young and thoughtless; I had no sisters; and having, like you, been brought up in a town, I had no ideas of the country but as a place where eggs, cream, and fruit were in abundance; where I might keep as much poultry as I liked; and where there were shady lanes, and green fields abounding with pretty flowers.

The place we went to live at had a good house, commanding a splendid view; an excellent garden; three fish-ponds, and about thirty acres of grass land, which enabled us to keep cows and horses, without troubling us with any of the laborious duties of cultivating arable land. At first I was enchanted with the change. I was never tired of feeding my poultry, watching the dairy-maid, and managing the fruit and flowers; but, alas! I soon found that there are few roses without thorns. My first trouble was three gentlemen calling on us one day unexpectedly, and my father asking them to stay dinner. We were seven miles from the town where we had formerly lived; and, though there was a small town within two miles of us, the road was bad, and the miles very long ones; while the town itself, when we reached it, was one of those provoking places the shopkeepers of which never have what is wanted, though they always say they had abundance of the required article the week before, and believe they shall have it again

the week after. I need not enter into the details of my troubles in preparing for this well-remembered dinner. Meat was out of the question; and though I was enabled, with infinite difficulty, to give my father's friends enough to eat, no one but a young housekeeper in a similar situation can have any idea of what I suffered. The lesson, however, was not lost upon me; and you may easily imagine that ever afterwards I took care to have a cooked piece of hung beef, or ham, or some similar substantial article of food in the house, that I might be provided for a similar

occurrence.

The recollection of what I underwent while buying my experience makes me anxious to spare you, my dear Annie, the pain of a similar ordeal; particularly as it is more disagreeable for a young newly married woman to feel in housekeeping difficulties than a single one; as it makes you fear your husband had a higher opinion of you than you deserve. In your situation the difficulty is increased by your husband not having lived at the Manor-House since the death of his parents, when he was only ten years old; so that he can have no idea of the petty troubles you will be exposed to. Under these circumstances I will do my best to clear the path that lies before you, and to teach you how to enjoy rationally a country life.

5

BOOK I. THE HOUSE.

LETTER II.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE COUNTRY- MAKING FIRES.

You complain, my dear Annie, that when I wrote to congratulate you on your marriage, I did not send you any of the advice I promised. The neglect was intentional. I was unwilling to disturb the happiness of the honeymoon by any allusion to the troubles of life; but now that you are actually arrived at the mansion which is to be your future dwelling, I will not delay any longer beginning the fulfilment of my task. I am sorry to hear that you felt chilled and depressed at the first appearance of the Manor-House; though I am not surprised that you found the room you were ushered into dark and cold, since you tell me that the windows are shaded by some lofty Scotch pines, which are certainly the most gloomy of all the vegetable race, and which must necessarily impede both the light and the warmth of the sun. You add that you are ten miles from a markettown, and at least seven from any visitable neigh

bours; that the kitchen-garden is a mile from the house, and under the care of a cross old gardener, who cannot be displaced; that there is no separate flower-garden; and, in short, that if it were not for your affection for your husband, you would be miserable.

Your letter would make me very uneasy on your account if I had not had a good deal of experience of the world; but I am comforted when I reflect that in early youth the vehemence of our feelings always makes us exaggerate both our pains and our pleasures. Have you ever looked at a landscape through a window of coloured glass, and remarked the cold and miserable appearance presented through the purple pane, contrasted with the rich glow thrown upon every object by the orange glass? Both give a false idea of the reality; but the impressions thus received are not more erroneous than those we often experience of what passes around us, when viewed through the medium of our feelings. I thus consider your letter as produced by a view taken through the purple glass; and I am far from believing that you will dislike the country when you know it better; and still less do I give credence to your vehement assertion that you never can be happy in your present residence.

Happiness, I suspect, in most cases, depends more upon ourselves than we are generally willing