ing." (Here she heaved a great sigh.) "And so my lady is mighty curious in plants and apples, they tell me, and quite a gardener, love her! and rears me cartloads of peaches. Why, her face is a peach, or I should like to know what is. But it didn't come of itself neither. No, no; for that matter there were peaches before it; and Eve didn't live alone, I warrant me, or we should have no peaches now, for all her gardening. Well, well, my sweet young lady, don't blush and be angry, for I am but a poor foolish, old body, you know, old enough to be your grandmother; but I can't help thinking it a pity, that's the truth on't. Oh dear! Well, gentle folks will have their fegaries, but it was very different in my time, you know; and now to speak the plain scripter truth; what would the world come to, and where would her sweet ladyship be herself, I should like to know, if her own mother, that's now an angel in Heaven, had refused to keep company with her ladyship's father, because she brought him a good estate, and made him the happiest man on the earth !"

The real love that existed between Pomona's father and mother being thus brought to her recollection, touched our heroine's feelings; and looking at the old dame, with tears in her eyes, she begged her to stay and take some tea, and she would see her again before she went away. "Ay, and that I will, and a thousand thanks into the bargain from one who has been a mother herself, and I can't help crying to see my lady in tears. I could kiss 'em off, if I warn't afraid of being troublesome; and so, bless her, I'll make bold to make her my curtsey again before I go."

The old body seemed really affected, and left the room with more quietness than Pomona had looked for. Betty meanwhile showed an eagerness to get her away, which was a little remarkable. In less than half an hour, there was a knock at the parlor door, and Pomona saying, "Come in," the door was held again by somebody for a few seconds, during which there was a loud and apparently angry whisper of voices. Our heroine, not without agitation, heard the words, "No, no!" and "Yes," repeated with vehemence, and then, "I tell you I must and will, she will forgive you, be assured, and me too, for she'll never see

me again." And at these words the door was opened by a gal. lant-looking young man, who closed it behind him, and advancing with a low bow, spoke as follows:

"If you are alarmed, madam, which I confess you reasonably may be at this intrusion, I beseech you to be perfectly certain that you will never be so alarmed again, nor indeed ever again set your eyes on me, if it so please you. You see before you, madam, that unfortunate younger brother (for I will not omit even that title to your suspicion), who, seized with an invincible passion as he one day beheld you from your garden wall, has since run the chance of your displeasure, by coming into the house under a variety of pretences, and inasmuch as he has violated the truth has deserved it. But one truth he has not violated, which is, that never man entertained a passion sincerer and God is my witness, madam, how foreign to my heart is that accursed love of money (I beg your pardon, but I confess it agitates me in my turn to speak of it), which other people's advances and your own modesty have naturally induced you to suspect in every person situated as I am. Forgive me, madam, for every alarm I have caused you, this last one above all. I could not deny to my love and my repentance the mingled bliss and torture of this moment; but as I am really and passionately a lover of truth as well as of yourself, this is the last trouble I shall give you, unless you are pleased to admit what I confess I have very little hope of, which is a respectful pressure of my suit in future. Pardon me even these words, if they displease you. You have nothing to do but to bid me-leave you; and when he quits this apartment, Harry Vernon troubles you no more."

The gen

A silence ensued for the space of a few seconds. tleman was very pale; so was the lady. At length she said, in a very undertone, "This surprise, sir-I was not insensible—I mean, I perceived-sure, sir, it is not Mr. Vernon, the brother of my cousin's friend, to whom I am speaking ?"

"The same, madam."

"And why not at once, sir-I mean-that is to say-Forgive me, sir, if circumstances conspire to agitate me a little, and to throw me in doubt what I ought to say. I wish to say what is

becoming, and to retain your respect;" and the lady trembled as she said it.

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My respect, madam, was never profounder than it is at this moment, even though I dare begin to hope that you will not think it disrespectful on my part to adore you. If I might but hope, that months or years of service—”

"Be seated, sir, I beg; I am very forgetful. I am an orphan, Mr. Vernon, and you must make allowances as a gentleman (here her voice became a little louder) "for anything in which I may seem to forget, either what is due to you or to myself."

The gentleman had not taken a chair, but at the end of this speech he approached the lady, and led her to her own seat with an air full of reverence.

“Ah, madam,” said he, "if you could but fancy you had known me these five years, you would at least give me credit for enough truth, and I hope enough tenderness and respectfulness of heart (for they all go together) to be certain of the feelings I entertain towards your sex in general; much more towards one whose nature strikes me with such a gravity of admiration at this moment, that praise even falters on my tongue. Could I. dare hope that you meant to say anything more kind to me than a common expression of good wishes, I would dare to say, that the sweet truth of your nature not only warrants your doing so, but makes it a part of its humanity."

"Will you tell me, Mr. Vernon, what induced you to say so decidedly to my servant (for I heard it at the door) that you were sure I should never see you again."

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Yes, madam, I will; and nevertheless I feel all the force of your inquiry. It was the last little instinctive stratagem that love induced me to play, even when I was going to put on the whole force of my character and my love of truth! for I did indeed believe that you would discard me, though I was not so sure of it as I pretended."

"There, sir," said Pomona, coloring in all the beauty of joy and love, “there is my hand. I give it to the lover of truth; but truth no less forces me to acknowledge, that my heart had not been unshaken by some former occurrences."

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Charming and adorable creature!" cried our hero, after

But

he had recovered from the kiss which he gave her. here we leave them to themselves. Our heroine confessed, that from what she now knew of her feelings, she must have been inclined to look with compassion on him before; but added, that she never could have been sure she loved him, much less had the courage to tell him so, till she had known him in his own candid shape.

And this, and no other, is the true story of Vertumnus and Pomona.

CHAPTER IX.

On the Graces and Anxieties of Pig-Driving.

FROM the perusal of this article we beg leave to warn off vul. gar readers of all denominations, whether of the "great vulgar or the small." Warn, did we say ? We drive them off; for Horace tells us that they, as well as pigs, are to be so treated. Odi profanum vulgus, says he, et arceo. But do thou lend thine ear, gentle shade of Goldsmith, who didst make thy bear-leader denounce "everything as is low ;" and thou Steele, who didst humanize upon public-houses and puppet-shows; and Fielding, thou whom the great Richardson, less in that matter (and some others) than thyself, did accuse of vulgarity, because thou didst discern natural gentility in a footman, and yet was not to be taken in by the airs of Pamela and my lady G.

The title is a little startling; but "style and sentiment," as a lady said, "can do anything." Remember then, gentle reader, that talents are not to be despised in the humblest walks of life; we will add, nor in the muddiest. The other day we happened to be among a set of spectators who could not help stopping to admire the patience and address with which a pig-driver huddled and cherished onward his drove of unaccommodating élèves, down a street in the suburbs. He was a born genius for a manœuvre. Had he originated in a higher sphere, he would have been a general, or a stage-manager, or at least the head of a set of monks. Conflicting interests were his forte; pig. headed wills, and proceedings hopeless. To see the hand with which he did it! How hovering, yet firm; how encouraging yet compelling; how indicative of the space on each side of him, and yet of the line before him; how general, how particu. lar, how perfect! No barber's could quiver about a head with. more lightness of apprehension; no cook's pat up and propor.