518 
the people consequently bappy. In 
the midst of my delight, and with a sort 
of envy at the supposed happiness of 
the country-folks, lL was beginning a 
fine ejaculatory soliloquy, when I was 
suddenly interrupted from a hedge 
behind me by a squeaking voice, which 
begged of me, in words which I do not 
exactly remember, to pause before I 
decided. “And who the devil are 
you?” I pettishly cried: “The devil 
upon two sticks,” answered the voice; 
and the same little limping gentleman, 
that is so well known to every body 
as not to need description here, in- 
stantly stood before me. ‘* Young 
man,” said he, ‘‘ you are come here 
to look for happiness in the country, 
but you will find it not; come with me. 
and I will convince you.” LBelore I 
could have said Jack Robinson, if I 
had been inclined so to say, 1 was 
whisked along with inconceivable ra- 
pidity by my devilish companion. We 
presently alighted in the garden of a 
small mud-built cottage, the fence of 
which was greatly broken, and which 
was also in a wretched state of cultiva- 
tion, potatoes being the only vegetable 
production there, except nettles and 
thistles: the cottage itself was so much 
out of the perpendicular, that it ap- 
peared to be falling, and the numerous 
and wide chasms in its craggy walls 
left but little necessity for my guide’s 
supernatural powers to show what was 
going forward within. ‘Here,’ said 
he, “‘is the first sample I will shew 
you of rustic felicity. Here live a man, 
his wife, and seven children; he has 
had a little harvest-work, and his wife 
and children have gleaned a little corn, 
and they are now in the most pros- 
pcerous situation they can possibly ex- 
pect in the whole year. See, they are 
at breakfast, and have only coarse 
brown bread to eat, cut thickly, and 
spread over with a very thin coat of 
sorry dripping, worse than is sold by 
many a pampered menial to the tallow- 
chandler. The poor fellow looks hag- 
gard and dejected, and well he may; 
for a long autumn, and winter, stare 
him in the face, with scarcely the pros- 
pect of any work to do. The family’s 
dinner will be potatoes from this gar- 
den, mashed with water, and a few 
grains of salt. ‘lea is altogether too 
great a luxury for them to obtain, and 
they silently go without it. The whole 
family are in rags, yet they do not 
seem {o murmur; and, though this is 
ihe picture of only one family, it fairly 
Asmodeus in the Country. 
[Jan. }, 
represents the state of thousands. The 
parish, you will say, must relieve them; 
and so it does, as well as it can; but, 
where all are poor nearly, scanty must 
be the relief. In the depth of winter, 
when snows descend, and rains beat, 
and winds howl; and when you are 
snugly seated by your parlour fire of 
blazing sea-coal, think of this poor 
family, and wonder not if they should 
be driven to break a commandment, 
and steal from the trees and hedges a 
few sticks to warm their frozen limbs. 
Such theft is wrong; it is punishable, 
and often severely punished, by the 
laws; but, when it is done from the 
pressure of want like this, shall not the 
eye of pity look down upon them with 
compassion ?”” 
“Hold, hold,” I cried, “this is too 
much: 1 did not expect this ; come, Ict 
us go to that neat white house on the 
hill; there, at least, we shall find com- 
fort and happiness; it looks like a 
substantial farmer’s residence ; come, 
let us havea peep there.” ‘‘ With all 
my heart,” was the reply, and it was 
scarccly uttered before we were there. 
The house, I found, had looked better 
at a distance, than it did when close to 
it; for here again neglect was to be 
traced ; the windows were dirty, and 
the house wanied painting; the fences 
of the garden and farm-yard were out 
of repair, the garden itself was in a 
wild and weedy state, and I did not see 
one labourer about the premises. My 
companion now called my attention to 
the interior of the house: “See,” said 
he, ‘‘in that room the family are col- 
lected together; it is (or rather was) 
the drawing-room ; many a gay party 
has been assembled there, m what were 
called the farmer’s good times ; when 
com was dear, thrice as dear as it is 
now: those times have been the farm- 
er’s ruin, This very man, who now 
sets brooding and biting his nails in 
that corner, might have saved a large 
fortune in those good times; but he 
made his daughters fine ladies, and his 
sons fine gentlemen, and his house a 
fine house, and his gardens and plea- 
sure-grounds fine; and then he had 
fine horses and fine carriages, and fine 
dinners, and fine wines, and ever 
thing fine: indeed, all too fine to ad 
Pity it is, that men will not be content 
with being truly respectable, but they 
must ignorantly ape and imitate the 
finery they see around them, till, as in 
the present case, its too-frequent atten- 
dant, misery, comes afier it. This man, 
as 
