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THE COUNTRY FAIR.

A Wake! the booths whitening the village green,
Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen;
Sign beyond sign, in close array unfurled,
Picturing at large the wonders of the world;
And far and wide over the vicar's pale,
Black hoods and scarlet crossing hill and dale;
All, all abroad, and music in the gale.

ROGER'S Human Life.

RIGHT glad was I in former days when the time for holding Wharton feast arrived; for as it usually took place about the same period when two large fairs were held in the neighbourhood, there was no lack of those agreeable vagabonds called "showmen;" for they generally so contrived matters as to stay a day or two at the feast. I love a country fair or feast, it seems to put mankind so much upon a level; there the squire and his daughter are likely to be jostled by their own footman, especially in our primitive villages, where you see the parson and the pedagogue pushing between the ploughman and the pauper, where the maid edges the mistress, and for once, all are privileged to laugh alike at the same exhibition. Then with what veneration did we gaze upon those heroic figures who trod with martial step along the stage, folding their arms and looking unutterable things upon us poor bumpkins whose heads were imbedded together below! what terrible men they looked! and if one of them deigned to speak to us, how highly were we honoured. Marvellous were those dresses in our eyes, for then all

Oh!

was gold that glittered; and we saw only kings and warriors before us; men whom slaves obeyed, and at whose bidding whole legions rushed to battle. Then those queens and royal maidens, they to whom the great kings and valiant warriors bowed, and spoke such language as 66 we deemed was fit utterance for the gods!" Oh! how we marvelled at their surpassing loveliness, at the pure red and white of their most beautiful countenances. They looked more lovely than nature-so like those fine pictures outside, we felt that if we were princes and warriors we could kneel at the same fair feet, and resign our swords and sceptres without regret. Alas for the wayward heart! the charms of Molly and Dolly were forgotten; queens moved before us in our sleep, and spangled trains trailed over our slumber; for a day at least we seemed to live among the gods. Then how awful was that ghost in "real armour!" how unearthly his countenance, how real the thunder and lightning! What screams did the rustic maidens give when Don Raymond Realto was stabbed! Oh! those were glorious days-we saw and we believed. Alas! we had never then witnessed Hamlet putting a patch on his own coat, nor seen fair Ophelia stitch a pair of thrice-darned silk feet to worsted leggings; we knew not then that those purely white petticoats which showed the rich pink beneath were made of the same material as the old cobbler's window-curtains, and cost but twopence per yard. We believed that the bumpers they drank were of real wine; that they slept in crimson tents; nor could we scarce believe our eyes when we first saw the Queen of Denmark turn out from a tailor's where she and her royal husband lodged, and in a vile earthen jug fetch a halfpenny worth of small beer!

But, oh! what were these things compared to the

merry groups and laughing faces which were constantly passing through the village streets! What gaudy printed gowns the rustic maidens wore; such patterns of flowers as mother earth never produced; large roses of four or five colours mingled with sea-shells, and blue and yellow leaves all springing from one stem, and that not unlike the tail of a kite! Then how harmoniously their various-coloured shawls blended with the deep scarlet cloaks of the elderly personages, and the sober russet tints of the old farmer, all varied and dotted when examined minutely; yet, as a whole, producing a beauty and a breadth, and a keeping, like some rich picture. The faces of the maidens, too, seemed to resemble their own flower-gardens; there was the snow-drop so delicate and retiring, the primrose looking boldly up in its innocence, the daisy only plain because it grows so commonly, the rose-bud red and beautiful; and so might the fancy go on imagining and tracing in each face a resemblance to some flower. Then there were the rural swains, fine healthy-looking fellows, with faces overflowing with good nature, and minds made up for rustic enjoyment. There they stood with their rough hats on, the down rubbed purposely the wrong way, to show how much beaver there was on, while the band or riband hung down nearly a quarter of a yard. The red and yellow silk neckerchief (bought for real India of some wandering vagabond, who swore they were smuggled) was knowingly knotted by the rustic dandy; both corners being left loose to play with the winds, and keep an incessant fluttering upon his cheeks. Their coats were also made with plenty of room to grow in; some long and reaching down to the calf, and fitting like a stocking on the leg of a chicken; and at the knees of their corduroys hung a length of untied ribands, while above drooped a quarter of a yard of the same material

of a glaring red, to which were appended two large brass seals and a copper key, all of which had been purchased of some wandering Jew as sterling gold. Some also held the hooks of the sticks in their mouths, and kept exclaiming, "By gum, Jack, didst see how fine Molly was?"

But the great charm of these feasts is the meeting of absent friends-mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, and all the line of kirth and kin on these occasions. You see a fine strapping young girl walking briskly along some winding footpath; she looks around her and smiles; she has been in service perhaps a year or two, and for the first time during that period she again treads on her old play-ground. An aged woman in spectacles is looking out anxiously from a low doorway -twenty to one it is overgrown with woodbine or ivy ; she observes the figure approaching, and says to some other old woman who has been her gossip for above forty years, "Yon's my Mary." "I think it's a hand too tall for her," replies the gossip. "No," says the anxious mother, pausing and looking more narrowly, "it is! it's my own dear bairn!" and away she runs with open arms, and is met at full speed by Mary, who throws down her little bundle on the grass, and they are locked in each other's arms, while such heart-uttered words as, "Oh, my blessed bairn, how happy I am to see thee! I've done naught but think about thee all night; I've hardling had a wink of sleep." "My dear old mother," is whispered with a fervent embrace, and a tear of joy steals down their cheeks in testimony of their affection.

The meeting of father and son is equally joyous, but the current of feeling is kept more subdued; a deep manliness is displayed on each side, and the firm shake of the hand again and again repeated, and the "Welcome to the feast, my lad John; I'm heartily pleased to see

thee, my lad ;"" And I'm glad you are looking so well, father;" these are all faint imbodiments of what they feel; but they will before night grow warm over the ale-cup, and many a thought will then find utterance, and show how noble and warm a heart often beats under the rude garb of the peasant.

But we must away into the fair, and here we are amid the squealing of trumpets and the bellowing of voices. See where the pedlar is displaying his ribands on the ground; no stall, nothing has he but the coarse wrapper in which he carries his stock. Here comes a jolly farmer's lad, half drunk with his arm round Betty's waist: we guessed aright-he means to purchase her a riband.

"I say, measter, what may yah be axing a yard for that gress-green riband ?”

"Twopence," answers the pedlar.

'Come, then," continues the swain, "and slash my Bet a brace of yards off." Then looking drunkenly amorously at her, he adds, "Ah, my lass! I do luv you some; I luv you better than I do old Ball, and a harder working little horse was never put between a pair of shafts. Now if there's any other coloured riband thou would like more than that gress-green, say it at once, an' thou shall hae it, whether it be real red, sky-blue, or plum-colour; thou'rt as welcome as flowers in May to aught I bae," continued he, pulling out a little yellow bag and shaking the silver which it contained.

"Put up thy money, Johnny," said his fair partner, "and don't be such a fool as to put thysen to such spense (expense) on my account."

In they bundled to the old public-house, and you hear John shout out to the landlady, "Mrs. Warde, let us hae (have) threepenneth of hot gin and watter, and a lump of sewgar in it."