er as
Master Sisty, when she lived at Torquay, who wasted away and went
out like a snuff, all because he would not wear flannel waistcoats."
Therewith my mother looks grave, and says, "One can't take too much
precaution." Suddenly the whole neighborhood is thrown into commotion.
Trevanion--I beg his pardon, Lord Ulverstone--is coming to settle for
good at Compton. Fifty hands are employed daily in putting the grounds
into hasty order. Four-gons and wagons and vans have disgorged all
the necessaries a great man requires where he means to eat, drink, and
sleep,--books, wines, pictures, furniture. I recognize my old patron
still. He is in earnest, whatever he does. I meet my friend, his
steward, who tells me that Lord Ulverstone finds his favorite seat, near
London, too exposed to interruption; and moreover that, as he has there
completed all improvements that wealth and energy can effect, he has
less occupation for agricultural pursuits, to which he has grown
more and more partial, than on the wide and princely domain which has
hitherto wanted the master's eye. "He is a bra' farmer, I know," quoth
the steward, "so far as the theory goes; but I don't think we in the
North want great lords to teach us how to follow the pleugh." The
steward's sense of dignity is hurt; but he is an honest fellow, and
really glad to see the family come to settle in the old place.

They have arrived, and--with them the Castletons and a whole posse
comitatus of guests. The county paper is full of fine names.

"What on earth did Lord Ulverstone mean by pretending to get out of the
way of troublesome visitors?"

"My dear Pisistratus," answered my father to that exclamation, "it is
not the visitors who come, but the visitors who stay away that most
trouble the repose of a retired minister. In all the procession he sees
but the images of Brutus and Cassius that are not there! And depend on
it also, a retirement so near London did not make noise enough. You see,
a retiring statesman is like that fine carp,--the farther he leaps from
the water, the greater splash he makes in falling into the weeds! But,"
added Mr. Caxton, in a repentant tone, "this jesting does not become
us; and if I indulged it, it is only because I am heartily glad that
Trevanion is likely now to find out his true vocation. And as soon as
the fine people he brings with him have left him alone in his library,
I trust he will settle to that vocation, and be happier than he has been