This eBook was produced by Pat Castevens
and David Widger
In setting off the next morning, the Boots, whose heart I had won by anextra sixpence for calling me betimes, good-naturedly informed me that Imight save a mile of the journey, and have a very pleasant walk into thebargain, if I took the footpath through a gentleman's park, the lodge ofwhich I should see about seven miles from the town.
"And the grounds are showed too," said the Boots, "if so be you has amind to stay and see 'em. But don't you go to the gardener,—he'll wanthalf a crown; there's an old 'Oman at the lodge who will show you allthat's worth seeing—the walks and the big cascade—for a tizzy. Youmay make use of my name," he added proudly,—"Bob, boots at the 'Lion.'She be a haunt o' mine, and she minds them that come from meperticklerly."
Not doubting that the purest philanthropy actuated these counsels, Ithanked my shock-headed friend, and asked carelessly to whom the parkbelonged.
"To Muster Trevanion, the great parliament man," answered the Boots.
"You has heard o' him, I guess, sir?"
I shook my head, surprised every hour more and more to find how verylittle there was in it.
"They takes in the 'Moderate Man's Journal' at the 'Lamb:' and they sayin the tap there that he's one of the cleverest chaps in the House o'Commons," continued the Boots, in a confidential whisper. "But we takesin the 'People's Thunderbolt' at the 'Lion,' and we knows better thisMuster Trevanion: he is but a trimmer,—milk and water,—no horator,—not the right sort; you understand?" Perfectly satisfied that Iunderstood nothing about it, I smiled, and said, "Oh, yes!" and slippingon my knapsack, commenced my adventures, the Boots bawling after me,"Mind, sir, you tells haunt I sent you!"
The town was only languidly putting forth symptoms of returning life asI strode through the streets; a pale, sickly, unwholesome look on theface of the slothful Phoebus had succeeded the feverish hectic of thepast night; the artisans whom I met glided by me haggard and dejected; afew early shops were alone open; one or two drunken men, emerging fromthe lanes, sallied homeward with broken pipes in their mouths; bills,with large capitals, calling attention to "Best family teas at 4s. apound;" "The arrival of Mr. Sloinan's caravan of wild beasts;" and Dr.Do'em's "Paracelsian Pills of Immortality," stared out dull anduncheering from the walls of tenantless, dilapidated houses in thatchill sunrise which favors no illusion. I was glad when I had left thetown behind me, and saw the reapers in the corn-fields, and heard thechirp of the birds. I arrived at the lodge of which the Boots hadspoken,—a pretty rustic building half-concealed by a belt ofplantations, with two large iron gates for the owner's friends, and asmall turn-stile for the public, who, by some strange neglect on hispart, or sad want of interest with the neighboring magistrates, hadstill preserved a right to cross the rich man's domains and look on hisgrandeur, limited to compliance with a reasonable request, mildly statedon the notice-board, "to keep to the paths." As it was not yet eighto'clock, I had plenty of time before me to see the grounds; andprofiting by the economical hint of the Boots, I entered the lodge andinquired for the old lady who was haunt to Mr. Bob. A young woman, whowas busied in preparing breakfast, nodded with great civility to thisrequest, and hastening to a bundle of clothes which I then perceived inthe corner, she cried, "Grandmother, here's a gentleman to