himself and family on this wretched stipend. Of course the rector cannot help it, if the poor curate is half-starved in his efforts to keep up the appearance of a gentleman on the income of an upper servant. The rector only follows the ordinary custom, which he, surely, is not called upon to interfere with; moreover, does he not come down to Atherby in the autumn, when the London season is over, and assist in the work of the parish by preaching every second Sunday? Does he not distribute soup twice a week during the winter season? and how can he help it, if the people are so ungrateful as to stigmatize his charity as "dirty slop," and declare that it is made. out of a sheep's head boiled in an unlimited quantity of water? The common people have always been proverbially ungrateful, at least so says the rector and his wife, and they ought to know something about the matter. I am afraid that the gossips of Atherby are more than usually free with their tongues, as there is not one of them who is not ready to swear that the rector's wife is a "Tartar," whatever that may mean, and that she leads the rector a weary life of it. At all events, she contrives during the three or four months of their annual visit to Atherby to stir up against herself an amount of spite and ill-will which last the whole year through, and which find expression in a thousand acts of rancour and mischief. And yet, poor lady, perhaps she is scarcely to blame.

It is not in the nature of things that she should understand the habits or the feelings of the humble folk who form her husband's flock; and hence, when she carries her aristocratic airs into their lowly cottages, and speaks to them with an hauteur which they bitterly resent, and with a shrinking and repugnance, not to say

a

disgust, which she scarcely takes the trouble to conceal, she is, perchance, more to be pitied than to be. blamed. It has never entered into her mind to conceive that the poor man is as proud and as independent in his own way as the king upon his throne; and, hence, if she grates against these feelings of the cottagers of Atherby till they scowl upon her with fierce and angry looks as she passes along the village street, and fasten the doors of their houses as they see her approach, she is certainly to be pitied almost as much as she is to be blamed. I dare say when she is whirling about in her well-appointed carriage through the streets of London she is quite at home; but when she comes down to Atherby, and tries to play the country rector's wife, she is sadly out of place. It is one of the great mistakes of her life, mistake all the more grievous because she does not perceive it. As I am introducing you, gentle reader, to Atherby for the first time, I am quite glad, for the credit of the village, that all the people are out in the fields as the rector and his lady drive through the one straggling street, because you are thus spared the scowling looks and the angry expressions which I am afraid always greet their appearance. A moment more and they are out of sight, and the same drowsy stillness, which was broken for a few minutes by their appearance, has again settled upon the scene, but it is only for a second or two. Opposite the old village church stands a pile of ivycovered buildings, which at once attracts the eye of the visitor by its quaint yet comfortable look. This is the famous Atherby school, and, as the church clock strikes the hour of five, the door of the schoolroom is thrown open, and the scholars come trooping out with a shout which rings through the quiet

evening sky, and has such an effect on the cows in the stream below, that, with tails erect, they scamper off in all directions as fast as ever they can trot; so fast, indeed, that old Gaffer Oates who is hobbling by on two sticks opines that they'll do themselves a mischief, that they will; and causes the same old Gaffer, as he watches with evident anxiety and perturbation of mind, the antics and gyrations of his own particular beast, to exclaim more than once, "Drat them there boys, they're allas a-doing some mischief or other. If I'd my way, I'd mak'em shout to another tune, that I wad;" and as, at this juncture, Gaffer Oates' cow, in the excitement of the moment, proceeds to make a furious and unprovoked assault upon an unoffending beast which is grazing peacefully on the river's brink, I am afraid the old gentleman's language becomes far too emphatic to bear repeating in the pages of a book like this.

But while Gaffer Oates is shaking his stick in impotent rage, now in the direction of his own lightminded and ill-conducted cow, and now in the direction whence the joyous shouts which have produced such an unexpected effect are borne on the still summer air; ignorant and heedless of the old man's anger, the scholars of Atherby school are pressing in all the buoyancy of early youth through the old Norman arched doorway of the school room, and spreading themselves in groups, according to their different tastes, through the large and level playground, which runs down from the school-buildings to the public road, from which, however, it is cut off by a high wall and a couple of handsome iron gates. Just inside these gates there is a small lodge in which the porter resides. At the period of which I write, this office was held by a very cross-grained

old fellow who had fought at Waterloo, and who, having left one of his legs on the field of battle, had been obliged to avail himself of the resources of science, which had supplied him with a limb of wood in place of that which he had sacrificed for the good of his country. I am afraid that we boys were far from appreciating as we ought old Peter's heroic efforts to keep us out of the clutches of the French; for, instead of looking upon his wooden leg with an eye of veneration, we were constantly casting it in his teeth, metaphorically, of course, in the shape of an opprobrious nickname, "Old Timber Toes," which was sometimes shouted through the playground till Peter was driven to the very verge of desperation Between Peter and the schoolboys, therefore, the common state of affairs was one of war, subject, however, to truces of longer or shorter duration, as when Peter, being in more than ordinary good humour, would bring out a chair to the door of his lodge and tell us wonderful stories of the Peninsular war and the great battle of Waterloo. At these times Peter was in high favour, and as he never told a story without introducing Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington, and what the Duke said to him, Peter, on a certain memorable occasion, for the moment we looked upon Peter as a very great man indeed, and one who had been in intimate relations with the hero of the age. On this particular afternoon Peter seems to be in one of his worst humours, as he stands just inside his door, aud watches the Atherby scholars forming into parties, according to the game in which they intend to take part. However, it is neither to Peter in his bad humour, nor to the seventy or eighty boys of all ages and sizes, who are dispersed through the play

ground, that I wish to direct your attention, but to the three youths who have just issued from the school-room, and who are advancing, arm in arm, towards the iron gates. Both from their size and the respect with which the smaller boys make way for them to pass, you see at a glance that they are the seniors of the school. The one in the middle will, probably, arrest your gaze in the first place. The large, dark eyes, the magnificent black, curling hair, the beautiful proportions of the neck, which is shown to advantage by the turn-down collar and the loose blue tie, the aristocratic pose of the head, and the gracefulness and ease of every motion of his well-knit and handsome figure, combine to produce a form on which you will certainly look for a second time. His complexion is of a rich, deep brown, telling at once of robust health, and of constant participation in cricket, bathing, and all manly sports. As they advance towards the gates, at some remark made by one or other of his companions, he breaks out into a loud, hearty laugh, and as you look upon him, his face all mantling with pleasant smiles, and his teeth shining like two rows of pearls, I think you would have to travel many a mile ere you met a handsomer or more gallant-looking fellow than Tom Bowman. He is about eighteen, and has been at Atherby school for the last four years. He is the eldest son of a gentleman of good birth, who holds some high position or other in India, and it is said that Tom will be immensely rich. At present he has ten times as much pocket-money as any other boy in the school, and he spends it with all the liberality of a prince.

Whilst a more honourable and gentlemanly fellow than Tom was never born, you will, perhaps,