n power and in self-will. She manages everybody
in the place, her schoolmistress included; turns the wheeler's children
out of their own little cart, and makes them draw her; seduces cakes
and lollypops from the very shop window; makes the lazy carry her, the
silent talk to her, the grave romp with her; does anything she pleases;
is absolutely irresistible. Her chief attraction lies in her exceeding
power of loving, and her firm reliance on the love and indulgence of
others. How impossible it would be to disappoint the dear little girl
when she runs to meet you, slides her pretty hand into yours, looks up
gladly in your face, and says 'Come!' You must go: you cannot help it.
Another part of her charm is her singular beauty. Together with a good
deal of the character of Napoleon, she has something of his square,
sturdy, upright form, with the finest limbs in the world, a complexion
purely English, a round laughing face, sunburnt and rosy, large merry
blue eyes, curling brown hair, and a wonderful play of countenance. She
has the imperial attitudes too, and loves to stand with her hands behind
her, or folded over her bosom; and sometimes, when she has a little
touch of shyness, she clasps them together on the top of her head,
pressing down her shining curls, and looking so exquisitely pretty! Yes,
Lizzy is queen of the village! She has but one rival in her dominions, a
certain white greyhound called Mayflower, much her friend, who resembles
her in beauty and strength, in playfulness, and almost in sagacity, and
reigns over the animal world as she over the human. They are both coming
with me, Lizzy and Lizzy's 'pretty May.' We are now at the end of the
street; a cross-lane, a rope-walk shaded with limes and oaks, and a cool
clear pond overhung with elms, lead us to the bottom of the hill. There
is still one house round the corner, ending in a picturesque wheeler's
shop. The dwelling-house is more ambitious. Look at the fine flowered
window-blinds, the green door with the brass knocker, and the somewhat
prim but very civil person, who is sending off a labouring man with sirs
and curtsies enough for a prince of the blood. Those are the curate's
lodgings--apartments his landlady would call them; he lives with his
own family four miles off, but once or twice a week he comes to his neat
little parlour to write sermons, to marry, or to bury, as the case may
require. Never were better or kinder people than his host and hostess;
and