Jesse Cliffe | Page 5

necessary, to lodge him in
the County Bridewell before night.
But the good farmer, who chanced to be a keen sportsman, and to be
followed that day by a favourite greyhound, was so dulcified by the
manner in which the delinquent started a hare at the very moment of
Venus's passing, and still more by the culprit's keen enjoyment of a
capital single-handed course, (in which Venus had even excelled
herself,) that he could not find in his heart to take any harsh measures
against him, for that day at least, more especially as Venus seemed to
have taken a fancy to the lad--so his expulsion was postponed to
another season; and before that season arrived, poor Jesse had secured
the goodwill of an advocate far more powerful than Venus--an

advocate who, contrasted with himself, looked like Ariel by the side of
Caliban, or Titania watching over Bottom the Weaver.
John Cobham had married late in life, and had been left, after seven
years of happy wedlock, a widower with five children. In his family he
may be said to have been singularly fortunate, and singularly
unfortunate. Promising in no common degree, his sons and daughters,
inheriting their mother's fragile constitution as well as her amiable
character, fell victims one after another to the flattering and fatal
disease which had carried her off in the prime of life; one of them only,
the eldest son, leaving any issue; and his little girl, an orphan, (for her
mother had died in bringing her into the world,) was now the only hope
and comfort of her doting grandfather, and of a maiden sister who lived
with him as housekeeper, and, having officiated as head-nurse in a
nobleman's family, was well calculated to bring up a delicate child.
And delicate in all that the word conveys of beauty--delicate as the
Virgins of Guido, or the Angels of Correggio, as the valley lily or the
maiden rose--was at eight years old, the little charmer, Phoebe Cobham.
But it was a delicacy so blended with activity and power, so light and
airy, and buoyant and spirited, that the admiration which it awakened
was wholly unmingled with fear. Fair, blooming, polished, and pure,
her complexion had at once the colouring and the texture of a
flower-leaf; and her regular and lovely features--the red smiling lips,
the clear blue eyes, the curling golden hair, and the round yet slender
figure--formed a most rare combination of childish beauty. The
expression, too, at once gentle and lively, the sweet and joyous temper,
the quick intellect, and the affectionate heart, rendered little Phoebe one
of the most attractive children that the imagination can picture. Her
grandfather idolised her; taking her with him in his walks, never weary
of carrying her when her own little feet were tired--and it was
wonderful how many miles those tiny feet, aided by the gay and
buoyant spirit, would compass in the course of the day; and so bent
upon keeping her constantly with him, and constantly in the open air,
(which he justly considered the best means of warding off the approach
of that disease which had proved so fatal to his family,) that he even
had a pad constructed, and took her out before him on horseback.

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,