to pay you immediately; and for the remaining twenty thousand, you shall have a mortgage on that part of the estate which is to be made over to me,1 with whatever 2 security you shall require for the regular payment of the interest, till the principal is duly discharged.

Sterl. Why to do3 you justice, Sir John, there is something fair and open in your proposal; and since I find you do not mean to put an affront upon the family

Sir John. Nothing was ever farther from my thoughts,* Mr. Sterling. And after all, the whole affair is nothing extraordinary-such things happen every day; and as the world has only heard generally of a treaty between the families, when this marriage takes place, nobody will be the wiser, if we have but discretion enough to keep our own counsel.7

Sterl. True, true; and since you only transfer from one girl to the other, it is no more than transferring so much stock, you know.

8

Sir John. The very thing!

Sterl. Odso! I had quite forgot.9-We are reckoning without our host here 10-there is another difficulty

Sir John. You alarm me. What can that be?

Sterl. I can't stirll a step in this business without consulting my sister Heidelberg.-The family has very great expectations from her,12 and we must not give her any offence.13

Sir John. But if you come into this measure,14 surely she will be so kind as to consent

Sterl. I don't know that 15-Betsy is her darling, and I

can't tell1 how far2 she may resent any slight that seems to be offered to her favourite niece. However, I'll do the best I can for you. You shall go and break the matter to her first, and by the time I may suppose that your rhetoric has prevailed on her to listen to reason,5 I will step in to reinforce your arguments.

Sir John. I'll fly to her immediately; you promise me your assistance?

Sterl. I do.7

Sir John. Ten thousand thanks for it! and now success attend me!

[Going.s Sterl. Hark'e, Sir John! [SIR JOHN returns.9] Not a word of the thirty thousand to my sister, Sir John. Sir John. Oh, I am dumb, I am dumb, sir. [Going. Sterl. You'll remember it is thirty thousand. Sir John. To be sure I do.

Sterl. But, Sir John !-one thing more.10 [SIR JOHN returns.] My Lord must know nothing of this stroke of friendship between us.

Sir John. Not for the world. Let me alone! Let me alone! [Offering to go.

Sterl. [Holding him.] we must give each other bargain.

Sir John. To be sure. or whatever you please.

And when everything is agreed, a bond to be held fast to the 12

A bond by all means! 13 a bond, [Exit hastily.

Sterl. I should have thought of more conditions—he's

1 'I ignore.'

2 jusqu'à quel point.-'may;' use the future of pouvoir. 3 to satisfy you.'

4 Allez la trouver pour entamer l'affaire; or, Rompez la glace ('break the ice') en lui en parlant le premier. 'and when I have reason (page 47, note 1, and page 52, note 2) to &c. has succeeded (page 121, note 14) in making her listen to reason (entendre raison,— and see page 108, note 1).'

suppose

11 No, for nothing in the (page 40, note 4) world. Let me !'

12 we shall make, you and I, a reciprocal bond (obligation)

which will secure our.'

13 by all means,' here, oui, oui.

in a humour to give me everything-why, what mere children are your fellows of quality; that cry for a plaything one minute, and throw it by the next! as changeable as the weather, and as uncertain as the stocks.1 Special fellows to drive a bargain! and yet they are to take care of the interest of the nation, truly! Here does this whirligig man of fashion offer3 to give up thirty thousand pounds in hard money, with as much indifference as if it was a china orange.5 5 By this mortgage, I shall have a hold on his terra firma; and if he wants more money, as he certainly will,7-let him have children by my daughter or not, I shall have his whole estate in a net9 for the benefit of my family.

4

6

THE NATIVE VILLAGE.

A KIND of dread had hitherto kept me back; but I was restless now, till I had accomplished my wish. I set out one morning to walk; I reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon; after a slight breakfast at my inn, where I was mortified to perceive the old landlord did not know me again (old Thomas Billet, he has often made anglerods 10 for me when a child), I rambled over all my accustomed haunts.

Our old house was vacant, and to be sold; I entered, unmolested, into the room that had been my bed-chamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood: I felt like a child; I prayed like one.1 It seemed as

11

7 Always supply the ellipsis, in French, in such a case as this.

8 let him have or not, &c.'"by,' de.

9I shall be able, in one haul (d'un coup de filet), to take possession of his . . . &c.'

10 des manches de lignes; or, des gaules.--when a child;' see page 29, note 12, and leave out 'a.' I like a child.'

though old times were to return again.1 I looked round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew; but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun, when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass.

I visited by turns every chamber; they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted,2 in which the owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold: I touched the keys; I played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived with the music; blended with a sense of unreality, which at last became too powerful, I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings.

3

I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands at the back of the house; we called it the Wilderness. A well-known form was missing that used to meet me in this place: it was thine, Ben Moxam, the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings, yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest creature, thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles without a soft speech and a smile. I remember thy good-natured face. But there is one thing for which I can never forgive thee,5 Ben Moxam, that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot to lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees. I remember them sweeping to the ground.7

I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this place; its glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm for my young mind, nurturing within me that love of quietness and lonely thinking, which have accompanied me to maturer years.

4 See p. 25, n. 12, and p. 22, n. 9. -'as though,' que.-' were to;' use aller.-return;' see p. 264, n. 9. 2 When excepté follows the noun, it agrees with it both in gender and number; when preceding the noun, it remains invariable.

3 non-réalité (coined for the purpose).

4 'I wandered.... into,' Après avoir erré J'entrai dans (see p. 6, n. 13). See p. 115, n. 7. 6 it is to have joined (use se joindre) to an old maiden aunt of mine (une vieille tante fille à moi) in the (p. 87, n. 2).'

7 Il me semble que je les vois encore se balancer en rasant le sol.

In this Wilderness I found myself after a ten years' absence. Its stately fir-trees were yet standing, with all their luxuriant company of underwood: the squirrel was there, and1 the melancholy cooings of the wood-pigeon ; all was as I had left it; my heart softened at the sight; it seemed as though my character had been suffering a change since I forsook these shades.

My parents2 were both dead; I had no counsellor left, no experience of age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof. The Lord had taken away my friends, and I knew not where he had laid them. I paced round the wilderness, seeking a comforter. I prayed, that I might be restored to that state of innocence in which I had wandered in those shades.

3

Methought my request was heard; for it seemed as though the stains of manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into the purity and simplicity of childhood. I was content to have been moulded into a perfect child.4 I stood still as in a trance. I dreamed that I was enjoying a personal intercourse with my heavenly Father, and, extravagantly,5 put off the shoes from my feet; for the place where I stood, I thought, was holy ground.

This state of mind could not last long, and I returned, with languid feelings, to my inn. I ordered my dinner, green peas and a sweetbread: it had been a favourite dish with me in my childhood; I was allowed to have it on my birth-days. I was impatient to see it come upon table; but, when it came, I could scarce eat a mouthful; my tears choked me. I called for wine; 6 I drank a pint and a half of red wine, and not till then had I