circles, pale ale is deemed a beverage not un-your face. However, he would probably say
worthy of goddesses; that it sometimes even somewhat emphatically that it is an abuse of
takes precedence of Champagne and Lafitte language to call prettiness and elegance, grace
up there. Of the devotion of Mr. Peregrine and grandeur. Still you may catch him in a
and his brothers to the creamy amber food, mood to admire Donizetti. Bellini and
are we not certified in the books of the travel- Rossini he will find beauties in of himself; but
lers of Great Britain, whose name is Legion? for the French light opera composers, or for
At the top of the great Pyramid, and at the composers of any class of French music, if you
lowest depth of Schemnitz-in the vineyards praise them to him-gare á vous he cannot
of France, and in the Desert of Sahara at stand it. We are all said to be mad upon one
the sources of the Nile, and at the mouths of point; Mr. Clement Young's mad point is
the Ganges
at the diggings in Australia, and French music-an innocent one enough.
the other diggings at Nineveh at the North Au reste, he speaks the French language
Cape, in the face of the midnight sun, and at (with a Kentish accent); he drinks French
Cape Horn, in the very teeth of the terrible wines, likes French cookery, and is highly
icebergs in London and in Pekin- the amused at French politics. He admires
bold Briton quaffs the benignant Bass. All French women in France, and in fashion-
mankind imitate him, when they can- Turks, able society here; but he could never be per-
Tartars, Afghans, Hindoos, Burmese,_ Chi- suaded to let his only daughter, Rose, have a
nese, Japanese, Esquimaux, Arabs, Egyp- French bonne, or a French governess, or even
tians, Caffres, Moors, Algerines; beyond the go to Paris to complete her education. Her
Atlantic wave, Yankees, Blue Noses, Mexi- mother was an English gentlewoman; and
cans, and the Lost Tribes, Peruvians, Chilians, when she died, in Rose's second year, Clem-
Brazilians, and the dwellers in Patagonia ert Young vowed within himself to train Rose
all declare, by precept and example, that into just such another woman
- the crown
since the cunning infant Bacchus discovered and perfection of the female character. He
the use of the grape, there has been no inven- loved his wife so well that he mourned for
tion so universally delectable as this of the her ever after her death. There was no
Alton brewer. Come, then, and see the second Mrs. Young-the tall, strong, hand-
place whence the immortal Bass procures his some man of three and thirty lived alone with
bitter.
his little girl; taught her, played with her,
For you who are not too fine to enjoy rustici- walked and rode with her, devoted his time
ty not too blaze for simple pleasures-not and his thoughts to her. Between the edu-
too high to be shocked at the sight of low cation of his daughter and the management of
company-not too enervated by the unwhole- his property, Mr. Young led a busy, useful,
some imprisonment of luxurious drawing- and certainly far from an unhappy life.
rooms, to be afraid of spending a day in the He was on very good terms with his neigh-
open air.
come you with me, on a visit to bors; but the two whom he loved the most
my friend, Clement Young, of Ivy Hatch were those who lived nearest to him - the
Manor, near Kent. I will do my best vicar and the organist of the village which
to make the time pass agreeably; the very stood on his estate. The name of this village
cleverest man on earth could do no more. So was Greenwood. Greenwood Church was the
if you are not pleased it is not my fault. In boast of the country for twenty miles round.
the words of an old French writer: "Je It was as handsome a village church as you
n'ay pas entrepris de contenter tout le monde; ever saw; rustic yet noble, with three spa-
mesme Jupiter n'agrée à tous ? "'*
cious aisles and a fine chancel, an east window
that would have been no discredit to a cathe
dral-

Clement Young is a gentleman by birth and education. He lives on a small estate of his own, and farms it himself. In his heart he has a great deal of old English warmth, and in his head a considerable amount of new English light. He does not hate the French, except on his musical side; there, I confess, he will not endure them. He loves and studies music, more Germanico. Bach, Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Weber, and Beethoven are his idols; he can see a great deal of good in Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer, but will not hesitate to tell you that they are very much overrated. Talk to him about the grace and grandeur of Donizetti, and, but that he is a gentleman, he would laugh in

*Bouchet.

Diamodned with panes of quiet device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,

and enriched with a choir organ which has
been highly praised for its tone by a prebend
of York and a Birmingham connoisseur. This
instrument was the gift of Mr. Young; and
it cost him more money than he could well
afford; especially as it entailed upon him
the expense of paying an organist, the parish
being too poor to afford sixty pounds a-year
for the luxury of church music. This luxury
Mr. Young allowed himself and the rest of
the congregation. The country folks walked
five or six miles to hear the service at Green-
wood Church; and the gentry, who had been

entered the grand pew belonging to the manor-house; and though Rose could exchange no affectionate glances with her friend, the sight of Carey's lovely face, full of music and holiness, shed a glow of love and devotion over her heart. Carey, too, loved Rose so well, that old Fritz Steinberg never forgot to bend forward and whisper- "Mees Rose ees now just herein getreten. Upon which Carey Herbert's sightless eyes would turn downwards, and her lips would open with smile.

a

But these remarks are merely introductory. It was not to the dear old church at Greenwood that I wished to conduct you, kind reader, nor to the manor-house itself, though that were worth notice. I don't care how far you have travelled, or how many singular and beautiful habitations you have seen; you never saw one like Ivy Hatch. In the first place, it was, as Miss Herbert (the aunt) declared, "no shape at all." It was built in all the disorders of architecture. One front was long and low, and another was short, with a lofty gable; some windows were large and mullioned, with small diamond panes; some were bay-windows, projecting a great way beyond the walls, and others narrow lattices inserted at the inner side of a wall which was a yard in thickness. There were two wings, totally unlike each other-one was of red brick, and the other of flint-stone; the roof in most parts was lofty, and the innumerable chimneys started up in every part of it without any regard to congruity. Yet was there a harmony and

used to London Sacred-Harmonic, and Phil- her, she would walk to the vicarage pew, and harmonic, and various cathedral perform- he to the vestry. There were others, too, who ances, would drive as far on Sunday to hear loved Carey Herbert, and showed it, even on old Steinberg's voluntaries, and the very entering the church. Mr. Young and Rose creditable singing of his choir boys-mere always looked up to the organ-loft before they peasant children, in whom he had developed a taste for music. The vicar, too, was a great attraction. He read the prayers, and preached so well, that the strangers who heard him said it was a thousand pities he was buried in such an out-of-the-way place. But the vicar thought not so. He felt that he was useful where he was; and he went about his Master's business, perfectly content with his lot. He had no ambition, and was glad that the lines had fallen to him in a pleasant place. He was a widower, like his friend and patron; and, like him, had an only daughter, whom "he loved passing well." The affection between Mr. Herbert and his child, Carey, was more tender, if possible, than that between Mr. Young and Rose, for Carey was blind. Sweet Carey Herbert!-gentlest of mortals! I can see you now, moving along with the cautious, steady, even pace peculiar to the blind, with your tall, graceful figure erect, and your beautiful face turned a little upward, as if sceking the dayspring from on high, your arin within your father's not that you needed his guidance, for you knew well every inch of ground in and about your native place, but because he loved to have you close to him, to feel your hand near his heart. Thus have I seen you walk among loving and respectful groups of poor people, through the village, on a Sunday morning, your sedate maiden aunt keeping pace on the other side; I have noted your father's careful guidance up the churchyard steps, and down those deeper steps into the Gothic porch; I have often watched Aunt Mary take a hasty step picturesque effect about the place. or two in advance, that she might close any pew doors that happened to be open, and night strike against the blind girl in her passage down the aisle. I have also watched old Fritz Steinberg, up in the organ-loft, on the look-out for his favorite pupil. As soon as she entered the church, he would shake the cushion in the arm-chair beside his stool, and place it so as to be most convenient to her; then he would run down the steep flight of stairs to meet her and her father and aunt, and help to conduct her to the seat of honor he had prepared; for Carey Herbert sang with the village children, and her voice in the anthem moved the hearts of There was a short avenue of the finest elms old and young, and sometimes brought tears I ever saw, which led up from the main street to the eyes of old Steinberg, who would mutter of the village to the garden of the manorto himself "Engelschön! Himmelswürdig!" house. This avenue ran along one side of the When he had seen his daughter comfortably churchyard, and the wide-spreading branches seated, Mr. Herbert would descend with his of one line of trees overshadowed the long sister into the aisle, when, after another grass of the graves, on one side, and the glance up to the darling child, as they called smoothly-swept turf of the avenue on the

was the work of dame Nature; she, seeing that Art had turned her back on Ivy Hatch, set herself to work to make architectural ornaments of her own there. And she made a very good job of it, as all persons of enlarged taste declared, when they came to examine it from the west, which was the chief front. This could only be done when you were within the garden-gates, and on the mossy lawn close to the house; for, though it stood on very high ground, it was so thickly surrounded by magnificent trees, that you could only catch sight of an absurd chimney-top here and there from a distance.

14

It is a sunny morning, late in September. The hoppers are all busy at their tasks. Only a corner of the large garden (plantation, you would call it) has been cleared. There lie the bare poles, in bundles, on the ground, ready for another year. That looks, indeed, as if summer were gone, to a Kentish eye. But turn away from that winterly sight, to where Autumn smiles and pours forth her abundance. Look down those long, narrow arcades, formed by the luxuriantly-wreathed poles. See how the graceful bines wave in the air, over your head, as you pass along, breathing forth their salubrious perfume-a perfume that is liked as well as that of violets by those who have been accustomed to it from the cradle, but which you, perhaps, may not find so agreeable.

other, while the other line of trees bordered a |tember and October were the gayest months
portion of a large hop-garden. The garden of the year at Ivy Hatch. Mr. Young con-
of Ivy Hatch was enclosed within a fence, on trived to unite business and pleasure in a
the inner side of which tall trees and bushy wonderful way. Besides the hopping to su-
shrubs sprang up as thick as they could grow. perintend, there was the game to be shot.
It was of no use trying to look over the fence There were generally several visitors staying at
and get a peep at the house. It could not be the house, and the village population was doub-
seen in that manner; the thicket was as im- led and trebled by the strangers who flocked
pervious to the human eye as that which sur- thither to be engaged as pickers. To the
rounded the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. Kentish folks the hopping season is what the
It was only when you were in the garden, and vintage is to the dwellers on the Rhine.
standing on the lawn in front, that you could Have you ever seen a hop-garden? _Have
see what sort of a place it really was. As to you ever been a hop-picker? No? Follow
the house itself, the walls of it I mean, there me, then, into what was called the Manor-
was very little of that to be seen. It seemed to garden at Greenwood. It is the one before-
be a mere screen over which Nature delighted mentioned, adjoining the avenue.
to train her favorite climbing-plants. In
fact, you could see nothing of the house in
summer-time, but portions of the windows
and the tallest chimneys-all the rest was
completely enveloped in clasping greenery, of
various kinds. It looked as if some topiarist,
of extensive genius, had cut a huge thicket
of tall shrubs into the form of a house, of
every variety of architecture, and that after
his death his heirs had allowed the thing to
begin to return to its natural state. In Ivy
Hatch you detect the vague outline of a house,
but which is wall and which is vegetable, it
is not easy to tell. Ivy, of the finest kind,
predominates; it runs over the walls, and
along the roof, and envelops the chimneys.
About the great porch, over it, and on each
side, and even inside, grow clematis and jessa-
mine, roses, sweet peas, and convolvulus. A
huge vine is trained over one part, a magno-
lia over another, a pear-tree and a Jamaica
creeper completely cover the end of one wing,
a sumach and a gigantic honey-suckle contend
with the aboriginal ivy for possession of the
end of the other. In short, the place looks
unlike anything to be seen elsewhere. Rose,
knowing that the covering of the house was
its only beauty, never allowed a twig to be
cut, except when the windows became ob-
scured. Mr. Young was sometimes afraid
that these parasites would pull the house
down about their ears; but he could not be
unreasonable enough to tear away the things
that his wife had planted, and that his daugh-
ter loved and admired.

"It is like a mixture of apples and onions, and tobacco," you say. Well, keep that notion to yourself; it would sound like a disparagement of the thing he loves, to a native of the county.

Step along, among the upright poles - you can do so easily enough, though the ground is rough. See how beautiful they look in the sunlight! Not one atom of the old, ugly pole can you see; it is entirely covered from top to bottom with the most beautiful of all climbing plants. How strong, how graceful it is! Look at the dark green, vine-like leaves - how it contrasts with the soft, delicate, gold-green of the hop itself! How the bines twine and intertwine, and send out fantastic wreathes as they ascend; and then, when they have clambered to the top of the rough old pole, how triumphantly they wave downwards all round it! Whichever way you look are apparently interminable green, GothicMr. Young had a good deal of British en- arched alleys, like the one in which we stand; terprise about him. Indeed, he was decidedly and all among them are the busy groups, of a speculative turn-in business. Now, the hard at work, stripping the hops from the most hazardous department of agriculture in bine. How they laugh and talk! See the this country is hop-growing; therefore Mr. babies asleep in baskets or on old coats. See Young was an extensive hop-grower. In the bigger babies that can run alone, but who some years he made many thousands by his cannot work-see how they play-crowning hops; in other years he lost as many; but, each other, girdling each other, tying each upon the whole, he had been lucky. Sep-other together with wreaths of hops! In CCCCLXXXVI. LIVING AGE. VOL. II. 44

"The old place shall take its chance," he said to himself; Rose likes it as it is; and I dure say it will last her time, and there's no fear that it will come down in mine."

all the year round at Greenwood, but during the hopping-season they had a great deal in common.

the hop-gardens, small, pale children from when they have really worked hard. They London from the purlieus of St. Giles' and are, of course, paid for their work at the Shoreditch-grow fat and rosy in the pure same rate as the other pickers. Now, this air which they breathe, perhaps for the first home-bin must of necessity be in the hop-garand last time. How they enjoy their annual den; and Mr. Young determined to keep out treat in the hop-gardens! It is a thing they of the sight and hearing of his daughter and never forget; and their mothers and fathers her companions- not poverty and distressdo not forget it either. Here, in the country, but vice and obscene language, to which they they lay aside for a time the grovelling cares would have been exposed had he allowed and unnatural excitements of their town strangers to work in the same plantation. homes. Whole families of the lowest class For their sake, and for the sake of the Greenof English and Irish turn out from the towns wood people generally, the manor hop-garden at this season to seek employment in the hop- was always picked by the villagers and their gardens. Young children, and old men and home party. The villagers were all delighted women, are of use here; any one with active to have the young ladies and their friends hands can pick hops. Each party has a bin among them, and the young ladies liked to to itself, and works together, as it never join in the same work as their humbler neighcould work in a close little room. The fresh bors. The high and the low were good friends air raises the spirits, and smoothes the temper. You see how the bins are made. A hop-sack (pocket, is the technical term) is opened at the side, and fastened over a rough Look at the home party now. That is it frame-work of broken poles, so as to form an established under the shadow of one of the oblong bin of about two feet and a half or enormous elms that stretch over from the avethree feet in height, as many in breadth, and nue. You see it looks somewhat different of about double the length. Round these from any other party in the garden. It is a bins the men, women, and children establish graceful group-picturesque and striking themselves; the men generally standing, the enough with its bright-colored shawls women sitting, and the children changing thrown here and there, and the unconventheir posture every two minutes. Women tional costume of both ladies and gentlemen. are generally the best hop-pickers; their hands Let us go a little nearer and examine the are better adapted to this light work than party. those of the men. Persons employed for that purpose by the owner of the garden, cut the bines carefully a little above the root, draw the poles up out of the earth, and lay them down ready for the pickers to strip. These men are called the pole-pullers. It would not do to trust every one to pull the poles, or the precious roots of the plant would be sadly injured. In this Manor-garden Mr. Young pulling for the party. He is always pole-pulemploys Greenwood people only; in his other ler to the home bin. See him lay them across hop-gardens strangers are employed. Many the bin. Now he stands upright, and gives a of these poor strangers have the worst morals glance across the garden. He is fifty years of and manners, and he is anxious that the age; full of life and energy, strong and active. Greenwood children should not hold much He is as handsome a man as any gentleman intercourse with them. Their parents are in the county. Rose looks up at him now; I grateful for this kind thought. There is also dare say she is thinking so. Her father, another reason why Mr. Young does not like strange to say, fair damsels, is very nearly to admit the corrupted poor of London (whom her beau ideal. She does not admire young he, nevertheless, treats kindly, and pities men- that is, men under thirty. She calls heartily) into this peculiar garden. His daugh- them all boys, just as if she were an old woman, ter and her friend Carey Herbert love the instead of a girl of twenty; and treats them smell of the hops, and ever since they could as if they were not much worth her attention. stand have gone annually into the hop-gardens Look at George Sterling, for instance and amused themselves with picking. For the is he drawing one of the poles towards her. last three years they have had a bin of their He is a handsome, clever fellow, and has just own, into which they have picked, assiduous- taken high honors at Cambridge; but Rose ly, for the benefit of an old, bed-ridden wo- thinks nothing of him. He is only four-andman, who has no one to work for her. The twenty. He is a good youth enough, thinks young ladies enlist in their service, as pickers, any visitors who may be staying in their respective homes, so that they have, in some seasons, averaged thirty bushels a-day-i. e.,

That girl with the broad-brimmed straw hat and blue ribbons, and the red-brown woollen polka jacket -a costume at once warm and convenient-is Rose Young. She is very pretty, very plump, and very merry, as you may see in a few minutes. That is her father, now half-buried beneath a burden of richlywreathed hop-poles, which he has just been

Rose; but who can talk to him when his uncle, Mr. Sterling, is near? Mr. Sterling is that gentleman, with stooping shoulders and grizzled hair, who is standing near the bin,

looking on, but doing nothing. He is an old settle steadily anywhere? That little girl, friend of Mr. Young, and a man of note among loveliest of her name, beating Petrarch's by the thinkers of the day. He is only five-and- many a beauty, is Laura- Laura Darlington, forty, but he looks ten years older. Can you the vicar's niece, Miss Herbert's niece, Carey's see his face? What mingled sadness and cousin, Herr Steinberg's new pupil, about humor in that mouth!—and in the eyes whose talent he raves in private, and whose what a penetrating, intelligent light, with an giddiness he deplores in public. That is occasional flash from their inmost depths, as little Laura-Rose's pet, and Mr. Young's of divine fire! Mr. Sterling is a man of plaything. As to the two men, one is the mark and livelihood, and Rose prefers his talk vicar, as you may easily divine from his mild, to that of all the "clever, crude youngsters,' ," clerical aspect, and his likeness to Carey; as she calls men of George's age, and older. the other is Mr. Wentworth. I see you can't It is scarcely becoming in Miss Rose to speak take your eyes off him. so contemptuously of youth. It is a quality which her own round face is likely to retain very long, in spite of all her efforts to give it amature and thoughtful look. Rose has a passion for old things; this is a subject of jest among those privileged to jest with her. An exception to her love for old people in preference to young ones, is her friendship for Carey Herbert. That very beautiful girl, with the scarlet scarf tied carelessly over her head, is the vicar's daughter. The sightless eyes are no disfigurement to the exquisitely-formed and delicately-colored face. Carey is the standard of female beauty in these parts. She sits on Rose's right hand, and feels her way among the bines, and picks as fast as if she could see them. On Carey's other side is a queer figure; a little man with blue eyes, and gray hair, and a long brown coat, the sleeves of which are carefully turned back, as well as the wristbands of the shirt; for the hops stain terribly. This little man spreads out his limbs, and uses more gesticulation than an Englishman; he laughs more frequently, too, than an Englishman of his years and sober general appearance would be apt to do. That is Fritz Steinberg, the musician. Behind him, on the bank, among the shawls, I can see a roll of music and his violin-case. He will

give himself and the company a treat by-andby. He is speaking in a strange jargon to Miss Herbert. Like Cerberus, he "tulks a leash of languages at once." English, German, and French, are pretty equally used in the composition of his sentences. Miss Her bert sits properly equipped in bonnet and cloak, dreading rheumatism, and being thought out of the way in her appearance. She likes Herr Steinberg, and tries to understand what he says; but she thinks it a pity that he has not the advantage of being an Englishman. She is occasionally scandalized by his foreign ways, and violent language, and indecorous mirth. She is in the best possible humor with him now, and they are stripping the same bine, in close conversation.

Who are those two men at the other end of the bin? you ask; and who is that little girl that flits about like a pretty painted butterfly, from one to another too happy, too gay, to

"You can't

"A strange-looking fellow!" you say. Well! poets are generally accounted strange fellows, and Mr. Wentworth is a poet; but not one whom the world delights to honor just yet. The world will take its time about that, and he is in no hurry, being much too indifferent about what is called the Public by professors of politeness; but which he, professing nothing of the kind, calls the Blatant Beast, and despises with undue contempt, though with no personal despite; because he had no thought of pleasing the public when he wrote poetry; and when he published it, it was for the "fit audience." make out his face!" you say. It looks heavy, and yet intellectual-stern, yet gentle scornful, yet full of sorrow, and a capacity for loving. He looks both young and old; both indolent and energetic. He and the vicar are deep in talk, you see. The bines hang in their hands, laden with clusters of hops, and they merely hold them. Mr. Wentworth, indeed, has now thrown aside even an appearance of work, and, folding his arms on the edge of the bin, leans his chin on his two hands, in the awkwardest attitude imaginable, and looks down into it, while he goes on talking, in a low voice, to his old tutor.

"What you say is true enough; but how can I set about amusing myself?

Ich bin zu alt um nur zu spiolen Zu jung um ohne Wunsch zu seyn." "It is a pity you were born to inherit a competence, Frederick," said the vicar.

Mr. Herbert is the only person now living who calls Wentworth by his Christian name. Can you tell how much that familiarity endears him to the world-worn man of thirtyfive?

"If you had been obliged to work for your living, your life would not be thus valueless. But, nonsense, man, it is puerile and idiotic to talk of life any life, especially such a life as yours, being valueless. It is the gift of gifts, the blessing of blessings. I wished you to come here that you might see how we folks, who are not geniuses, enjoy our lives.'

"Thank you, I appreciate your kindness it is a pleasant thing to see so many good people, so much beauty and joyous existence.