ster Simon Popplewell, gentleman-tanner (called out of his name, and
into the name of "Johnny," even by his own wife, because there was no
sign of any Simon in him), he was there, and his good wife Debby, and
Mistress Anerley in her best cap, and Mary, dressed in royal navy blue,
with bars of black (for Lord Nelson's sake), according to the kind gift
of aunt and uncle; also Willie, looking wonderfully handsome, though
pale with the failure of "perpetual motion," and inclined to be languid,
as great genius should be in its intervals of activity. Among them a
lively talk was stirring; and the farmer said, "Ah! You was talking
about me."

"We mought be; and yet again we mought not," Master Popplewell returned,
with a glance at Mrs. Deborah, who had just been describing to the
company how much her husband excelled in jokesomeness. "Brother Stephen,
a good man seeks to be spoken of, and a bad one objects to it, in vain."

"Very well. You shall have something for your money. Mary, you know
where the old Mydeary wine is that come from your godfathers and
godmothers when you was called in baptism. Take you the key from your
mother, child, and bring you up a bottle, and brother Popplewell will
open it, for such things is beyond me."

"Well done, our side!" exclaimed the tanner; for if he had a weakness it
was for Madeira, which he always declared to have a musky smack of tan;
and a waggish customer had told him once that the grapes it was made
of were always tanned first. The others kept silence, foreseeing great
events.

Then Mr. Popplewell, poised with calm discretion, and moving with the
nice precision of a fine watchmaker, shed into the best decanter (softly
as an angel's tears) liquid beauty, not too gaudy, not too sparkling
with shallow light, not too ruddy with sullen glow, but vivid--like a
noble gem, a brown cairngorm--with mellow depth of lustre. "That's your
sort!" the tanner cried, after putting his tongue, while his wife looked
shocked, to the lip of the empty bottle.

"Such things is beyond my knowledge," answered Farmer Anerley, as soon
as he saw the best glasses filled; "but nothing in nature is too good to
speak a good man's health in. Now fill you up a little glass for Mary;
and, Perpetual Motion, you stand up, which is more than your machines
can do. Now here I stand, and I drink good health to a man as I never
clapped eyes on yet, and would have preferred to keep the door between
us; but the Lord hath or