date of erection, 1563, was cut in a stone inserted in the brick-work above the porch but the foundress had, with an unostentatious modesty, witheld her name; leaving it, as she safely might, to the grateful recollection of the successive generations who profited by her benevolence. Altogether it was a most gratifying scene to the eye and to the heart. No one ever saw Lady Lacy's school-house without admiration, especially in the play-hour at noon, when the children, freed from restraint that sweetens liberty,' were clustered under the old beech-tree, revelling in their innocent freedom, running, jumping, shouting, and laughing with all their might; the only sort of riot which it is pleasant to witness. The painter and the philanthropist might contemplate that scene with equal delight. The right of appointing both the mistress and the scholars had been originally vested in the Lacy family, to whom nearly the whole of the parish had at one time belonged. But the estates, the manor, the hall-house, had long passed into other hands and other names, and this privilege of charity was now the only possession which the heir of Lady Lacy retained in Aberleigh. Reserving to themselves the right of nominating the matron, her descendants had therefore delegated to the vicar and parish-officers the selection of the children, and the general regulation of the school-a sort of council of regency, which, for as simple and as peaceful as the government seems, a disputatious churchwarden or sturdy overseer would sometimes contrive to render sufficiently stormy. I have known as much canvassing and almost as much ill-will in a contested election for one of Lady Lacy's scholarships, as for a scolarship in grander places, or even for an M.P.-ship in the next borough ; and the great schism between the late Farmer Brookes and all his coadjutors, as to whether the original uniform of little green stuff gowns, with white bibs and aprons, tippets and mobs, should be commuted for modern cotton frocks and cottage bonnets, fairly set the parish by the ears. Owing to the good farmer's glorious obstinacy (which I suppose he called firmness), the green-gownians lost the day. I believe that, as a matter of consideration, the man might be right, and that his costume was cheaper and more convenient; but I am sure that I should have been against him, right or wrong; the other dress was so pretty, so primitive, so neat, so becoming; the little lasses looked like rose-buds in the midst of their leaves: besides, it was the old traditionary dress-the dress contrived and approved by Lady Lacy. Oh! it should never have been changed, never! Since there was so much contention in the election of pupils, it was perhaps lucky for the vestry that the exercise of the most splendid piece of patronage, the appointment of a mistress did not enter into its duties. Mr. Lacy, the representative of the foundress, a man of fortune in a distant county, generally bestowed the situation on some old dependent of his family. During the churchwardenship of Farmer Brookes, no less than three village gouvernantes arrived at Aberleigh—a quick succession! It made more than half the business of our zealous and bustling man of office, an amateur in such matters, to instruct and overlook them. The first importation was Dame Whitaker, a person of no small importance, who had presided as head nurse over two generations of the Lacys, and was now, on the dispersion of the last set of her nurslings to their differ ent schools, and an unlucky quarrel with a favourite lady's maid, promoted and banished to this distant government. Nobody could be well more unfit for her new situation, or better suited to her old. She was a nurse from top to toe. Round, portly, smiling, with a coaxing and an indolent voice; much addicted to snuff and green tea, to sitting still, to telling long stories, and to humouring children. She spoiled every brat she came near, just as she had been used to spoil the little Master Edwards and Miss Julias of her ancient dominions. She could not have scolded if she would-the gift was not in her. Under her misrule the school grew into sad disorder; the girls not only learnt nothing, but unlearnt what they knew before; work was lost-even the new shifts of the vicar's lady; books were torn; and, for the climax of evil, no sampler was prepared to be carried round at Christmas, from house to house-the first time such an omission had occurred within the memory of man. Farmer Brookes was at his wit's end. He visited the school six days in the week, to admonish and reprove; and even went nigh to threaten that he would work a sampler himself; and finally bestowed on the unfortunate ex-nurse, the nickname of Queen Log, a piece of disrespect, which, together with other grievances, proved so annoying to poor Dame Whitaker, that she found the air of Aberleigh disagree with her, patched up a peace with her old enemy, the lady's maid, abdicated that unruly and rebellious principality, the school, and retired with great delight to her quiet home in the deserted nursery, where, as far as I know, she still remains. A kinder creature never lived. The grief of the children on losing this most indulgent non instructress, was not mitigated by the appearance or demeanour of her successor, who at first seemed a preceptress after Farmer Brookes' own heart, a perfect Queen Stork. Dame Banks was the widow of Mr. Lacy's gamekeeper; a litttle thin woman, with a hooked nose, a sharp voice, and a prodigious activity of tongue. She scolded all day long; and, for the first week, passed for a great teacher. After that time it began to be discovered that, in spite of her lessons, the children did not learn; notwithstanding her rating they did not mind, and in the midst of a continual bustle nothing was ever done. Dame Banks was in fact a well-intentioned worthy woman, with a restless irritable temper, a strong desire to do her duty, and a woeful ignorance how to set about it. She was rather too old to be taught either; at least she required a gentler instructor than the good churchwarden; and so much ill-will was springing up between them, that he had even been heard to regret the loss of Dame Whitaker's quietness, when very suddenly poor Dame Banks fell ill, and died. The sword had worn the scabbard; but she was better than she seemed; a thoroughly wellmeaning woman-grateful, pious, and charitable; even our man of office admitted this. The next in succession was one with whom my trifling pen, dearly as that light and fluttering instrument loves to dally and disport over the surface of things, must take no saucy freedom; one of whom we all felt it impossible to speak or to think without respect; one who made Farmer Brookes' office of adviser a sinecure, by putting the whole of the school, himself included, into its proper place, setting every body in order, and keeping them so, I don't know how she managed, un less by good sense and good humour, and that happy art of government, which seems no art at all, because it is so perfect; but the children were busy and happy, the vestry pleased, and the churchwarden contented. All went well under Mrs. Allen. She was an elderly woman, nearer perhaps to seventy than to sixty, and of an exceedingly venerable and prepossessing appearance. Delicacy was her chief characteristic a delicacy so complete that it pervaded her whole person, from her tall slender figure, her fair, faded complexion, and her silver hair, to the exquisite nicety of dress by which, at all hours and seasons, from Sunday morning to Saturday night, she was invariably distinguished. The soil of the day was never seen on her apparel; dust would not cling to her snowy caps and handkerchiefs: such was the art and magic of her neat ness. Her very pins did their office in a different manner from those belonging to other people. Her manner was gentle, cheerful, and courteous, with a simplicity and propriety of expression that perplexed all listeners; it seemed so exactly what belongs to the highest birth and the highest breeding. She was humble, very humble: but her humility was evidently the result of a truly Christian conduct, and would equally have distinguished her in any station. The poor people, always nice judges of behaviour, felt, they did not know why, that she was their superior; the gentry of the neighbourhood suspected her to be their equal-some clergyman's or officer's widow, reduced in circumstances; and would have treated her as such, had she not, on discovering their mistake, eagerly undeceived them. She had been, said she, all her life a servant, the personal attendant of one dear mistress, on whose decease she had been recommended to Mr. Lacy, and to his kindness, under Providence, was indebted for a home and a provision for her helpless age, and the still more helpless youth of a poor orphan, far dearer to her than herself. This avowal, although it changed the character of the respect paid to Mrs. Allen, was certainly not calculated to diminish its amount; and the new mistress of Lady Lacy's school, and the beautiful order of her house and garden, continued to be the pride and admiration of Aberleigh. The orphan of whom she spoke was a little girl about eleven years old, who lived with her, and whose black frock bespoke the recent death of some relative. She had lately, Mrs. Allen said, lost her grandmother -her only remaining parent, and had now no friend but herself on earth; but there was one above who was a Father to the fatherless, and he would protect poor Jane! And as she said this, there was a touch of emotion, a break of the voice, a tremor on the lip, very unlike the usual cheerfulness and self-commaud of her manner. The child was evidently very dear to her. Jane was, indeed, a most interesting creature; not pretty-a girl of that age seldom is; the beauty of childhood is outgrown, that of youth not come; and Jane could scarcely ever have had any other pretentions to prettiness, than the fine expression of her fine dark grey eyes, and the general sweetness of her countenance. She was pale, thin, and delicate; serious and thoughtful far beyond her years; averse from play, and shrinking from notice. Her fondness for Mrs. Allen, and her constant and unremitting attention to her health and comforts, were peculiarly remarkable. Every part of their small housewifery, that her height, and strength, and skill would enable her to perform, she insisted on doing, and many things far beyond her power she attempted. Never was so industrious or so handy a little maiden. Old Nelly Chun, the char-woman, who went once a week to the house, to wash, and bake, and scour, declared that Jane did more than herself; and to all who knew Nelly's opinion of her own doings, this praise appeared superlative. In the school-room she was equally assiduous, not as a learner, but as a teacher. None so clever as Jane in superintending the different exercises of the needle, the spelling-book, and the slate. From the little workwoman's first attempt to insert thread into a pocket handkerchief, that digging and ploughing of cambric, miscalled hemming, up to the nice and delicate mysteries of stitching and button-holing: from the easy junction of a b, ab, and ba, ba, to that tremendous sesquipedalian word irrefragability, at which even I tremble as I write; from the Numeration Table to Practice, nothing came amiss to her. In figures she was particularly quick. Generally speaking, her patience with the other children, however dull, or tiresome, or giddy they might be, was exemplary; but a false accomptant, a stupid arithmetician, would put her out of humour. The only time I ever heard her sweet, gentle voice raised a note above its natural key, was in reprimanding Susan Wheeler, a sturdy, square-made, rosy-cheeked lass, as big again as herself, the dunce and beauty of the school, who had three times cast up a sum of three figures, and three times made the total wrong. Jane ought to have admired the ingenuity evinced by such a variety of error; but she did not; it fairly put her in a passion. She herself was not only clever in figures, but fond of them to an extraordinary degree-luxuriated in Long Division, and revelled in the Rule-of-Three. Had she been a boy, she would probably have been a great mathematician, and have won that fickle, fleeting, shadowy wreath, that crown made of the rainbow, that vainest of all earthly pleasures, but which yet is a pleasure-Fame. Happier, far happier was the good, the lowly, the pious child in her humble duties! Grave and quiet as she seemed, she had many moments of intense and placid enjoyment, when the duties of the day were over, and she sate reading in the porch, by the side of Mrs. Allen, or walked with her in the meadows on a Sunday evening after church. Jane was certainly contented and happy; and yet every one that saw her, thought of her with that kind of interest which is akin to pity. There was a pale, fragile grace about her, such as we sometime see in a rose which has blown in the shade; or rather, to change the simile, the drooping and delicate look of a tender plant removed from the hothouse to the open air. We could not help feeling sure (notwithstanding our mistake with regard to Mrs. Allen,) that this was indeed a transplanted flower; and that the village school, however excellently her habits had become inured to her situation, was not her proper atmosphere. Several circumstances corroborated our suspicions, and at last, elicited by some warm praise of the charming child, our good school-mistress disclosed her story. Jane Mowbray was the grand-daughter of the lady in whose service Mrs Allen had passed her life. Her fa ther had been a man of high family and splendid fortune; had married beneath himself, as it was called, a friendless orphan, with no portion but beauty and vir tue; and, on her death, which followed shortly on the birth of her daughter, had plunged into every kind of vice and extravagance. What need to tell a tale of sin and suffering? Mr. Mowbray had ruined himself, had ruined all belonging to him, and finally had joined our armies abroad as a volunteer, and had fallen undistinguished in his first battle. The news of his death was fatal to his indulgent mother; and when she too died, Mrs. Allen blessed the Providence which, by throwing in her way a recommendation to Lady Lacy's school, had enabled her to support the dear object of her mistress's love and prayers. Had Miss Mowbray no connexions?' was the natural question. Yes, one very near- an aunt, the sister of her father, richly married in India. But Sir Walter was a proud, and a stern man, upright in his own conduct, and implacable to error. Lady Ely was a sweet, gentle creature, and doubtless would be glad to extend a mother's protection to the orphan; but Sir Walter-oh! he was so unrelenting! He had abjured Mr. Mowbray, and all connected with him. She had written to inform them where the dear child was, but had no expectation of any answer from India.' Time verified this prediction. The only tidings from India, at all interesting to Jane Mowbray, were contained in the paragraph of a newspaper which announced Lady Ely's death, and put an end to all hopes of protection in that quarter. Years passed on, and found her still with Mrs. Allen at Lady Lacy's Green, more and more beloved and respected from day to day. She had now attained almost to womanhood. Strangers, I believe, called her plain; we, who knew her, thought her pretty. Her figure was tall and straight as a cypress, pliant and flexible as a willow, full of gentle grace, whether in repose or in motion. She had a profusion of light brown hair, a pale complexion, dark grey eyes, a smile of which the character was rather sweet than gay, and such a countenance! no one could look at her without wishing her well, or without being sure that she deserved all good wishes. Her manners were modest and elegant, and she had much of the selftaught knowledge, which is, of all knowledge, the surest and the best, because acquired with most difficulty, and fixed in the memory by the repetition of effort. Every one had assisted her to the extent of his power, and of her willingness to accept assistance; for both she and Mrs. Allen had a pride-call it independencewhich render it impossible, even to the friends who were most honoured by their good opinion, to be as useful to them as they could have wished. To give Miss Mowbray time for improvement had, however, proved a powerful emollient to the pride of our dear schoolmistress; and that time had been so well employed, that her acquirements were considerable; whilst in her mind and character she was truly admirable, mild, grateful, and affectionate, and imbued with a deep religious feeling, which influenced every action and pervaded every thought. So gifted, she was deemed by her constant friends, the vicar and his lady, perfectly competent to the care and education of children; it was agreed that she should enter a neighbouring family; as a successor to their then governess, early in the ensuing spring; and she, although sad at the prospect of leaving her aged protectress, acquiesced in their decision. One fine Sunday in the October preceding this dreaded separation, as Miss Mowbray, with Mrs. Allen leaning on her arm, was slowly following the little train of Lady Lacy's scholars from Church, an elderly gentleman, sickly-looking and emaciated, accosted a pretty young woman, who was loitering with some other girls at the churchyard gate, and asked her several questions respecting the school and its schoolmistress. Susan Wheeler (for it happened to be our acquaintance.) was delighted to be singled out by so grand a gentleman, and being a kind-hearted creature in the main, spoke of the school-house and its inhabitants exactly as they deserved. This stranger, so drooping, so sickly, so emaciated, was the proud Indian uncle, the stern Sir Walter Ely! Sickness and death had been busy with him and with his. He had lost his health, his wife, and his children; but, softened by affliction, he bowed to the rod, and blessed the hand that chastened him. He was returned to England a new man, anxious to forgive and to be forgiven, and, above all, desirous to repair his neglect and injustice towards the only remaining relative of the wife whom he had so fondly loved and so tenderly lamented. In this frame of mind, such a niece as Jane Mowbray was welcomed with no common joy. His delight in her, and his gratitude towards her protectress were unbounded. He wished them both to accompany him home, and reside with him constantly. Jane promised to do so; but Mrs. Allen, with her usual admirable feeling of propriety, clung to the spot which had been to her a city of refuge,' and refused to leave it in spite of all the entreaties of uncle and of niece. It was a happy decision for Aberleigh; for what would Aberleigh have done without its good schoolmistress? She lives there still, its ornament and its pride; and every year Jane Mowbray comes for a long visit, and makes a holiday in the school and in the whole place; Jane Mowbray did I say?-No! not Jane Mowbray now. She has changed that dear name for the only name that could be dearer:-she is married-married to the eldest son of Mr. Lacy, the lineal representative of Dame Eleanor Lacy, the honoured foundress of the school. It was in a voice tremulous more from feeling than from age, that Mrs. Allen welcomed the yonng heir, when he brought his fair bride to Aberleigh; and it was with a yet stronger and deeper emotion that the bridegroom, with his own Jane in his hand, visited the asylum which she and her venerable guardian owed to the benevolence and the piety of his ancestress, whose good deeds had thus showered down blessings on her remote posterity. MORNING TWILIGHT: Twas morn-the dew still glitter'd on the corn, J. E. CARPENTER. THE HINDOO FESTIVAL: A SKETCH. ONE of the greatest Hindoo festivals in the Carnatic is held annually at Conjeveram. It is called the Garudastavam, and celebrates the descent of the God Vishnu upon earth. For ten successive days a small, holy, and ancient image of the god is either borne in triumphal procession among his delighted followers, or exposed to their adoring gaze in the courts of his temple. For ten days the streets are thronged with Brahmins and Fakirs, pilgrims from afar, and peasants from the neighbourhood. Nothing is heard but the frenzied shout of the exulting fanatic, or the song of the merry idler, whom the season of holiday sets loose from his wonted toil. I chanced to be stationed within a few miles of Conjeveram at the period of this festival, in June, 1822, and I went over to enjoy the scene. It was at the second hour after midnight that I mounted my horse, and rode forth alone. There had been rain in the night; the moon was still up; and all around, and on my path, whether tree or shrub, grass, or gravel-sand, or pool of water, was glistening and silvery. My heart beat happily as I looked about me, and though alone, I felt not lonely; no, not even when the moon set, and left me in darkness. The old world was present to my imagination; I was on my way to gaze on a scene familiar to those nations whose history and fate are recorded in the sacred page of the Old Testament, a scene only to be now viewed among the idolators of India. As I approached the town, I entered upon the more public road, and found numbers of native peasants in groups of families, with children in their arms, or on their hips; or leading those who could run alone; some aged, and bending to their tall staves; all pressing on with a noiseless footfall, and that silent heartthrobbing eagerness with which, in all countries, we hasten to a high place of public and solemn assembly. My guide led me to the choultry whither the procession was to come, instead of to the gate of the pagoda, whence it first issues; so that I lost the moment when, with the break of day, the doors of the temple are thrown open, and the breathless multitude see and bow before their god, light the incense on their small censors, and break and pour out the milk of their cocoa; and send up those maddening cries with which they hail the revered image; glorified, as they believe it to be, by a present deity. nuts Directed by the sound of the tumult, and the hurried movement of the crowds, I soon discovered the procession, It was led by one of their wandering saints, a hale old man, with a flowing white beard, robes of deep salmon colour, and a turban of the same, but high and mithric in form. He brandished in his right hand a staff with an iron head, in shape like the sceptre of Vishnu; and he sang aloud, and danced with a wild rotatory motion. Some twenty men followed, mounted on Brahminy bullocks, and beating tomtoms. Next four elephants with banners, and the nagara, or large royal drum. Long files of dancing girls, with joys and flowers in their shining hair, came after, linked hand in hand, and moving in measured steps to the music of the temple. Then the image of the god, born on the bowed neck of Ganida, with attendant Brahmin's, and the umbrella and chowrie of sovereignty. All these were carried on a vast platform raised far above the heads of the crowd. A throng of officiating Brahmins, with their peculiar complexion and shaven crowns, closed the procession; and their chant, now loud and nasal, now deep and musically so, reminded me strongly of the convents and cloisters of the far West. But why does such a thought intrude? Look round on the dark multitude-mark their dress and ornaments; look at those "round tires like the moon on the heads of the women-observe those fakirs, the one with the iron rods forced through his skin all festered and bloody, the other suspended from the branches of that tree, his head downwards and a fire under it, and a third near him, his head buried under a heap of earth, and his naked and disgusting body protruded on your path. Come here to the idol-maker's stall: what will you carry back, poor travel-worn pilgrim, to your distant cottage? Here are all your gods-all their symbols all the little vessels for sacrifice. Nay, I' smile not on you in scorn, but in pity. "Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, Have glimpses which might make me less forlorn;" than walk this world in name a Christian, but in heart a sceptic. We dined, a large party of us, with Mr. C. the acting collector and magistrate, on the evening of this day, at his temporary bungalow in the town, and were summoned from table soon after nine to meet the night procession. The order of it was like that of the morning, but now Vishnu rode upon a gilt and glittering figure of Hanuman, the monkey-god. The platform' was lighted up, hundreds of the attendants were bearing torches, and about fifty men carried large tresuls, whose trident heads were all flame. They were firing off rockets on all sides, and just after we came out the procession halted. A large space was cleared; there was a good shew of fire-works; and two immense colossal figures of pasteboard, well dressed, and admirably managed, danced to the loudly-laughing crowds; and here, in the midst of this multitude, were a dozen of us pale Europeans, a rajah and two of his sons, and a wealthy native merchant, seated on English arm-chairs. I shall never forget the scene : I had feared that the moon would spoil the effect of the lights and fire-works, hut no; there was much sulphureous blue in the fireworks, and the flaring blaze of the torches gave to the leaves of the tall cocoa trees, which line the streets, a metallic brilliancy; on many of them were clusters of Indian boys; every house-top, every broken wall, was covered with groups, thronging as bees swarm, and a dense moving mass filled the streets. I was much delighted with the picture; yet I did at times look up to the blue cloudless vault of heaven, and to the golden stars, and, as I gazed upon the moon shining in calm majesty, the tumult of my spirits was reproved and repressed. We accompanied the procession to the Muntipum, and saw the nautch girls dance before the god. They were none of them remarkable for beauty, but the dress, and the measured step, and movement of the arms, cannot be viewed with indifference by any one for whom historical or poetical associations have charms. The next morning I saw the image of Vishnu borne on a huge coiled serpent of gilt metal, with a spreading hood, and seven heads of silver, over-arching and canopying the god, and it trembled as it moved. I afterwards rode home, but returned to witness the Rutt Jatra, The night before a curious ceremony takes place; the Vishnuvites carry their god on a huge gilt elephant to insult the temple and the followers of Siva. This has been customary for centuries, and was once a constant cause of tumult and bloodshed. Now there is a particular pillar to which they may go: a servant of the Company is always present; and it ends, if not in good humour, at least harmlessly. I saw this folly: their expression of contempt is not different from that adopted by common consent into all pantomimes, whether Dutch, Italian, or English. The god and the elephant turn their backs towards the front of Siva's temple, and are thrice propelled to the permitted point with the shout and the gesture of insult; some of the Vishnuvites appeared quite mad,-they leaped on each others shoulders, shook their large torches, and sang defiance. It was at day-break on the following morning that I saw the Rutt in motion, and certainly it is a sight for the traveller. The platform of this car or temple is five-and-thirty feet from the ground, and the tapestried canopy and its supporters and decorations five-andthirty feet higher. It is capable of containing twenty or thirty Brahmins; the whole is solid, strong, curiously carved, and heavy: the wheels are ten feet in diameter, solid, and of enormous thickness. Four cables, one hundred yards in length, are attached to it; and with shoulders under, or hands on these cables, there are certainly not less than two thousand labourers engaged in drawing it along. On it moves, high above the uplifted faces of the crowded worshippers; these press to come near, threw up (with money) an offering of cocoa-nuts; the attendant Brahmins break and present them to the god, and cast them down again, thus consecrated, to the wretched, yet glad devotee, who shares them with the family he brought up to the feast, and with which he has to retrace the long and weary way to his native village. This Rutt is dragged through the principal streets, and on its return, when it arrives within a hundred yards of the spot where it is to be drawn up, there is a shout and a yell, the movement is more rapid, and fearfully it towers and totters along till its ponderous wheels are again bedded in their resting place. During the whole of this scene, numbers of young Brahmins, armed with thongs of the deer, are leaping about in the crowd, striking now those who drag the car, now those who press upon the path; and you may observe wealthy and well-dressed men come and just put their hand over to touch the rope, and claim the merit of having dragged the car. The women hold up their little children above their heads, and every sight and sound speak tumultuous joy. But let us pause; the crowds are dispersing.-Who are those twenty or thirty poor men, covered with sweat and dust, looking toil-worn and hungry, and now salaaming with fear to that stern Brahmin? They are village coolies, who were pressed and driven in to drag the car of Vishnu, the lowest of whose followers would spurn them from his path, And here come into this tope, and down to the edge of this tank;-look at this group of poor families, with their small and insufficient portions of cold rice. They are not acknowledged, even by the Soodras; but they wear the mark of Vishnu, class themselves among his humble followers, have come up to the feast to worship and make the offering of their little all; and will now go home, and practise the most painful economy for a year to come. Now enter the courts of this temple ;-here is all feasting and smiles. These groups of sleek fat men are officiating Brahmins, who are partaking of an entertainment provided for them by that black Hindoo merchant, of the Byshe caste, with diamonds in his ears, and cunning in his eyes, who has come up from Madras for the occasion. Such is an Indian festival, pictorially sketched: it were a long, long comedy, if I attempted to carry my reader behind the scenes, among Shenitadars, Moonshees, Peons, and the whole herd of petty oppressors; a comedy I say, but I mean it not unfeelingly; the word tragedy I reserve for higher and more serious considerations; for can there be a deeper or more awful one, or one more afflicting to the heart of the believing Christian, than to look upon these millions, feeding on ashes, their deceived hearts turning them aside, holding fast a lie in their right hands, and seeing not the cup of astonishment and desolation prepared for them. When first I learned to breathe his name (Not as I breathe it now,) I listen'd to his bland voice when I thought he was an angel then, "Tis true papa did always say If I would wed the man, Per force-must thus retrench, It was not that I cared to part That horrid creature Mrs. Brown More equipage has shewn, |