man-neglected fact, that in any state of society
in which such things can be, there must be
something essentially bad, and rotten.

MY COUNTRY TOWN.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS,-—CHAPTER THE FIRST.

I LEFT Winborough when I was twelve
years old; and, before I saw it again, was
a matron of thirty; but in the interval, my
mind's picture of the old English town
was as vivid as ever. I could see the wide
square market-place, with what was called
its cross in the centre, where the market-
women drew snowy napkins from the
primrose-tinted butter; where the whitest of
cream cheese lay cradled in the greenest of
cabbage-leaves; where stalls, like altars to
Good Cheer, bore round hampers of ribstone
pippins, and baking-pears, with pyramids of
plums; while, at the base of the shrine,
poultry cackled or crowed their unanimous
objection to be selected for its victims. I
could see the solid rolls of woollen ranged on
the steps of Jubb, the tailor, and, floating
above them, bright stuffs, prints, and ribbons,
all labelled at the most astonishing prices. I
used to think that the kerseys and the
ribbons (so opposite in themselves) symbolised
Jubb's liberal range of mind. They showed
how he could blend the useful with the
ornamental, and proved that while he challenged
our respect in his sterner character as tailor,
he could relax into the amenities of life in
his blander vocation of haberdasher. Nearly
opposite Jubb's was the shop of Sparkes,
bookseller and printer. It was in his window
that you beheld that engraving of the
massive square-towered church, which was
executed  after the chancel and the southern porch
had been partially rebuilt. The commission
for an original drawing of the church had, in
the first instance, been offered to Roxby;
but, although he wanted money, the poor
fellow was just then in such request at
Olympus, that our townsfolk selected an
artist from a more adjacent though less
classic locality. The engraving was patronised
by, and dedicated to, Lady Naseby of
Naseby Hall, a countess in her own right,
who, from her proximity to Winborough,
made it positively redolent of her influence.
Sparkes had himself dedicated to her his
Archaeological Survey of Winborough, from
the period of the Romans to the (then)
present time. The poem entitled Naseby Hall,
was generally attributed to his pen; and
although not directly proved, the rumour
gained countenance from a sudden lowness of
voice and a premature assumption of
spectacles, by which Sparkes was supposed to
imitate the studious and abstract bias of the
poetic temperament. He conformed,
neveretheless, to the innocent gaieties of life. The
respective programmes of the annual
regatta, the theatre, and the ball at the
Assembly Rooms—all under the patronage
of Lady Naseby—issued from the same
press that gave the Archaeological Survey
and accompanying poem to an admiring
public. A little further to the left was the
saloon of Perkins, the hairdresser, who had
occasionally been summoned to the hall, and
whose demeanour was, in consequence, as
mysterious as that of Sparkes, and
incomparably more haughty. Whatever qualities
Perkins had derived from intercourse with
the great, affability was certainly not amongst
them. He would bring the tips of his fingers
in contact with plebeian locks with a
reluctance that painfully suggested the difference
between them and those aristocratic curls
with which he was sometimes occupied. He
would stand at his door on market-days,
frowning on the London coach as it wedged
through the crowd, evidently indignant that
democratic passengers could enter a town so
near to Naseby Hall, on the simple condition
of paying their fares.

I am talking of nearly twenty years ago;
but let me speak of the time for awhile as if
present. That stout, round-faced, spencered
little man, for whom every one makes way,
is Mr. Latham, our banker, the great man of
Winborough. He is awful, not solely on
account of his wealth, but because his only
child, Miss Amelia, is Lady Naseby's god-
daughter. His manner is somewhat off-hand,
but he has a kind heart, gives himself no airs;
and being a person of real importance, is
indifferent about showing it. He dives from
the market-place into a little flagged court.
He enters the shop of Mrs Lamb the pastry-
cook; where I buy the maccaroons for Cyril
and where my feelings are often severely
tried by ravishing odours of pâtés and soups.
The banker is probably going to give a dinner
party. A tall gentleman of melancholy
visage has seen him enter, and reconnoitres
him through the window with vivid interest.
At some movement of Mr Latham—who is
perhaps pantomimically declining goose pie—
Mr Myers shakes his head with pensive
deprecation. He doubtless expects to be
invited. Such an attention would be only
humane to a man of his keen sensibilities.
He is the editor of the Winborough Guardian.
He lets you understand that he might
aspire to far higher distinctions in the
metropolis—but there is a spell upon him. He
is the victim of a hidden—but I must not
tell. Enough, that if London have wealth
and honours, there is no Naseby there. For
the rest, he is a barrister, sometimes holds
an assize brief, and has been known to
puzzle juries by a bird-like trill in his voice,
which he has copied from the countess.

The flagged court conducts you to the winding
and bustling High Street. There, with its
vaulted roof and massive window stands the
Old Hall, our Exeter Hall, our exhibition
room, our exchange, our theatre. Mr. Alfred
St. Leon de I'Orme—the respected manager of
our circuit—will perform there to-night, and
do honour to his illustrious name by his