MRS. SHERWOOD'S CHILDHOOD.

ABRIDGED FROM HER AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

Part II.

I MUST now proceed to the first grand event of my life, the journey to see my grandfather Butt, at Pipe Grange, near Lichfield. When we were in the carriage going to Lichfield, my mother pointed out to my brother the Abberley and Woodbury hills, which formed some of the grandest features of the view from our home; and she told him that we were going over those hills and far away. Had she spoken prophetically of what was to be the future destiny of her little girl, she would have spoken truth; but a little way was far in the imagination of my beloved mother, who lived and died without even seeing the sea.

I had been attacked with a severe illness, which had much affected my eyes, and was now so blind that I could not see the hills. But even then I had my thoughts of hills, and the ideas thus early acquired and strongly impressed have accompanied me through life. I can hardly recollect the time when the prospect of hills was not connected in my mind with scenes of future glory, and even long before I had read and partly understood the various passages of Scripture which show its truth and perfection. Probably this idea was first suggested to me by my brother's dream, which placed the celestial abode where the sun, setting in brilliant clouds of purple and gold, showed itself at the evening hour behind the grove, around heights of the hills nearest to our dear paternal home. But be this as it may, the association of ideas has ever been so powerful in my mind, strengthened as it has been. by good John Bunyan, that I have never beheld a mountain without thinking of that far-off-world where

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the redeemed shall behold the King their Creator, and Lord and Father. I have seen the Indian Caucasus hanging as brilliant clouds in the horizon, in the clear atmosphere of a southern sky. I have seen, too, and traversed, the many Alpine heights, and contemplated the sunny Apennine where banditti rest secure in their inaccessible fastnesses. I have passed under the shades of the fir-clad Swartzwald, and beheld the milder Vosques undulating on the horizon; the mountains of the Raje-Mahal, where the tiger and the rhinoceros range at large; the hills of Africa and the Cape of Good Hope, which stand as an eternal bulwark against the waves and tempests of the stormy south; the pyramidical heights of the Cape Verd Islands; and the softer beauties of the green Tyrol— all and each in their turn have passed before me, and have all seemed to tell me of the same thing, though differently modified with more or less shade or brilliancy, as affected by my own feelings at the moment.

It was nearly dark when we arrived at my grandfather's house, and I can recall being lifted out of the carriage and carried into the house. I remember well that house, though I have never been there since, and have only seen it at a distance. It was a low house with two bow windows, and there were two large parlours and a kitchen behind. It had a garden in front and a small pond, and a woody bank beyond that pond.

My memory of the events during that visit are very confused. I remember walking with my brother and nurse in a green lane, and finding some little birds in a hedge, and coming one day and finding the nest and birds gone, which was a great grief to me. I recollect one evening being carried over some lonely commons to an old farm house, where were many fragrant herbs and many sheep. The irregular walls were covered with ivy, and there was a garden, with yew trees cut in grotesque forms, in front of the house. I was not

four years old at this time; but such was the impression made on my mind then by the images of that evening that, years afterwards, being in a cabin of an East Indiaman, my sickly and inflamed fancy carried me back to those breezy commons and those unfettered days of infancy. I once, about twelve years since, saw that old farm house again, and found that I had, through all my wanderings, retained its perfect feature in my mind, even to its irregular windows and shapeless chimneys.

My birthday occurred whilst I was at Pipe Grange. I was then four years of age; and when I came down on the morning of that day, my grandfather, who was sitting by the fire in the parlour, put up his hand to a high mantel-shelf and brought from thence a doll with a paper hoop, and wig of real flax. This was my birthday present, and made a long and deep impression on my heart. Oh! how did that good old man love and care for his children, and his children's children! I have the full and blessed assurance that none of these will ever be lost. And now in this place I feel myself disposed to slip the noose of things present and of things past, and to rush forward into that glorious region of faith and hope and full assurance, where I may behold my father and my father's father, my children and my children's children, dwelling with the King in his glory-having cast the slough of flesh and sin, and being clad in the spotless robe of their Redeemer's righteousness. Ah! without this hope, who could do as I am doing? Who could trace the records of past life, without a weeping eye and everaching heart?

When the time of our visit at Pipe Grange was accomplished we proceeded to Lichfield, to visit my father's sister, Mrs. Salt; but my recollections of Lichfield are very confused. There was some pageantry at Whitsuntide that caused me to wonder, and I remember being taken to the Cathedral, and feeling

all that amazement that children do at first seeing sights of this kind.

From Lichfield we went to Donnington, in Shropshire, where my father's friend, Mr. Woodhouse, resided; and of this place I have still many recollections, but all connected with rural scenery and rural objects; drinking new milk with froth upon it, and running about green meadows, where grew daisies and cowslips, and the flowers called by children, lords and ladies. These things are in consequence always connected in my mind with my happy infant days, and with a certain springing, elastic feeling, which when enjoyed, gives bliss almost too great for existence in the flesh. We feel it not in age; but when our youth is renewed in ages to come, we shall feel it again, never, never, to be taken from us.

I remember nothing of our return to Stanford, and but little of the following summer. During the winter of 1778, our party was increased in our nursery by two, the motherless children of my uncle Sherwood. He had married early, and was left a widower with two children, my cousins, Henry and Margaret, who at this time came to Stanford to be with their aunt. It seems to me now like a very far distant and faint dream, when I think of that nursery and the members which composed our party.

It was a very pleasant time when Henry and Margaret were at Stanford, and long talked of in our nursery annals. Henry had a red pencil, and he drew some hieroglyphics on the stone frame of our mantelpiece; and these my brother guarded so carefully from the scrubbing brush, that they were never effaced during our infant years.

My father kept a curate at his living of Clifton-onTeme, a Mr. Robert Nash, a relative, whom my father from motives of kindness, had helped into the ministry. Mr. Nash had married a woman old enough to be his mother, of a most unfortunate temper, and one

who caused his home to be occasionally anything but a happy one. He used often to escape from his wife and visit for days together at my father's house. Ah! it was a happy day when he was seen coming across the park, in his great bushy wig, his shovel hat, his cravat tied like a King William's bib, his great drab coat, and his worsted spatterdashes. When this figure rose above our horizon, however remote, my joy and that of my brother, was excessive; for he was the man of all others to delight children. As soon as it was dark in a winter evening, I took my place on his knee, and calling him uncle Robert, begged for a story. Again and again I heard the same, but the old tale never tired. He told of dogs that were supposed to have been spirits, and which were always seen in certain rooms when any of the family were about to die, and other marvels of the like description. Added to which he could bark like a dog, grunt like a pig, play tricks with cards like a conjuror, and was very success ful in numerous performances of the same kind. But as to his knowledge of religion, I cannot suppose that it was of any depth. I need say no more of Mr. Nash, inasmuch as he will never be forgotten so long as "Robert and the Owl" and "Henry Milner " be found in the libraries of little children.

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And now I must record the first trouble of my infancy. When my brother Marten was five years old, we went out one autumn evening to take a walk with our father and mother, and Cæsar our dog was with us. As we children ran along, tempted by the dog to go forwards and forwards, we came to a fivebarred gate of a good height, which impeded our progress; though Cæsar jumped over it, and tried by many wiles to persuade us to follow him. My brother first attempted to open the gate, but being unable to do so, he began to climb upon it from one bar to another. With some difficulty he got upon the top of the gate, whilst I was talking and patting Cæsar,