Here the resemblance ceases. Mrs. Adams is a perfectly honest,
industrious, painstaking person, who earns a good deal of money by
washing and charing, and spends it in other luxuries than tidiness,-
-in green tea, and gin, and snuff. Her husband lives in a great
family, ten miles off. He is a capital gardener--or rather he would
be so, if he were not too ambitious. He undertakes all things, and
finishes none. But a smooth tongue, a knowing look, and a great
capacity of labour, carry him through. Let him but like his ale and
his master and he will do work enough for four. Give him his own
way, and his full quantum, and nothing comes amiss to him.

Ah, May is bounding forward! Her silly heart leaps at the sight of
the old place--and so in good truth does mine. What a pretty place
it was--or rather, how pretty I thought it! I suppose I should have
thought any place so where I had spent eighteen happy years. But it
was really pretty. A large, heavy, white house, in the simplest
style, surrounded by fine oaks and elms, and tall massy plantations
shaded down into a beautiful lawn by wild overgrown shrubs, bowery
acacias, ragged sweet-briers, promontories of dogwood, and Portugal
laurel, and bays, over-hung by laburnum and bird-cherry; a long
piece of water letting light into the picture, and looking just like
a natural stream, the banks as rude and wild as the shrubbery,
interspersed with broom, and furze, and bramble, and pollard oaks
covered with ivy and honeysuckle; the whole enclosed by an old mossy
park paling, and terminating in a series of rich meadows, richly
planted. This is an exact description of the home which, three
years ago, it nearly broke my heart to leave. What a tearing up by
the root it was! I have pitied cabbage-plants and celery, and all
transplantable things, ever since; though, in common with them, and
with other vegetables, the first agony of the transportation being