55 COUNTRY COURTSHIP. "Oh, rural love! as spotless as the dove's, Both hearts in unison have beat the same." John Clare's Village Minstrel. LOVE in the country is very often only a wild flower of chance growth; it springs up here and there almost unaware-sometimes is found by a wood-side, in a green lane, or by a garden-gate. John is going to fetch up his horses at the same time that Mary sets out to milk her cows, and they very naturally join in conversation. It may at first only begin with a cold "good morning." But then, hang those cows! they play such freaks, and will often run away without giving a moment's warning: then John, of course, runs after them, and Mary thanks him for assisting her. Love is a very Proteus, and has before now come in the shape of a gad-fly-has first spoken in the creak of a gate-blushed while being helped up with a basket of butter-sprung up with a swarm of bees, or appeared in the shape of a stray lamb. In a large farm-house, too, there are nearly as many lads as lasses employed as servants; and in summer they all work together in the fields-eat and drink at the same table when at home, and thus have every opportunity of studying each other's temper. This I hold is a much safer way to choose a wife than mere chance wooing, where miss makes up herself beforehand to be very shy and very modest, and the youth can hardly say "boh to a goose!"—as the old country wives have it. But when they live in "place" together for a year or two, what at first is affected, gradually gives place to reality. They appear to each other what they will be after marriage; and I have known them jog together to the market-town to purchase half a dozen chairs, or what not, to start house-keeping with, months before marriage. There is no secret made of the affair; the old farmer knows all about it, and often cracks his joke in the harvest-field, bringing a colour to Mary's cheek, and a peculiar " sheepishness" to John's countenance, when he says, "Well, John, when's th' marriage to take place? Remember, I find a leg of.mutton to th' wedding." "I dunna know, measter," says John, looking at Mary, who has found something very curious in an ear of corn which she is pulling to pieces." I dunna know; but we munna be waur nor th' man who took the pig hoam before he got a sty." Then the old people often wonder what young folk can find to talk about when they get together, "gauking" about, as they term it, in the cold; Marry, courting mun be warm work." 66 When a boy, I was in the habit of spending a great portion of the summer at my grandfather's, who resided in a large, old-fashioned farm-house, cultivated a great number of acres, and generally kept three or four servants. He was a farmer of the old school, homely, kind-hearted, straight-forward in his dealings, and highly respected for miles around the country. His servants seldom changed places, unless it was to be married; and those who had lived with him in former times, were always welcome to a "meal's meat" whenever they came into the old neighbourhood. Thus he was surrounded with familiar faces, which brought back the remembrance of former days: and all those changes which time had wrought were, of course, on such occasions, discussed. He took as much interest in his old servants as if they had been his children, and was never backward in speaking a good word, to obtain them some cottage on the best terms, or push their interest with their new masters after marriage. He was a little king in his own dominions: his rich good nature and manly heart were the crown and sceptre that he bore, and with which he held sway over the affections of all by whom he was surrounded. Reader, pardon a short digression while I pay a tribute to his memory. Peace to thy spirit, dear old grandad! for, if I should meet thee again in Heaven, I could scarcely call thee by another name. Thy snow-white locks-that fine, ruddy, broad face, with a few wrinkles just to tell that thou wert old-those clear, large, laughter-loving eyes, with their white brows, which indicated that they had shone upon the merry jests of other days-that old creaking wicker chair, which seemed to reply again when thou didst shake it with laughter-those old leather breeches, that whistled again when thou didst move along, so many hinges and deep furrows had time worn in them-all seemed to call thee grandad. Thy very words belonged to another age-thy "yea, marry's," and "quotha's," "I wots," and quaint oaths by "cock and pie," and "bread and ale," "alack and well-a-day," and a thousand other old-fashioned phrases, were such as thy forefathers used, when the name of an Englishman was honoured. The old songs which thou wert wont to carol at sheep-shearing feasts, harvest-homes, and Christmas-tide, with thy old cracked voice, trembling like a shrill chord when struck alone, told that thy thoughts belonged to other days. No one sings about "The King and the Miller of Mansfield" now. The old ballad of "Chevy Chase " died with thee; and the praises of those little sons who, while "on their nurse's knee," vowed "If ever I live to be a man, My father's death revenged shall be," "The Lady that No voice now are never trolled forth in these days. lived in St. Gile's Park" is forgotten. tells how "Sir Andrew Barton did lie down to bleed awhile, then promised to fight again." Alas! they are gone, and the fine English feeling which such strains awakened is fast vanishing away. Oh! what a treasure would that three-legged oaken stool now be, on which, when a boy, I have so often sat in the old farm-house, and listened with mingled awe and delight to those ancient lays. And that old carved cupboard in the parlour! Oh, who had such a library as my old grandad !—what a day was that when I dragged out Peter Wilkins' "History of the Flying People," and what a night did I pass after its perusal when, nestled in my little crib under the thatched roof, I heard the old oaks without rattle again in the blast. The roar of every branch flapped like the wings of a flying woman: all night the sky was filled with voices, snatches of wild songs, the sound of wings, and shrieks and struggles in the air; but those feelings are gone now, nor could the genius of Peter Wilkins ever awaken them again. Then that black-letter copy of Chaucer in folio! Ah! handy Nicholas and the Carpenter. I soon discovered why the old man never wished me to read that tale, poor dear old fellow! the very care which he took to persuade me that it was too hard, only made me the more eager to read it; and grandad dropped in unaware just as I had arrived to where the old carpenter hears the cry for water. The |