brown coat with gold buttons, with a broker, for an old blue one and some shillings to boot. They thought he was gone to London. Thither Richard went, and spent more than a week, especially amongst the ships, in vain inquiries. He could hear nothing of him, and I believe nothing has been heard of him since. Most probably he entered the navy as a common sailor; but his fate is unknown.

Thus have we gone, once more, the old school-days over; another chapter or two, and then, my dear young readers, good principles, good fortune, and good-bye to you.

HAVING passed through school-days, our history must necessarily come speedily to a close, for when the boy has finally left school, he soon ceases to be a boy. Business, or those higher, drier studies which those who are destined for the learned professions are then devoted to, belong rather to the history of men, than boys; but there are a few more incidental things which give an interest to the life of the country boy, which ought to have a passing notice before we entirely close our volume. The village wake, with its gingerbread stalls, its shows and rustic

groups of holiday keepers; Whitsuntide with its stalls, and shows, and whirligigs too; and its gay processions of clubs, or friendly societies, are times of great interest and delight to the country lad. Harvest, both hay-harvest and cornharvest, are busy and jovial seasons with him. He joins the merry shout of the harvest-home throng, and glories in the homely festivities of the harvest-supper. What delight it used to be, to see perhaps twenty or thirty rustic men and women, whom we had seen so laboriously at work in the harvest fields, yet all the time full of jokes and laughter, and country stories, now sitting down to the great oak table, with the master at its head, to a profusion of roast beef, plum-puddings, roast geese, and plenty of good beer; all joining loudly and eagerly in talking again the whole harvest season over, and wishing one another many another such a time. These, and Christmas with its mince-pies, and holidays, and merry games of turn-trencher, blindman's-buff, and forfeits, all are bright spots in the country boy's year; but there came none of these more deliciously to me than the rustic rent-nights, that my father used to hold-twice a year-in November and in May. As the greater part of the village belonged to him, he used to give the tenants a supper after the paying of their rent; and there was collected almost every man of the hamlet.

The supper was a regular old English one, of roast beef, plum-pudding, pigeon-pies, roast fowls, fruit-tarts, when the season permitted, and plenty of ale and pipes. The paying of their half-year's rent seemed to them a load off every man's mind. They all seemed pleased with themselves, and their landlord with them. The evening was given up to a free-and-easy, and right hearty and unceremonious enjoyment of rustic mirth. Every man was at his ease, from the substantial tradesman down to the smallest

U

cottar. All the old stories of the neighbourhood for a century almost back, were revived, and inspired laughter as genuine as they did on their first rehearsal. Sammy Hand, though no tenant, could not resist joining them on those occasions; William Woolley was there as one; Sam Poundall, the brickmaker, and Abraham Street, the bricklayer, were very full of country wit, which might be heard plain enough, for Abraham was deaf, and Sam shouted to him, and Abraham shouted back, as deaf men do.

On these occasions, Cousin John was a regular attendant. He was as much a standing dish as any dish on the table. He came in capacity of vice-president—always taking one end of the table, as my father did the other—for my mother while she stayed, and she always sate down with them out of courtesy and good-neighbourhood, took a seat near my father; and when the tobacco-smoke began to circulate made her retreat. Without Cousin John, the whole concern would have lost its relish, and seemed quite out of joint. He helped my father to receive the money, and so dispatched that serious part of the evening. He was ready to shake hands with everybody, and in his loud, hearty voice to inquire after everything that concerned them. He had his standing jokes for everybody, according to their trades, and known characters. He asked the blacksmith if he had got that spark quenched yet that flew into his throat one day, the brickmaker, if he was able to temper his clay with anything better than water,-the shoemaker, whether his soling leather took as much soaking as ever; the bricklayer, if the lime was not a very dry and thirsty commodity, and so on; and there was as much mirth over these inquiries as if they had never been made before. The weather, the dishes on the table, were all suggestive of his good sayings. In May, he told them to lay about

them, for he knew they were all as welcome as the flowers in May. In November, lucky was he if the night were rough, the worse the weather the better he liked it-for he was sure to exclaim, "Happy's the man that has not a home to flee to to-night!" meaning that he was at home, and had no need to flee to one. Lucky was he too if there appeared a dish of soles, for then his regular prayer was, "that not a sole (soul) might be saved!" He had two stories too that he was as sure to tell on these nights as the nights came. So regularly were they looked for, that if he did not bring them out very early, you soon heard somebody asking, "Well, Mr. John, arn't we to have Paul Elks? or arn't we to have The Mayor and his Relation?"

"with all my

"To be sure," Cousin John would say, heart;" for it was with all his heart. "A witty fellow, that traveller was-wasn't he? He was the sort of man, now, to make his way in the world. Such a sheepish, bashful fellow as myself, would never have done a thing half as clever just for the want of a good assurance, and a ready wit, eh?" And then he laughed, and told the story of

THE MAYOR AND HIS RELATION.

You know, gentlemen, the very clockwork sort of regularity, or if you do not know, you have heard at least of it, with which the old school of commercial travellers used to go their rounds. One we have often heard talk of, who used to have a particular dinner cooking for him at a particular inn, in one part or other of the country, on every day in the year; and there, to an hour, or perhaps to a minute would he appear, on the stated day. Just one of that punctual class was the traveller I am going to tell you of.

It was on his exact day-his exact half-yearly day, that