Sir Fret. Well, and pray now-not that it signifies-what might the gentleman say! Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not the slightest invention or original genius whatever, though you are the greatest traducer of all other authors living. Sir Fret. Ha ha! ha!--very good! Sncer. That, as to comedy, you have not one idea of your own, he believes, even m your common-place book: where stray jokes and pilfered witticisms are kept with as much method as the ledger of the lost and stolen office. Sir Fret. Ha! ha! ha!-very pleasant. Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the skill even to steal with taste; but that you glean from the refuse of obscure volumes, where more judicious plagiarists have been before you; so that the body of your work is a composition of dregs and sediments-like a bad tavern's worst wine. Sir Fret. Ha! ha! Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bombast would be less intoler able, if the thoughts were ever suited to the expression; but the homeliness of the sentiment stares through the fantastic encumbrance of its fine language, like a clown in one of the new uniforms! Sir Fret. Ha! ha! Sneer. That your occasional tropes and flowers suit the general coarseness of your style, as tambour sprigs would a ground of linsey-woolsey; while your imitations of Shakspere resemble the mimicry of Falstaff's page, and are about as near the standard of the original. Sir Fret. Ha! Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages you steal are of no service to you; for the poverty of your own language prevents their assimilating, so that they lie on the surface like lumps of marl on a barren moor, encumbering what it is not in their power to fertilise ! Sir Fret. [After great agitation.] Now another person would be vexed at this Sneer. Oh! but I wou'dn't have told you, only to divert you. Sir Fret. I know it-I am diverted. Ha! ha ha! not the least invention! Ha ha ha!-very good! very good! Sneer. Yes-no genius! Ha! ha ha! never to read such nonsense. ha! but you are quite right, Sir Fretful, Sir Fret. To be sure-for, if there is any thing to one's praise, it is a foolish vanity to be gratified at it; and, if it is abuse, why one is always sure to hear of it from one d- -d good-natured friend or other, SWINEHERDS OF THE NEW FOREST. GILPIN. [WILLIAM GILPIN was one of those best benefactors of mankind, who, without possessing abilities of the very highest order, employ their talents so as to be useful to others and happy in themselves. He was born in 1724, entered the church, and married young. He became a schoolmaster at Cheam in Surrey, and there realised a handsome competence. The living of Boldre in the New Forest was presented to him; and there he dwelt for the remainder of his long and useful life, a blessing to all the inhabitants of that wild and beautiful district. He died in 1804. At a time when a love of the picturesque was little cultivated, he published several works, illustrating by his descriptions and his pencil the principles of the beautiful in landscape. The following extract is from his 'Forest Scenery,' in which he describes the characteristics of his own locality, and intersperses his artistical sketches with many amusing anecdotes and traditions.] These woods afford excellent feeding for hogs, which are led in the autumn season into many parts of the forest, but especially among the oaks and becches of Boldre Wood, to fatten on mast. It is among the rights of the forest-borderers to feed their hogs in the forest, during the pawnage month, as it is called, which com、 mences about the end of September, and lasts six weeks. For this privilege they pay a trifling acknowledgment at the steward's court at Lyndhurst. The word pawnage was the old term for the money thus collected. The method of treating hogs at this season of migration, and of reducing a large berd of these unmanageable brutes to perfect obedience and good government, is curious. The first stop the swine-herd takes, is to investigate some close sheltered part of the forest, where there is a conveniency of water, and plenty of oak or beech mast, the former of which he prefers when he can have it in abundance. He fixes next on some spreading tree, round the bole of which he wattles a slight circular fence of the dimensions he wants; and, covering it roughly with boughs and sods, he fills it plentifully with straw or fern. Having made this preparation, he collects his colony among the farmers, with whom he commonly agrees for a shilling a head, and will get together perhaps a herd of five or six hundred hogs. Having driven them to their destined habitation, he gives them a plentiful supper of acorns or beech mast, which he had already provided, sounding his horn during the repast. He then turns them into the litter where, after a long journey and a hearty meal, they sleep deliciously. The next morning he lets them look a little around them-shows them the pool or stream where they may occasionally drink-leaves them to pick up the offals of the last night's meal; and, as evening draws on, gives them another plentiful repast under the neighbouring trees, which rain acorns upon them for an hour together, at the sound of his horn. He then sends them again to sleep. The following day he is perhaps at the pains of procuring them another meal, with music playing as usual. He then leaves them a little more to themselves, having an eye, however, on their evening hours. But, as their bellies are full, they seldom wander far from home, retiring commonly very orderly and early to bed. After this he throws his sty open, and leaves them to cater for themselves; and from henceforward has little more trouble with them, during the whole time of their migration. Now and then, in calm weather, when mast falls sparingly, he calls them perhaps together by the music of his horn to a gratuitous meal; but in general they need little attention, returning regularly home at night, though they often wander in the day two or three miles from their sty. There are experienced leaders in all herds, which have spent this roving life before, and can instruct their juniors in the method of it. By this management the herd is carried home to their respective owners in such condition, that a little dry meat will soon fatten them. I would not, however, have it supposed, that all the swine-herds in the forest manage their colonies with this exactness. Bad governments and bad governors will every where exist; but I mention this as an example of sound policy-not as a mere Platonic or Utopian scheme, but such as hath been often realised, and hath as often been found productive of good order, and public utility. The hog is commonly supposed to be an obstinate, headstrong, unmanageable brute; and he may perhaps have a degree of positiveness in his temper. In general, however, if he be properly managed, he is an orderly docile animal. The only difficulty is to make your meanings, when they are fair and friendly, intelligible to him. Effect this, and you may lead him with a straw. Nor is he without his social feelings, when he is at liberty to indulge them. In these forest migrations, it is commonly observed that, of whatever number the herd consists, they generally separate, in their daily excursions, into such little knots and societics as have formerly had habits of intimacy together; and in these friendly groups they range the forest; returning home at night, in different parties, some earlier and some later, as they have been more or less fortunate in the pursuits of the day. It sounds oddly to affirm the life of a hog to be enviable; and yet there is something uncommonly pleasing in the lives of these emigrants-something at least more desirable than is to be found in the life of a hog, Epicuri de grege. They scem themselves also to enjoy their mode of life. You see them perfectly happy, going about at their ease, and conversing with cach other in short, pithy, interrupted sentences, which are no doubt expressive of their own enjoyments and of their social feelings. Besides the hogs thus led out in the mast season to fatten, there are others, the property of forest keepers, which spend the whole year in such societies. After the mast scason is over, the indigenous forest hog depends chiefly for his livelihood on the roots of fern; and he would find this food very nourishing, if he could have it in abundance. But he is obliged to procure it by so laborious an operation, that his meals are rarely accompanied with satiety. He continues however, by great industry, to obtain a tolerable subsistence through the winter, except in frosty weather, when the ground resists his delving snout; then he must perish if he do not, in some degree, experience his master's care. As spring advances, fresh grasses, and salads of different kinds, add a variety to his bill of fare; and as summer comes on he finds juicy berries, and grateful seeds, on which he lives plentifully, till autumn returns and brings with it the extreme of abundance. Besides these stationary hogs, there are others in some of the more desolate parts of the forest which are bred wild, and left to themselves without any settled habitation; and as their owners are at no expense, either in feeding or attending them, they are content with the precarious profit of such as they are able to retain. Charles the First, I have heard, was at the expense of procuring the wild boar and his mate from the forests of Germany, which once certainly inhabited the forests of England. I have heard, too, that they propagated greatly in New Forest. Certain it is, there is found in it at this day a breed of hogs commonly called forest pigs, which are very different from the usual Hampshire breed, and have about them several of the characteristic marks of the wild boar. The forest hog has broad shoulders, a high crest, and thick bristly mane, which he erects on any alarm. His hinder parts are light and thin. His ears are short and erect; and his colour either black or darkly brindled. He is much fiercer than the common breed; and will turn against an ordinary dog. All these are marks of the wild boar, from whom probably in part he derives his pedigree, though his blood may be contaminated with vulgar mixtures. But, though he is much more picturesque than the common hog, he is in much less repute among farmers. The lightness of bis hind quarters, and the thinness of his flanks, appear to great disadvantage in the ham and the flitch. GARDENS. JESSE. [MR. EDWARD JESSE, 'Surveyor of her Majesty's Parks, Palaces,' &c., was the author of several volumes which have had a deserved popularity, as the faithful observations of an intelligent and reflective mind upon the common appearances of Nature, the more interesting from their familiarity. Mr. Jesse appears to have taken for his model White of Selborne. The volume from which we extract the following passage, entitled Scenes and Tales of Country Life,' was published in 1844. Mr. Jesse died 1868.] The love of gardens and of gardening appears to be almost exclusively confined to the English, and is partaken of by the poor as well as by the rich. Nothing can De prettier than the gardens attached to the thatched cottages in Devonshire. They are frequently to be seen on the side and oftener at the bottom of a hill, down which a narrow road leads to a rude single-arched stone bridge. Here a shallow streams may be secu flowing rapidly, and which now and then stickles, to use a Devonshire phrase, over a pavement of cither pebbles or rag-stone. A little rill descends by the side of the lane, and close to the hedge of the cottage, which is approached by a broad stepping stone over the rill, and beyond it is a gate made of rough sticks, which leads to the cottage. At a short distance, an excavation has been cut out of the bank, and paved round with rough stones, into which the water finds and then again makes its way, clear and sparkling. This is the cottager's well. His garden is gay with flowers. His bees are placed on cach side of a window surrounded with honeysuckles, jessamine, or a flourishing vine, and the rustic porch is covered with these or other creepers. Here, also, the gorgeous hollyhock may be seen in perfection, for it delights in the rich red soil of Devonshire. Giant-stocks, carnations, and china-asters, flourish from the same cause, and make the garden appear as though it belonged to Flora herself. Nor must the little orchard be forgotten. The apple-trees slope with the hill, and in the spring are covered with a profusion of the most beautiful blossom, and in the autumn are generally weighed down with their load of red fruit. Under them may be seen a crop of potatoes, and in another part of the garden those fine Paington cabbages, one of the best vegetables of the county. In a sheltered nook is the thatched pig-sty, partly concealed by the round yellowfaced sunflower, which serves both as a screen and as an ornament. The mud or cob walls of the cottage add to its picturesque appearance, when partly covered with creepers and surrounded with flowers. Such is an accurate description of one of the many cottages I have seen in the beautiful and hospitable county of Devon, so celebrated for its illustrious men and the beauty of its women. Those who, like myself, have wandered amongst its delightful lanes, will not think my picture overcharged. But I must introduce my readers to the inside of a Devonshire cottage. On entering it, he will see the polished dresser glittering with bright pewter plates; the flitch of bacon on the rack, with paper bags stored with dried pot-herbs, for winter use, deposited near it; the bright dog-bars, instead of a grate, with the cottrel over them, to hang the pot on, and every thing bespeaking comfort and cleanliness. The cottager's wife will ask him to sit down, in that hearty Devonshire phrase, which has often been addressed to me, and which I always delighted in-"Do y' Sir, pitch yourself," bringing forward a chair at the same time, and wiping it down with her apron. A cup of cider will be offered, or bread and cheese, or whatever the cottage affords. I have known one of the children stealthily sent to a neigbouring farmer's for a little clotted cream, which has been set before me with a loaf of brown bread, and with the most hearty good-will. They are so delicious & banquet, that Pope might have thought of it when he said— "Beneath the humble cottage let us haste, I have dwelt longer than I intended on the cottage scenery of Devonshire, berause I think it stands pre-eminent in this country for beauty, and because I regard its peasantry as affording the best examples I have met with of unaffected kindness, civility, industry, and good conduct. I have, on more than one occasion, expressed my admiration of the agricultural population of England; and I trust that the time is not far distant, when each individual amongst them will have an allotment of land, at a fair rent, for the better maintenance of themselves and their families, not in common fields, but attached to their houses. Round The taste for gardens, however, is not confined to the rural districts. the town of Birmingham, for instance, there are some hundreds of small gardens, which are diligently cultivated by the working classes. Each garden has a little covered seat, where the owner has his glass of ale, and smokes his pipe, at the close of the evening; and here the finest auriculas, polyanthuses, carnations, &c., are to be met with. They are cultivated with the utmost skill and care, and may vie with any produced in this country. I have also been informed that our Spitalfields weavers have the same fondness for flowers, and are also amongst our best collectors of insects. In some other districts tulips are successfully cultivated, and in others the ranunculus and anemone. One man is celebrated for his fine stocks, another for his pansies, while a third will produce unrivalled gooseberries for size, or wall. flowers of the darkest huc. I am assured that, great and deplorable as the distress now is at Birmingham, a man would sell his clothes, his furniture, indeed, all that he possessed, sooner than part with his beloved garden. Flowers are cultivated to a considerable extent, and with great success, in the neighbourhood of London, and especially in some parts of Surrey, in which county there are many exhibitions of flowers every year. Here the rich and poor may be seen assembled together, each either admiring or criticising particular blooms, and the poor man appearing perfectly competent to appreciate their peculiar merits. It always affords me pleasure to witness these meetings, and to watch the gleam of satisfaction in the countenance of some cottager, when "his garden's gem, The heart's-ease," has been praised, or his well-cultivated show of potatoes or apples has obtained for him some trifling prize. Persons of influence, residing in the country, should do their utmost to encourage the cultivation, not only of flowers, but of vegetables and bees, amongst their poorer neighbours. It not only tends to keep them out of ale and beer-houses, those curses of the labouring man in this country, but improves their minds, their habits, and health. An amiable florist has observed, that the love of flowers is one of the earliest impressions which the dawning of reason implants in the human mind, and that happy are the parents of children in whose imaginations this desirable predilection is early evinced. It inculcates a salutary habit of reasoning and thinking on subjects worthy of exercising the thoughts, and is calculated to improve them. It gradually trains the mind to the study and observance of that most instructive volume, the Book of Nature. The passion for flowers is, indeed, one of the most enduring and permanent of all enjoyments. At the coming of each re volving spring, we anxiously return to our loved and favourite pursuit; with joy and delight we perceive that Ethereal mildness is come, THOUGH We have drawn St. Paul at large, in the account we have given of his life yet may it be of use to represent him in little, in a brief account of his person, parts, and those graces and virtues for which he was more peculiarly eminent and remarkable. For his person, we find it thus described. He was low, and of little |