surprised the grocer, too, by our incursion
filling up his little establishment in a very
alarming way. What attracted us were rows
and rows of gorgeous bottles, as fine as
bottles could be, containing British wines of
every vintage and degree mortal man could
desire. Any sort we chose to name, he brought
out. Sherry and port, of course; but the
marvel was champagne, engaged to make the
cork fly out with the proper noise. We were
dazzled, and gave him a large order.

Then we set forward again. There was an old
manor–house, where King Henry had once stayed
—Kington Tower—yet to be seen, and we
pushed on for that. A charming place, with
hall, and rooms, and arches, and oak–work, still
to be seen; but, with sad irreverence, converted
into a barn. The meeting expressed itself
strongly on this head.

Now the day was beginning to wane, the sun
to go down. Some of us were "giving in,"
especially at the thought of so many miles to go
back. Tom—our particular friend, best of giants
—was exhausted, and would take a "Whitechapel"
home at the next inn. This was against
discipline; but on Good Days we might do
anything. So, too, was that production of
cigars and pipes, and a special Swiss wooden
pipe of mine, which, after a long seclusion of
a year, was brought out, and extorted universal
admiration. I cannot say it was an agreeable
process, for the tobacco being contraband, and
acquired at great risk and by inexperienced
judges, was of the worst known description, and,
if possible, even more strong than bad. There
was a ghastly face or two presently, and an
ominous hanging behind; and I suspect the offence
against the Law brought with it its own punishment.
But we weathered that, as we had
weathered everything else, by indomitable energy;
though now, indeed, we were all beginning to
flag, and think wistfully of "Whitechapels."
So our good guide and philosopher, seeing how
things were, proposed the friendly railway close
by, and we joyfully acceded.

Towards seven we came staggering in, utterly
beat; but here was dinner, and that roused us
like a trumpet. The habitual hour of the house
was one o'clock; we were to dine sumptuously
at seven. We dressed with infinite care, came
down, and were received formally by the HEAD
OF THE HOUSE, with great politeness and
cordiality. This was an honour we had not
dreamed of, and a fresh testimonial to our virtues
and services. Mantling over with genial feeling,
we spoke of it warmly "as so nice," as "a
real gentlemanly thing;" and what not. It
was indeed a graceful homage, as was also the
attendance of the second in command.

The banquet was sumptuous; a rich and
fragrant ham dwells specially in my memory.
We tried the champagne, of British make, with
the other vintages (at one and threepence a flask),
which a sense of self–respect made us publicly
profess to relish, but which cool reflection
pronounced medicinal and sickly, which cooler
reflection still, at this distance of time, makes
me advisedly pronounce simply detestable and
all but poisonous. The champagne (which broke
down even in its frothing and pretension) came
out in an orderly noiseless way, and reminded all
beholders of the cough mixture supplied in the
infirmary for all coughs indiscriminately.

Still this was only a trifle, and caused great
amusement. We had the genuine wine to
fall back on; and later, the great silver
bowl, without which no festival was considered
complete. What laughter, and jesting, and
dilating on the day's adventures! We had
singing, too, when the cloth was "drawn"—
to use that old–fashioned phrase—singing of a
comic and humorous sort, and a little speeching.
The Head of the House rose to make a few
observations—short and to the point—in praise
of "our excellent friend and master, Mr.
Franklin," and his "unwearied pains and regard
for us always," with much to that effect. There
seemed to be a hint that we had not quite
understood our "iron master," whom we
had often harassed by combination, and to
whom we had imputed the basest and most
tyrannical of motives. Did we feel a twinge at
that moment? Or did the scales fall from our
eyes, so long blind? Or was it the generous wine?
No; for here was the dark figure rising itself. A
few words. Now that we were going to part and
go our different ways, we would carry with us
his best wishes and affection. Perhaps at
times he had given way to more severity, and
perhaps temper, than he had intended; but
it was all with the best intentions. It was,
indeed. It was for our good. It was impossible
at all moments to control ourselves, and if there
had been any misunderstanding, he hoped it
would be banished now. For the moment we
felt the pangs of remorse and the prickings of
conscience, and perhaps felt a little hostile
towards Big Hoskins, who was still full of his
injuries, and not to be propitiated. Big Hoskins,
the sense of his wrongs perhaps inflamed by the
wine of the house, was leaning back in his chair,
with a half–scornful look on his face. He was
not to be taken in by such "gammon;" he soon,
however, gave way to better feelings, and
to this hour I feel a regret that shyness, or the
natural surprise of the moment, prevented one
of us from rising and making a feeling response.
But we were overshadowed by the presence of
those great beings, and felt that it would be too
daring a task, and so that little passage of
emotion went by, and the tide of fun and
joke—reintroduced by Big Hoskins—flowed
on once more. Pleasant night—delightful
night—prolonged until past ten o'clock—considered
exquisitely late hours, for all the common
herd had been at roost since nine.

Now ready, In One Volume, post 8vo,
AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.