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A strange contrast formed the old farmer, so gruff and bluff-looking–with his stout square figure, his weather-beaten face, short grey hair, and dark bushy eyebrows–to the slight and graceful child, her aristocratic beauty set off by exactly the same style of paraphernalia that had adorned the young Lady Janes and Lady Marys, Mrs. Dorothy’s former charge, and her habitual grace of demeanour adding fresh elegance to the most studied elegancies of the toilet! A strange contrast!–but one which seemed as nothing compared with that which was soon to follow: for Phoebe, happening to be with her grandfather and her great friend and playmate Venus, a jet-black greyhound of the very highest breed, whose fine limbed and shining beauty was almost as elegant and aristocratic as that of Phoebe herself;–the little damsel, happening to be with her grandfather when, instigated by Daniel Thorpe’s grumbling accusation of broken fences and I know not what, he was a second time upon the point of warning poor Jesse off the ground–was so moved by the culprit’s tattered attire and helpless condition, as he stood twirling, between his long lean fingers, the remains of what had once been a hat, that she interceded most warmly in his behalf.

“Don’t turn him off the Moors, grandpapa,” said Phoebe, “pray don’t! Never mind old Daniel! I’m sure he’ll do no harm;–will you, Jesse? Venus likes him, grandpapa; see how she puts her pretty nose into his hand; and Venus never likes bad people. How often I have heard you say that. And I like him, poor fellow! He looks so thin and so pitiful. Do let him stay, dear grandpapa!”

And John Cobham sat down on the bank, and took the pitying child in his arms, and kissed and blessed her, and said, that, since she wished it, Jesse should stay; adding, in a sort of soliloquy, that he hoped she never would ask him to do what was wrong, for he could refuse her nothing.

And Jesse–what did he say to these, the first words of kindness that he had ever heard from human lips? or rather, what did he feel? for beyond a muttered “Thankye,” speak he could not, But gratitude worked strongly in the poor boy’s heart: gratitude!–so new, so overpowering, and inspired by one so sweet, so lovely, so gentle as his protectress, as far as he was concerned, all-powerful; and yet a mere infant whom he might protect as well as serve! It was a strange mixture of feelings, all good, and all delightful; a stirring of impulses, a quickening of affections, a striking of chords never touched before. Substitute the sacred innocence of childhood for the equally sacred power of virgin purity, and his feelings of affectionate reverence, of devoted service and submission, much resembled those entertained by the Satyr towards “the holy shepherdess,” in Fletcher’s exquisite drama.*

Our

“Rough thing, who never knew
Manners nor smooth humanity,”

could not have spoken nor have thought such words as those of the satyr; but so far as our English climate and his unfruitful territory might permit, he put much of the poetry into action. Sluggish of intellect, and uncouth of demeanour, as the poor lad seemed, it was quite wonderful how quickly he discovered the several ways in which he might best please and gratify his youthful benefactress.

* That matchless Pastoral, “The Faithful Shepherdess,” is so much less known than talked of, that subjoin the passage in question. One more beauti can hardly be found in the wide range of English poetry.

Satyr. Through yon same bending plain That flings his arms down to the main; And through these thick woods, have I run, Whose depths have never kiss’d the sun; Since the lusty Spring began, All to please my master, Pan, Have I trotted without rest To get him fruit; for at a feast He entertains, this coming night, His paramour, the Syrinx bright.