the gaol in which she expired (almost as soon as it was entered); and she and her child were buried in the same grave, in the churchyard of the village in which she was born. The grave opened its hungry jaws but once to receive them both, then closed upon the blighted flower and the opening blossom for ever! "She died in youth-and bowed 'Neath woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb THERE was a queer, odd kind of a character, who lived in the village of Skellingthorpe; he had nothing in the world to do, except to attend to his garden, and provide for his wife, for he had neither "child nor chick," as they say in the country; so, either through a love of meddling, or a love of mischief, he busied himself with the affairs of other people. Now, a person may lend a hand in the matters of other folks, and by doing so render them great assistance; but he was only clever in one way, and that, according to a very ancient saying, was in "helping a lame dog over a style," which said wise adage may be rendered into plainer English by saying, that it means to "make bad worse;” and there is a great deal to be understood in this brief, threeworded sentence. A village is a fine field for a man to practise in, who loves to "set people together by the ears;" if he begins at one end, he is as safe to reach the other, as a well-laid train of gunpowder is to explode the whole length of the line, when it is once fired; and abuse is sure to be conveyed safer than praise; for instead of losing, it gathers weight whilst it travels. Let slander, with its peculiar look, but whisper that such a one was seen at the bar, refreshing himself with a glass; and round the next turning it will be rumoured that he is a tippler; by the time that report reaches the middle of the street he will rarely be seen sober; and ere it has travelled the whole length, he is set down as a confirmed drunkard; and he may think himself well off, if only defrauder is thrown into the scale, without picking up some five or six other unenviable epithets, which seem to lie in wait at every corner. Saint Saxby, of Skellingthorpe, was christened Saint, without any other addition to his surname; for his father, although he resolved that he should be called after Saint somebody or another, yet when he came to run his eye over the calendar, the great variety of names he had to pick and choose from, caused him to waver in his decision; so one day, whilst he was out, his wife went to church with the godmother, and they made him Saint Saxby, at a venture, although the worthy woman would fain have added Smith, after a distant relation, had not the parson said that it would sound oddly after Saint. Whether or not his name had anything to do with his prying propensities, we will not undertake to say; we simply record the fact, as it may be of use in some future biography. Saint Saxby had built the house in which he dwelt; it was his own freehold: the spot of ground he selected was at the very entrance of the village, and at the point where three roads met, so that no one could either come or go without passing by his dwelling. Here, when he was not gossiping in the village, he sat watching the passengers; and we will bring him before our readers in the parlour of the Blue Lion, brimful of what he had seen after a long look out. "Fine day, neighbour: saw Mrs. Hawksley pass to-day, with a large bundle-wonder what it was—she seemed to carry it very carefully. Bill Somers was waiting at the corner of the roads for above an hour, to-day; after no good, I dare say. Farmer Fletcher stood chatting to Nicholson's wife for above twelve minutes; it don't look well, you know. What's that down-looking fellow's name, who lives in the back lane there? saw him looking hard at Butcher Cave's sheep; hav n't forgot that he missed two or three last winter-thief! no, but he looks more like a thief than a thrasher-about work, nonsense, what talk to a man's wife about work, not he; would have gone to Nichol son himself, I only name what I see-reports? hate reports. Wonder whose cart it was that went by in the night; good deal like Ashelin's, got up to look, fancied they were either lambs or calves; it seems very strange, and at night, too. Don't wish to alarm anybody, but saw marks on Snell's shutters as I passed; looked as if some housebreaker had been trying to get in-bolt? stuff! done with a lever; heard a noise, no doubt, and got off-mine? often; cased with iron, not a week passes but what they try mine. And who do you think Beckles is, after all? only heard the other day; why, his father was a tinker, and his mother kept a mangle before she was married!-fact? had it from one who knew them both well-independent! hum! ask him how many years it is ago since he was fined for short weights old ones he never used; indeed! had shoved them under the counter amongst the rubbish, to hide them, to be sure often mentions it? I dare say, because he knows it's the truth. Went away in his tailor's debt— overcharge was it?—imposition, eh? all very fine talking— why didn't he? because he didn't like going to law—only five shillings? well! it might have been five pounds !—stuff, about not ordering a velvet collar, no doubt he did!—have me before the magistrate again! what for?--know my authority! trust me for that! dislike to him? not at all, only tell the truth-report! no, very different when they know all about it-meddling! can't a man talk but what it must be called meddling?" Now, our readers may imagine how the Saint's house would be besieged on the following day, by those who came to know if he had said so, and what he meant by it— bringing also with them, as a return, a good share of unmistakable abuse, culled, at random, from substantial, old-fashioned stores, and made so plain, that you could see it. The Saint either laid "perdu," or got out of the way; and Mrs. Saxby, although she admitted all to be true-for long custom had taught her that it was useless to doubt; so, like a wise woman, she blessed their hearts," and consoled them with the assurance that "he had no harm in him-that he talked for talking's sake-had 66 |