for. How well do I remember that song of
Dibdin—

  "I left my poor plough to go ploughing the deep."

That song told of a war-time, and of naval
dangers and glories; and the chorus was
roared out as if "the inconstant wind"
was a very jolly thing, and "the
carpenter," who tempted the ploughman "for
to go and leave his love behind," not at all a
bad fellow.

I read "The Farmer's Boy" after I was
familiar with the farmer's kitchen. It is
worth reading now, if it were only for its
pictures of a past age. Even at that time the
Harvest Home was becoming ungenteel:—

  "Here once a year Distinction lowers its crest,
  The master, servant, and the merry guest,
  Are equal all; and round the happy ring
  The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling,
  And, warm'd with gratitude, he quits his place,
  With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven'd face,
  Refills the jug his honour'd host to tend,
  To serve at once the master and the friend;
  Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale,
  His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.
  Such were the days—of days long past I sing,
  When Pride gave place to mirth without a sting;
  Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient bore
  To violate the feelings of the poor;
  To leave them distanc'd in the madd'ning race,
  Where'er Refinement shows its hated face:
  Nor causeless hated;—'tis the peasant's curse,
  That hourly makes his wretched station worse;
  Destroys life's intercourse; the social plan
  That rank to rank cements, as man to man:
  Wealth flows around him, Fashion lordly reigns;
  Yet poverty is his, and mental pains.

            *           *           *           *           *

  Our annual feast, when Earth her plenty yields,
  When crown'd with boughs the last load quits the
   fields,
  The aspect still of ancient joys puts on;
  The aspect only, with the substance gone:
  The self-same Horn is still at our command,
  But serves none now but the plebeian hand;
  For home-brew'd Ale, neglected and debased,
  Is quite discarded from the realms of taste.
  Where unaffected Freedom charm'd the soul,
  The separate table and the costly bowl,
  Cool as the blast that checks the budding Spring,
  A mockery of gladness round them fling."

Were I to see that homestead once more, I
have no doubt I should find, like the
grandsire of Crabbe's poem, that "all is changed."
The scenes which live in my recollection can
never come back; nor is it fitting that they
should. With the primitive simplicity there
was also a good deal of primitive waste and
carelessness. Except in the dairy, dirt and
litter were the accompaniments of the rude
housekeeping. The fields were imperfectly
cultivated; the headlands were full of weeds;
there was one meadow close to the house,
called the Pitle (still a Norfolk word), in
which I assiduously, but vainly, worked with
a little hoe at defying thistles. I have no
doubt that "all is changed," or the farm
would be no longer a farm. The neglect
belonged to the times of the dear loaf. The
"refinement" of Bloomfield really means the
progress of improvement.

THE THREE SISTERS.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER  I.

"GABRIELLE, you should not stay out so
late alone."

"It isn't late, sister dear, for a summer's
evening. The church clock struck eight just
as I turned into the little path across the
field."

The first speaker, who was the eldest, raised
her head from her work, and, looking at
Gabrielle, said:

"For you it is too late. You are not well,
Gabrielle. You are quite flushed and tired.
Where have you been?"

"Nowhere but in the village," Gabrielle
said.

She paused a moment, then added rather
hurriedly:

"I was detained by a poor sick woman I
went to see. You don't know her, Joanna,
she has just come here."

"And who is she?" Joanna asked.

"She is a widow woman, not young, and
very poor. She spoke to me in the road the
other day, and I have seen her once or twice
since. She had heard our name in the village,
and to-night I promised her that you or
Bertha would go and call on her. She has
been very unhappy, poor thing. You will go,
sister?"

"Certainly. You should have told me
before. Go, now, and take off your bonnet.
You have walked too quickly home on this
hot night."

Another lady entered the room just as
Gabrielle was leaving it, and addressed her
almost as the first had done:

"You are late, Gabrielle. What has kept
you out so long?"

"Joanna will tell you," Gabrielle answered.
"I have only been finding some work for
you, sister," and with a smile she went away.

They were two stern, cold women—Joanna
and Bertha Vaux. They lived together—
they two and Gabrielle—in a dark
oldfashioned house, close to a little village, in
one of the southern counties of England.
It was a pretty picturesque village, as most
English villages are, with little clusters of
white-washed, rose-twined cottages sprinkled
through it, and a little rough stone country
church, covered to the very top of the spire
so thickly with ivy that it looked like a green
bower. Here and there were scattered a
few pleasant houses of the better sort, standing
apart in sunny gardens, and scenting the
air around with the smell of their sweet
flowers.

But the house in which Joanna and Bertha
and Gabrielle lived was always gloomy and
dark and cold It was a square brick