an interest in gardening has no business in the country. There are,

, I believe, such people-ignoramuses who cannot tell a Brussels sprout from a cabbage, and who only come down to the country, at the worst season of the year, for the ‘hunting;' but they are not worth talking about; mere cockneys at heart, they have never been initiated into the mysteries of nature. The true countryman goes in for gardening heart and soul; and what occupation could be more interesting, more abounding in variety and capability ? It certainly involves some hard and unpleasant work : pruning gooseberry bushes with numbed fingers in a biting March wind is not delightful; nor do you enjoy leaving your comfortable hearth on a winter's night to hunt for slugs with a lantern, or bank up' the greenhouse fire. Pulling up weeds in wet weatlier is also not unmixed bliss, and there are few who enjoy nailing up a very thorny rose tree to a very dilapidated wall on a blazing hot day. But I would ask if these or any other of the trials of gardening are worse than things you townspeople have to put up with—such, for instance, as waiting at a street corner for half an hour in a driving rain for an omnibus; or travelling on an oppressive day in August in a crowded Underground Railway carriage; or living for weeks together in an atmosphere of sooty fog? We gardeners too have this advantage, that from all our trouble we expect and generally obtain a satisfactory result, whereas your sufferings bring you nothing but future colds and sore throats.

When we first came here our garden was in a shocking state of confusion. The worthy Mrs. Grummles was apparently under the impression either that we preferred nature in unadorned wildness, or that we should rather enjoy the business of putting things to rights. She had therefore latterly employed no regular gardener--with surprising results! If ever there was a garden worthy of being compared to the sluggard's it was ours. The flowerbeds were not merely weedy, they were carpeted with weeds, and you couldn't tell them from the lawn. We hired two ablebodied men, and the whole household set to work against those

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weeds. We slashed into them with might and main, and, as we thought, succeeded in exterminating them. Then we took some well-earned repose, and in a fortnight a fresh crop came up, as thick as ever! Nothing daunted, we renewed the assault, and since then we fight doggedly on, though sometimes we think we are engaged in a forlorn hope. I have made quite a study of weeds since I came here, and find in them a great variety in character. The nettle, for instance, is obtrusive; it loves to remind you of its presence at unexpected moments; it will be noticed, although you have not the least desire to make its acquaintance. Docks and thistles are remarkable for their bold, brazen insolence; they are positively vulgar in their self-assertion. The couch-grass is an embodiment of tough unyielding perseverance. Like the British army, it never knows when it is beaten. You may root it up, cut it and slash it as much as you like, but it conquers in its martyrdom,' and every disjointed particle becomes a fresh plant. The bind-weed again is undeniably pretty—or would be in its proper place by the wayside. It is an example of misapplied energy-a grave lesson to the reflective mind. I might mention other instances, but as I am going to bring out a book on 'The Philosophy of Weeds,' I need not enlarge on the subject here. The weeds, however, did not prevent the charms of our garden from unfolding themselves. We had hundreds of splendid roses, and the orchard trees were laden with fine fruit that

grew mellower and more beautiful every week. How delightful it was to step out from our porch on a glorious summer's morning when the sky was cloudless blue, and the air redolent with the scent of flowers! Our morning business was to make a tour of the whole place, beginning with the flower-garden and finishing with the orchard and meadow. Then, in the afternoon, we would sally forth, armed with spade and hoe, to do all manner of garden work, resting awhile about five o'clock to take tea on the lawn, where we were shaded by fragrant pine-trees, and serenaded by troops of birds. Then, after working again to supper-time, we would watch the stars come out one by one in unclouded brightness, and at 10 P.m. turn into bed, proudly conscious of having earned a night's repose.' This is the sort of life we led—not for single days, but for weeks together. Can you imagine it, my cockney friends ? Can you by any expenditure of money buy anything like it in the London shops? But I will not taunt you with our superior felicity; only let me advise you, ‘If these delights your

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soul can move,' pack up your things at once and migrate to a country village.

You must not suppose, however, that life with us is a mere pastime; no, it is a strict combination of business with pleasure. Confiding in my reader's secrecy, I will reveal the fact that before I settled in the country I was engaged in the profession of literature. What profit resulted therefrom to publisher and printer I am unable to say, but as regards myself I can state with confidence that it might be contained in a very small nutshell. This being the case, I decided on coming here to take up market gardening in addition to literature. Such a combination is quite the fashion nowadays, as evidenced in the case of Mr. Blackmore and others of our leading novelists; it also seems a most prudent course, for if one fails the other ought to succeed, and theoretically you are perfectly safe. But alas for the fallibility of theories ! My grand idea was to go in for fruit farming. Mr. Gladstone advised it as a lucrative occupation, and æsthetically considered, what could be more charming and poetical ? Accordingly I procured several books on ‘Fruit-growing for Profit '—they always have that kind of title--and studied them with the utmost care, In one way my efforts were fully rewarded. I grew excellent fruit, there was no doubt of that; there were hundreds of bushels of it, and the trees were positively groaning under its weight. Now, however, came the difficulty; there was no one to buy it—at least at a fair price. Dealers came to look at it, offered for it the price of turnips or potatoes, but would make no higher bid. As for windfalls, they positively strewed the ground; you could not walk in the orchard without treading on them. Nobody would buy them—the market was 'glutted '—it always is according to the dealer. Finally, I counted up our profits at the end of the season, and found they came to what Carlyle calls 'a frightful minus quantity.'

It will thus be seen that it is possible to come to the ground between the two stools of literature and fruit farming. On the whole, however, there is a distinct advantage on the side of the latter profession. If you cannot sell your fruit, you can at least eat it or give it away. You cannot eat your poems or novels; you can certainly give copies to your friends; but they are only bored by them, whereas they really like your apples and pears. And if this is the case with friends, still more is it so with editors and publishers. I will wager that while these latter individuals