more picturesque appearance, all
seemed as much as possible restored to the state in which he had left it
when he assumed arms some months before. The pigeon-house was
replenished; the fountain played with its usual activity, and not only
the bear who predominated over its basin, but all the other bears
whatsoever, were replaced on their several stations, and renewed or
repaired with so much care that they bore no tokens of the violence which
had so lately descended upon them. While these minutiae had been so
needfully attended to, it is scarce necessary to add that the house
itself had been thoroughly repaired, as well as the gardens, with the
strictest attention to maintain the original character of both, and to
remove as far as possible all appearance of the ravage they had
sustained. The Baron gazed in silent wonder; at length he addressed
Colonel Talbot--

'While I acknowledge my obligation to you, sir, for the restoration of
the badge of our family, I cannot but marvel that you have nowhere
established your own crest, whilk is, I believe, a mastiff, anciently
called a talbot; as the poet has it,

A talbot strong, a sturdy tyke.

At least such a dog is the crest of the martial and renowned Earls of
Shrewsbury, to whom your family are probably blood-relations.'

'I believe,' said the Colonel, smiling, 'our dogs are whelps of the same
litter; for my part, if crests were to dispute precedence, I should be
apt to let them, as the proverb says, "fight dog, fight bear."'

As he made this speech, at which the Baron took another long pinch of
snuff, they had entered the house, that is, the Baron, Rose, and Lady
Emily, with young Stanley and the Bailie, for Edward and the rest of the
party remained on the terrace to examine a new greenhouse stocked with
the finest plants. The Baron resumed his favourite topic--'However it may
please you to derogate from the honour of your burgonet, Colonel Talbot,
which is doubtless your humour, as I have seen in other gentlemen of
birth and honour in your country, I must again repeat it as a most
ancient and distinguished bearing, as well as that of my young friend
Francis Stanley, which is the eagle and child.'

'The bird and bantling they call it in Derbyshire, sir,' said Stanley.

'Ye're a daft callant, sir,' said the Baron, who had a great liking to
this young man, perhaps because he sometimes teased him--'Ye're a daft
callant, and I must correct you some of these days,' sh