which, John alleged, would save him a
"considerable bit of way." The treacherous guide led
him along a narrow path into a paddock, wherein
was shut up for safety Mr. Arscott's perilous
favourite bull. This animal had grown up from
calfhood the wanton but docile companion of
Black John, whose wonderful skill in taming
all manner of wild animals had made the "sire
of the herd" so familiar with his strange
warden, that he would follow him and obey his
signals and voice like a dog. What took place
between the bull and the preacher could only
be guessed at. A rush was heard by a
passerby, and a yell; then the rustling branches of a
tree, and finally a dull thud upon the grass
From the paddock gate, some little time after
emerged Black John, with a fragment of a
white cravat in his hand, and this was all, so he
steadfastly averred, that ever he could find of
"the preacher's body." Actually, it was the
sole relic of his arrival and existence that
survived in those wild parts. He was never
heard of more in that region. And although
there were rural sceptics who doubted that the
bull could have made such quick work of a full-
grown man, the story was fearful enough to
scare away all wandering preachers from that
district while the dwarf lived. On the Sunday
following the terrific interview between the
preacher and the bull, John took his usual place
in church, but, to the astonishment of those who
were not in the secret, instead of the usual
fox's brush, a jaunty pennon of white rag
floated as the crest of the well-known felt
hat.

Black John was long and fondly cherished by
his generous master. Mr. Arscott lived like
Adam in the garden, surrounded by his animals
and pets, each with its familiar and household
name; and no man ever more fully realised the
truth of the saying that "Love makes love,"
and that the surest way to kindle kindness is to
be kind. Accurately has it been said of him:
      O! for the Squire! that shook at break of morn,
      Dew from the trees with echo of his horn!
      The gathering scene, where Arscott's lightest word
      Went, like a trumpet, to the hearts that heard;
      The dogs, that knew the meaning of his voice,
      From the grim foxhound to my lady's choice:
      The steed that waited till his hand caress'd:
      And old Black John that gave and bare the jest!

None, high or low, during the lifetime of the
squire, were allowed with impunity to injure or
harass his cross-grained jester, and many a
mischievous escapade was hushed up, and the
sufferer soothed or pacified by money or
influence. When gout and old age had imprisoned
Mr. Arscott in his easy-chair, Black John
nuzzled among the ashes of the vast wood fires of
the hearth, or lay coiled upon his rug like some
faithful mastiff, watching every look and gesture
of his master; starting up to fill the pipe or
tankard of old ale, and then crouching again.
      This lasted long: it fain would last
      Till Autumn rustled on the blast.
And the good old squire, in the language of the
Tamar-side, "passed out of it." At his death
and funeral, the agony of his misshapen
retainer was unappeasable. He had to be
removed by force from the door of the vault, and
then he utterly refused to depart from the
neighbourhood of the grave. He made himself
another lair, near the churchyard wall, and
there he sobbed away the brief remnant of his
days, in honest and unavailing grief for the
protector whom he had so loved in life, and
from whom in death he would not be divided.
Thus and there, not long after, he died, as the
old men of the parish used to relate, for the
"second and last time." He had what is called
in those parts a decent funeral, for his master
had bequeathed to him an ample allowance for
life and death, in his last will. The mourners
ate of the fat and drank of the strong, as their
Celtic impulses would suggest, and, although
some among them, who remembered John's
former funeral, may have listened again for a
token or sign, poor Black John, alas for him!
had no master to come back to now, and
declined "to bumpy" any more.

A singular and striking circumstance attended
the final funeral of Black John. An aged crone,
bent and tottering, "worn Nature's mournful
monument," was observed following the bier, and
the people heard her muttering ever and anon,
"O, is he really dead? He came to life again once
you know, and lived long after." When assured
that all indeed was over, even her wild hope,
she cried with a great sob, "O poor dear
Johnny! he was so good looking and so steady
till they spoilt him up at the Hall!" Her words
recalled her to the memory of some old men
who were there, and they knew her as a certain
Aunty Bridget, who had been teased and
worried, long years agone, at markets and fairs, as
"Black John's sweetheart." Yes indeed, the
mighty enchanter had raised his rod, and touched
the tender heart of this poor woman in her youth,
and now waved it gently, and with some little
air of Grace and Romance, even over the
grotesque and lowly grave of poor Black John.

NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS,
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
"Pickwick," "Copperfleld," &c.
Now publishing, PART XIV., price 1s., of
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
With Illustrations by MARCUS STONE.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.