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e somehow turn the dinner conversation upon some peculiar way of cultivating mangel. Pendell looks at Old Ruddock, and, alluding to the last speaker's remark, whatever it was, says, "Aha! that isn't the way we grow mangel in the South, is it, Mr. Ruddock?" and therewith gives Old Ruddock such a humorous look, as if they had, between them, several good jokes about mangel, which, when told by Old Ruddock, would set the table in a roar.

I turn towards him with a propitiatory smile, as much as to say, "You see I'm ready for any of your funny stories." Old Ruddock glances up at me from his plate (he hasn't looked up much since the beginning of dinner), and replies, gravely and simply, "No." Whereat Pendell almost roars with laughter, and nods at me knowingly, as if asking if Ruddock isn't a character. He may be. Perhaps it requires the wine to draw him out, but he hasn't, as yet, said anything funny or witty; in fact, he hasn't said anything at all. The conversation, otherwise, is general and well distributed. Topics principally local.

As far as I am concerned, it is not unlike being suddenly given a bass part in a quintette, where the other four know their music off by heart. I speak from experience, remembering how, in the instance alluded to, I came in wherever I could, with very remarkable effect, and generally at least an octave too low, leaving off with the feeling that if we had been encored (of which there wasn't, under the circumstances, the slightest possible chance), I should have come out very strong, and quite in tune. As it was, I had first to find my voice, which seemed to have gone down like the mercury in a barometer on a cold day, and having succeeded in producing it, I had then to issue it in notes.

During dinner I am frequently brought into the conversation, apologetically, and appealed to out of politeness, as "probably not taking much interest in these matters."

The matters in question are usually something vexatious with regard to paupers, a political question deeply mixed up with the existence of the Yeomanry, the state of the roads in the next district, the queer temper of a neighbouring clergyman, the difficulty of dealing with Old Somebody at a vestry meeting, the right of some parish authorities to bury somebody who oughtn't, or ought, to have been buried without somebody else's consent; the best mode of making a preserve, a difference of opinion as to varieties of cider, the probabilities of a marriage between Tre-someone of Tre-somewhere with Pol-somebody of Pol-something else, and so forth. On consideration, I am interested. For, to a reflective mind, is not all this the interior mechanism of the Great British Constitution? Of course.

The only thing that Old Ruddock says the whole time, is that he wouldn't keep Cochin China fowls even if they were given him.

"Wouldn't you?" exclaims Pendell, looking slily at me and beginning to laugh, evidently in anticipation of some capital story, or a witticism from Ruddock. No, not another word. He is, it strikes me, reserving himself. I turn to my partner, and try to interest her in Ramsgate, Torquay, the Turkish bath, London and Paris news. She doesn't like Torquay, has never been to Ramsgate, and from what she has heard of it thinks it must be vulgar (to which I return, "O, dear no," but haven't got any proof that it isn't. I find out that she goes every season to London, and knows more about operas than I do, and finally was brought up in Paris, and generally stops there for a month yearly with her Aunt, so that I am unable to give her any information on my special subjects, and as she clearly wants to listen to some story which Tregony of Tregivel, on the other side of her, is telling, I feel that I'd better continue my dinner silently, or draw Ruddock out. I try it, but Ruddock won't come out.

Dessert.—Tregony of Tregivel does come out genially, without the process of drawing. He has some capital Cornish stories, with an inimitable imitation of Cornish dialect.

Flash.—While he is telling a rather long anecdote to think of something good and new to cap it. Why not something with (also) an imitation of dialect, or brogue. I've got a very good thing about a Scotchman, but can't remember it in time.

Odd how stories slip away from you just at the moment you especially want to remember them. During a pause in the conversation I remember my story, and secure attention for it by suddenly asking Pendell (which startles him) if "he's ever heard," &c., and of course he, politely, hasn't. Odd. Somehow, this evening I can't recall the Scotch accent. I try a long speech (not usually belonging to the story) in Scotch, so as to work myself up to it, but, somehow or other, it will run into Irish. My story, therefore, takes somewhat this form. I say, "Then the Scotchman called out, 'Och, bedad'—I mean, 'Ye dinna ken'"—and so forth. Result, failure. But might tell it later, when I'm really in the humour, which I evidently am not now, and yet I thought I was.

Old Ruddock begins to come out, not as a raconteur, but as an interrupter, which is a new phase of character.

For example, Tregony commences one of his best Cornish stories, to which we are all listening attentively, something about an uncle and a nephew, and a cart.

"They went," says Tregony, "to buy a cart"——

"A what?" says Ruddock, really giving his whole mind to it.

"A cart," answers Tregony.

"O," returns Ruddock, "I beg pardon. Yes, well"—

"Well," resumes Tregony, "they wanted something cheap, as they had no use for it except to get home,——"

"Get what?" asks Ruddock.

"Home," replies Tregony, evidently a bit nettled.

"Oh, ah! yes," returns Ruddock. "Home—well?"

"Well," Tregony continues, looking towards his opposite neighbour, so as to avoid Old Ruddock if possible, "the landlord of the Inn says to them, 'I'll lend you and Nevvy Bill a cart——'"

Ruddock's in again with "A what?"

I can't help turning upon him, and saying, rather angrily, "A cart!" I feel inclined to add, "You old idiot." Then I say to Tregony, encouragingly, "Yes."

"'Only' (continues Tregony), says the Landlord, joking them, 'mind yew du bring the wheels back safe and sound.' So they promised, and then they went about the town till it was rather late and getting dark——"

"Getting what?" asks Old Ruddock. Everybody annoyed, and two persons besides myself repeat the word "dark" to him.

With these interruptions, and the consequent necessity of making it all quite clear, specially when it comes to Tregony imitating the conversation between Uncle and Nephew, in two voices, when Old Ruddock perpetually