the race of phrenologists had not arisen to proclaim the fact, he had the organs of acquisitiveness and constructiveness very large. He purchased the house and lands of old Squire Fletcher, who died without issue; and, as the place was considered so out of the way, purchased it for what is called "an old song;" that is, he purchased it at what a host of such estates have been got for, before the days when there was such a sharp look-out for eligible investments-a price which the mere thinnings out of the timber at once paid for.

The old hall was what is called an old rambling place. It was low, with low rooms, every one of which had a step up or a step down into it. The buildings, stables, kennels, barns, and so forth, occupied a much larger space than the house itself, and the whole set of premises were buried in a perfect wood of gigantic trees, especially elms and walnuts, and around lay a multiplicity of little fields with great, tall, wild hedges, and huge hedge

row trees.

What light did Sampson Hooks speedily let into it! First, down toppled the great trees which, as we have said, were doomed to pay for the house and lands. Then, down went whole troops of others to build up the new house. Well do I remember when those fine elms, and fine rows and avenues of limes strewed the ground; and what fine fun we found it to play at Robin Hood and his merrymen, with cross-bows and tobacco-pipe bolts amongst their arching boughs! Then, as rapidly disappeared scores of lines of old hedges, and what was so shortly before a labyrinth of little crofts; opened itself into a fair lawn, and God wot, a great park. Then came a fine fellow, a landscape gardener and layer out of grounds, and before his magic touch the old garden, with its clipped yew-hedges and pleached alleys, disappeared. A lofty wall inclosed a much larger space, and shut out the whole view of the place from the village. Great iron gates reared themselves here and there, through which alone the passers-by could catch a glimpse of what used to lie open to the pleasant view of every one. Woods and hedge-row trees danced, as it were, into shape as groups and single spreading trees. A lofty new hall, with stone vases on the top, exalted itself above the highest trees, and sunk fences, and winding gravel walks, and glittering greenhouses, and pleasant fountains, made a wonderful spot of it. One thing, however, the villagers took notice of the bees fled out of their hives when the old garden was destroyed, and the

rooks out their favourite wood just by; and this, they declared, boded no good. Fresh bees were purchased, and seemed to do tolerably well, but never could they lure the rooks back, though they tied wisps of straw and artificial nests, for several successive springs, in the trees.

Every trace of old Squire Fletcher was obliterated, but the village remained the same-nay, as it seemed, only the more doggedly, for the dislike felt to the changes at the hall. All round the village was a wilderness of crofts and great wild hedges, with their thatched cottages and old ample weedy gardens, such as I have above alluded to. Scarce a new house or even a new piece of wall was to be seen in the whole hamlet. Every family was just where it had been for generations; but Sampson Hooks had his eye upon it, and it was doomed to feel the effect of his necromantic power.

I remember him well-a large, stately-looking man, riding on a large old roadster. No one could say that he was a violent and arbitrary or tyrannical person; on the contrary, he was particularly polite to all his neighbours, very mild, and ready to inquire, as he met his poor neighbours on the road, how they and all their families went on, and to offer them his advice, not officiously, but with the utmost suavity, for the better management of their land. His wife too everybody declared to be a perfect lady; so graceful, so smiling, so kind to every one, at least in words, and often in little attentions when ill, and wonderful for her admiration and bland affection for her dear Sampson Hooks. But as mildness is proverbially insinuating, so it was soon seen that by some means or other Sampson Hooks had obtained possession of this cottage and that croft, which had been in the same family for ages. People wondered how it was that their neighbours should sell the property of their fathers to a stranger; but it was, in fact, no wonder in itself. Plenty of these neighbours had been living on their little estates without any thought or exertion more than was practised by the bird that lived in their old hedges, or the owls in their barns. Their fields were ploughed up to give corn enough for bread, and their cows grazed in pastures that never knew what improvement was. They were, on the contrary, overgrown with hillocks which once had been thrown up by the moles, but so long ago that they were now covered with a turf as thick as the rest of the field, and had been so increased by ants or somewhat else, till many of them were big enough to fill a good wheel

barrow. Then, for long tufts of yellow ragwort, for tall crops of thistles and rushes and bushes, they were actual wildernesses, and their cows had sometimes been known to be so hidden and lost in them that their owners have run all over the parish to seek them while they were quietly chewing their cuds in some jungle of thistles or furze in their own pastures.

Such were the Newtons, the three sons of old Bill Newton, and such were their fields. There was young Bill and Tom and Ned. Young Bill was so called though he was now near fifty and had sons growing up. He was the bell-ringer; Tom, the village barber, and Ned the village sleeper, if he were anything. Such things as management or industry they had no conception of. To live and enjoy themselves was all they thought of; but unfortunately they had each of them only a third part of what their father had had for that purpose. But they lived in true gospel order, taking no thought for to-morrow. They have been known to kill a pig and never give over feasting till the whole was eaten up; and to brew, yet never have any occasion to tun, for they drank the liquor out of the tubs while it was working.

To such people what so tempting as offered money? Sampson Hooks saw that their cow-houses and pig-sties were in bad repair, and kindly advised them to put them in order. They naïvely asked, where the money was to come from? Oh, there was no difficulty about that; he would most willingly lend them such a trifle for the sake of seeing the village look respectable. That was very kind, thought they. They gladly accepted it; nothing was asked of them but to put their names to an acknowledgment. They did that at once; but it was a much easier thing for them to borrow than to pay again. The day for the annual interest arrived. They scratched their heads, but had not just then the money. No matter, it might stand; they would be able to pay when the crops came in. But the crops came in and they had nothing to sell, none to spare; there would be but just enough for the family. They were short even of seed. Their fences were bad, and their neighbours' cattle got in and eat their corn while it was green, and trampled half of it down. Oh, well, they need not distress themselves; they might have some money for seed and for fencing, and then as their crops would be better, they could pay. They were glad to hear it; it really was very kind, and very pleasant to have money for everything so easily. They lived like fighting-cocks. The gentleman had plenty; it would be

long before he wanted it, and before then something would turn up. So they went on, the Newtons and others. Why had they not gone on so long before? Because their neighbours before had no money themselves to tempt their neighbours with, and had that sort of simple consciences that they had a horror of coveting their neighbours' goods.

Nobody could be more forbearing, more considerate, more kind, than good Sampson Hooks; he never asked them for the money nor for the interest; on the contrary, he always had a smile and a nod for them when he met them; stopped his great lofty roadster and asked how they all went on.

But in a while there came riding into the village a singular little fellow, on a little yellowish pony, with whitish legs and a face white all on one side. The man was a little lean man, yet with a considerable paunch, as if all his food turned into fat there. He had an old hat on, particularly sun-burnt and slouching in the brim; an old blue coat with metal buttons; a waistcoat that folded over and buttoned across the front of a tawny kind of checked stuff; a blue-spotted cotton handkerchief on; corduroy small clothes, and old fustian gaiters well splashed with the roads -the roads then were abominable. His horse was also splashed up to the sides, and he urged him on by the constant use of one old jingling spur. There was a still, close look in the solid ruddy face and small black eyes, nearly lost under the slouching hatbrim of this little man; and the little horse had also a look as if he would be always going just the way that his rider did not wish him, for which he got incessant jerks in the mouth with the bridle, kicks with the one spur, and thumps on the flank with a tough and heavy ash plant.

This man, who was destined to be well known in that village, rode up to the door of Bill Newton, tied his horse to the hook in the wall, and walking in with one hand on his stick as a staff, and the other in his breeches pocket, with a sort of stealthy and unsteady gait, announced himself as Joe Ling, the bailiff of Mr. Sampson Hooks.

He said, that as he put Mr. Hooks' accounts in order, he had found two or three trifles which related to him, Bill Newton. He did not want to hurry him. Mr. Hooks hurried nobody-in fact, he was such a man, that if he, Joe Ling, did not take care of things a little, he would soon be like the child that gave away his breakfast because another cried for it, and then had to cry

itself. Never was there such a good-natured, careless fellow. He had put these little matters together, and if it were not convenient to pay just then, why he, Bill Newton, could put his name to a bit of paper which he had brought with him, and which he presented. Bill Newton, who, of course, could not pay, and did not half like the looks of this fellow so well as those of Sampson Hooks, told Joe Ling that he had no doubt but that it was all right, and that he would see Mr. Hooks himself about it. To his great mortification he then found that Joe Ling was as deaf as a door-nail, and that he could do nothing at all with him. He only answered quite beside the mark; as, “Yes, it really was fine weather:" "No, there was really no hurry at all; he had only to sign that bit of paper.

Bill Newton shouted into the man's ears that he could not sign it, he would see Mr. Hooks about it.

"Oh, very well, I can wait a little; I did not know you were busy; don't let me disturb you: I can wait!"

He clapped himself down in an old arm chair, poked the children on the hearth in the ribs with his stick as they lay there staring at him, and, making a low chuckling sort of half-laugh, half-wheezing, added, "Oh no; no hurry at all!"

Bill tried again to drive his meaning into him; it was hopeless. He only replied, "Oh yes, he was sure the amount was cast up right; but he could take his time, and look it over. only to put his name where he had shown him.

He had

Bill, then, making a sort of funnel of his hands, put them to his ear, and shouted into it that he had to go out, and bid him good morning. Oh, yes," said Ling, "Mr. Hooks is an uncommon good-natured man: everybody knew that!"

Bill Newton went out; and Ling, waiting for some time, took a stroll into some of the neighbours' houses on the like errand, leaving his horse at Bill's door. Three hours afterwards, at dinner-time, Bill returned, and saw, to his desperate vexation, the fellow's pony still hanging at his door; and scarcely was he himself got within, where the pudding was already smoking on the table, than in walked Joe Ling, and on Bill's saying that he had no occasion to wait, he replied, Why, yes, he would take a bit of dinner with them, for waiting so long had made him hungry." Without ceremony he drew a chair, helped himself liberally to the pudding, and talked on of Mr. Hooks, and all his good-nature, and what a heap of concerns he had on his hands in the village