"Why, Maggie, how's this, how's this?" he said as they rode along, while she laid her head against her father, and sobbed. "How came yoú tó be wàndering about and lose yoúrself?"

"O, father," sobbed Maggie, "I ran away because I was so unhappy. Tom was so angry with me. I couldn't bêar it.” "Pooh, pooh," said Mr. Tulliver soothingly, "you must not think of running away from father. What would father do without his little wench?"

"O no, I never will again, father - něver.”

Mr. Tulliver spoke his mînd věry strongly when he reached home that evening, and the effect was seen in the remarkable fact, that Maggie never heard one reproach from her mòther, or one taunt from Tom, about this foolish business of running away to the gypsies. Maggie wàs rather awe-stricken by this unu-sû,al treatment, and sòmetimes thought that her conduct had been too wicked tó be alluded tó.

George Eliot (Mary Ann Ěvans).

Windsor Forest.

Thy forests, Windsor! and thy green retreats,
At once the monarch's and the muse's seats,
Invite my lays. Be present, sylvan maids!
Unlock your springs, and open âll yoúr shades.
The groves of Eden, vănished now so long,
Live in description, and look green in song:
These, wère my breast inspired with equal flame
Like them in beauty, should be like in fame.
Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,
Here earth and wâter seem tó strive again ;
Not cha,os-like together crushed and bruised,
But as the world, harmo·ni,òus`ly confused:

Whêre order in variety we see,

And whêre, though all things differ, âll agree..
Here waving groves a chequered scene display,
And part admit, and part exclude the day.
Thêre, interspersed in lawns and opening glades,
Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades.
Here in full light the russet plains extend:
Thêre wrapped in clouds the blue,ish hills ascend.
Even the wild heath displays her purple dyes.
And 'midst the desert fruitfúl fields arise,

That crowned with tufted trees and springing corn,
Like verdant îsles the säble wäste adorn.

Let India boast her plants, nor envy we

The weeping amber or the balmy tree,

While by our oaks the precious loads ǎre borne,
And realms commanded which those trees adorn.
Not proud Olympus yields a nōbler sîght,
Though gods assembled graçe his tow'ring heîght,
Than what more humble mountains offer here,
Whêre in their blessings, âll those gods appear.
See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crowned,
Here blushing Flora paints th' enă melled ground,
Here Çeres' gifts in waving prospect stand,
And nodding tempt the joyfúl reaper's hand:
Rich industry sits smiling on the plains,
And peace and plenty tell, a Stuart reigns.

Alexander Pope.

Rural Life in England.

The stränger who would form a correct opinion of the English character, must not confine his observations to the metropolis. He must go forth into the còuntry; he must sojourn in villages and hamlets; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses,

cottages; he must wànder through parks and gardens; along hedges and green lanes; he must loiter about country churches, attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals; and cope with the people in âll their conditions, and âll their habits and humòurs.

In some countries the large çities absorb the wealth and fashion of the nation; they are the only fixed abodes of ĕlegant and intelligent society, and the country is inhǎ-bited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metro polis is a mere gathering plaçe, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, whêre they devote a small portion of the year tó a hurry of gai,ety and dissipation, and hăving indulged in this carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial hăbits of rural life. The vari,òus orders of soçi-ety ǎre thêrefore diffu-sed over the whole surface of the kingdom, and the mōst retired neighbourhoods afford specimens of the different ranks.

The English, in fact, ăre strongly gifted with the rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a keen rělish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhă-bitants of cities, born and brought up amòng brick walls and bustling streets, enter with facility intó rural hăbits, and evinçe a turn for rural occupations. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower garden, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his business and the success of his commercial enterprises. Even those less fortûnate indivi-dû,als, whó ǎre doomed tó pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contri-ve tó hǎve something that shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy quârters of the city the drawing-room window resembles frequently a bank of flowers; ĕvery spot capable of vegetation has its grass plot and flowerbed; and every square its mimic park, laid out with picture sque täste and gleaming with refreshing verdure.

Those who see the Englishman only in towns, ǎre apt tó form an unfavourable opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand engagements that dissipate time, thôught, and feeling, in this huge metro polis: he has, thêrefore, too commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. Whêre ver he happens tó be, he is on the point of going somewhere else; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to anò ther; and while paying a friendly visit, he is calcûlating how he shall economise time so as to pay the òther visits allotted to the morning. An immense metropolis like Lòndon is calcûlated to make men selfish and uninteresting. In their căśû,al and transi,ent meetings, they can but deal briefly in common-plaçes. They present but the cold superficies of character - its rich and genial quàlities hǎve no time tó be wârmed intó a glow.

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his nătûral feelings. He brêaks loose gladly from the cold formă.lities and negative çivilities of town; throws off his habits of shy reserve, and becò mes joy,òus and free-hearted. He mănages tó collect around him âll the conveniençes and ělegançies of poli-te life, and tó bănish its restraint. His còuntry-seat abounds with every requisite, eîther for studi,òus retirement, tästẹfúl grătification, or rural exercise. Bóoks, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kînds, ăre at hand. He púts no restraint upon his guests or himself, but in the trūe spirit of hospită lity provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves every one tó partake according to his inclination.

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and what is câlled landscape-gardening is unrivalled. They have studied nature intently and discò·ver an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmoni,òus combinations. Those charms, which in other còuntries she lăvishes in wîld solitudes, ăre here assembled round the haunts of domestic life. They seem tó hăve caught her coy and furtive glançes and spread them, like witchery, about their rural abo-des.

Nothing can be more imposing than the magni fiçençe of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here and thêre clumps of gîga-ntic trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them; the hare bounding away to the còvert; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting on the wing. The brook, taught tó wînd in the most nătûral me,a-nderings, or expand intó a glassy lake — the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bósom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid wâters; while sòme rustic temple or sylvan stǎtue, grown green and dark with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion.

These are but a few features of park scenery; but what mōst delights me is the creative tǎlent with which the English decorate the unostenta tiòus abo-des of middle life. The rudest hăbitation, the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an English man of täste, becò mes a little păradise. With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mînd the future landscape. The sterile spot grows intó lòveliness under his hand; and yet the operations of art which produ-çe the effect ǎre scarcely tó be perceived. The cherishing and training of sòme trees; the cautiòus pruning of òthers; the nice distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graçẹfúl foliage; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep of blue distançe, or silver gleam of wâter; âll these ǎre mănaged with a dělicate tact, a prevailing yet qui, et assiduity, like the măgic touchings with which a painter finishes up a favourite picture.

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country has diffused a degree of täste and elegance in rural economy that descends to the lowest classes. The věry labòurer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass plot before