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you be.

set down for a bit. Long legs d' want

" Ha-ha!

Ess, to be sure. Hark a rest, as much as short ones, 'a to Mrs. Tonkin, father. • Plenty in b'lieve."

the say,' she d'say ; “trouble is to Miss Penelloe entered a plump, get 'em out.' Well, that edu' bad youngish woman, ruddy, black-haired, not bad, that edn’.' Good 'nough to with a typical Celtic face, high cheek- put in the paper, 'a b’lieve. Father, bones, small twinkling grey eyes, and a get your handkercher out o' your coat long upper lip like a portcullis over a pocket and blaw your nose to wance, big, thin mouth. Behind her stooped afore there's a haccident. Eh! Mrs. her father, immensely tall, thin, loose- Tonkin, I do admire to be’old the way jointed, near-sighted, and wearing a your fingers d' go about that net. In big grizzled beard.

and out, in and out they d' go. That's Mrs. Tonkin introduced the lodger. a big hole theer.” Miss Penelloe nodded and smiled gra- “ Them plaguy sharks and dogs !” ciously, and remarked on the state of ejaculated Mrs. Tonkin. “Never was the weather, in an affable tone, calcu- a net so full o' holes. But you d' lated to set him at his ease at once. knaw, Miss Penelloe, 'twill be fuller o' Mr. Penelloe stood and swayed about boles wheu 'les done mending." in the middle of the room, gazing “ I don't understand your manen, helplessly at the net, whose coils sur-Mrs. Tonkin." rounded him on the floor. His daugh- “Why, 'tes a sort o' puzzle we fishter proceeded to take him in band. ing people d'ave. What is that

“Step auver the net and set down, which the more you mend et, the more father. Gie me your hat, or you'll be et's full o' holes ?' Answer is, a net; setten on 't - s'ch a habsent man as the meases being holes, in a manner

Don't 'ee set theer in a spaken, you d' see.' draught, and you with a cold ; come Well, now !” cried Miss Penelloe, auver here,” catching him by the “ that's clever, too. Father, d'st hear elbow, and steering him to a chair in a that? Why, what's the matter wi' 'ee corner, where he collapsed limply. now, father ? Do set still and don't

Ess, Mrs. Tonkin," she coutinued, fidget.” sitting down and folding her hands, Mr. Penelloe was shifting uneasily on “us couldn' pass your door and not look bis chair and mournfully shaking his in for a bit of a chat. 'Tedn’ often we head, while his eyes were fixed ou the d' come this way. And how's your corner of the room where the clockhealth, Mrs. Tonkin ? What are 'ee case stood. a-sarchen after, father? Your pipe ? 6 Scand’lous !” he exclaimed in a Here 'a es, in my bag. No trusting voice of tragic hoarseness. " That father with his pipe, 'a b’lieve, Mrs. theer clock's seventeen minutes slow ļ” Tonkin. S'ch a man as 'a es for losing " Theer!” cried Miss Penelloe deof ’nt and breaking of ’nt. Your lightedly ; “that's father all over ! baccy's in your purse, father, and your One thing 'a d' think upon is clocks purse in your left trousies pocket, and and time. Do 'ee mind setten that so's your knife. Mind, when you d'clock right, Mrs. Tonkin ? Father want to spittie, g' out to the door, won't rest a minute in the same room dacent, and liv Mrs. Toukin's claue with a lyiug clock." slab alone. Well, Mrs. Tonkin, my * Dear me !” exclaimed Mrs. Tondear, and how's fishing ?”

kin in troubled tones. “I'm vexed, "Aw — plenty o fish, 'a b'lieve –

that I am. Gie 'ce my word I thought plenty.”

'lwas c'rrect. I'll get on a chcer and “ Sure ?"

set 'n right to wance." “Ess, plenty in the say; trouble is “Wait a bit," interposed Miss Penelto get 'em out.”

loe. " You don't mind letten father The time-honored pleasantry was do ’nt hisself ? 'Twill plaise 'en well received.

mighty, and save trouble ; father don't

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need no cheer for the loftiest clock in 'tes somethen uncommon, but I caan't
the kingdom, 'a b’lieve. Go, father, azackly mind what."
set 'n right; go! Why, 'twas his “The affliction of

affliction that p'tic'lar
great heighth 'at set father to mending clock," said Mr. Penelloe slowly, and,
clocks. You must know, sir,” she con- as the lodger thought, in rather a
tinued, turning to the lodger, “ father's pointed tone, " is being like some fe-
a carpenter by trade. But when 'a males, a brae sight too fond of et's
was courten mawther up Camborne own voice."
way, grandf'er, who was a clockmaker, “ Aw, ess, to be sure. Striking, fa-
said to father one day, 'Jacob,' 'a ther d' mane,” explained his daughter
said, 'tes plain what Providence in condescendingly. 56 'Twill start at
tended 'ee for, when 'a made 'ee seven dead o' night, and work off three days
foot high — 'twas to mendie eight-day in ten minutes ; or 'twill take a fancy
clocks, sure 'nough. Why, look at to strike seventeen for every hour of
me,' 'a said - 'a was a little chap, the day."
grandf'er - look at me. You caan't “Now 1” exclaimed Mrs. Tonkin,
think the divers perils I've gone rather over-doing the accent of wonder
through along o' standen on rotten- in her polite anxiety to show that
legged auld cheers and wee-waw stools, though her hands might be at work on
up top o' steers, and all sorts o' risky | the net, her thoughts were all absorbed
places. Ay,' says he, "'tes a trade in her visitor's story. “ Well !" -
full o' danger for a little chap like me. holding up the net, and with knitted
I d' get my liven on the brink o' de- brows scanning its surface for rents.
struction, and peril do compass me “ Sure !” – pouncing ou a torn spot
round about. With your nose in the and attacking it vigorously with knife
vitals of a clock,' says grandf'er, ‘you and needle.
don't pay no 'tentiou to nawthen else ; “ Bless you,” Miss Penelloe went on,
maybe you see a wheel loose, or some- clocks d’’ave their ways, and fancies,
then, and you get excited and make a and wakenesses, and obstinatenesses
step one way or t’other, and there you just like Christians. No two clocks
are on the ground, and lucky ef clock alike, 'a b’lieve. But father d' knaw
edu'atop of 'ee. But you're made for how to manage 'em all. Not but what
the business, Jacob,' 'a said to father; 'a draws the line somewhere, as we
“throwed away, you are, on planen all must. There was a chap come to
wood and sucb. Take my advice,' father once with a guckoo-clock for 'm
said be, make a proper use o' your to mendie, but father said “No' to
gifts, and larn to mend clocks.' And wance. Bring me a clock 'at do strike
so father did, though 'a 've always proper,' said he, and I'll see to 'ut;
sticked to his carpenter work, being or bring me a clock 'at don't strike at
wbat 'a was brought up to.”

all, and I'll see to ’nt ; but a clock 'at d' "Clocks is my pastime, only my make a noise like the fowls o'the air pastime, so to spake,” murmured Mr. edn’ no clock at all,' says father, 'caal Penelloe, shambling back to his chair. 'nt what you will. I don't hauld wi'

“Yet there's few d’knaw more about no s'ch fullishness, nor I waau't ha'
clocks and their saycret mysteries 'an nawthen to do wi' 'en,' said he.”
father," said his daughter proudly. “ Theer, think o' that !” cried Mrs.
“There's a clock wi' a brass face up Tonkin. “Wouldn' ha' nawthen to do
foreign, nobody caan't manage but he. wi' 'en! O'course 'ee wouldn', Mr.
The people 'at d' b’long to that clock Penelloe, and I do hauld 'ee in honor
send for father reg'lar, and pay for his for ’nt. Guckoo clocks, indeed ! Such
travelling and all, every time 'a d' go fullishness as we do find in this mortal
wrong. Nobody else waan't do for world !"
'em, they must have father. Let's " Fullishness you may well say, Mrs.
see, father, what's the matter wi' that Tonkin, and roguishness you might
clock up to Trebollyveau ? I knaw say, and wouldn' be fur wrong. The

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et ?”

way people be’ave over clocks — well | Nun, 'a d' mane, when 'a made the there ! - scand'lous, that 'a es! No sun stand still in Gibeon.” notion they haven't o' the way to trate “What I want to knaw,” said Mr. 'em. Father d' often say clock sh'd be Penelloe earnestly, " is this. I've puz'counted the true master in a house. zled over et a good bit, Sundays, and Et says to 'ee, ‘ Do this, do that,' every other times time 'a d' strike. “Seven o'clock, get “ So 'a has, Mrs. Tonkin," interup, thou sluggard, and lightie the fire ;jected Miss Penelloe. Every time 'a 'leven o'clock, put the 'taties on; four take up his Bible, 'a turns to Joshua, o'clock, fill the kettle, ef ye plaize ; ten chapter ten, sure 'nough. Book do o'clock, g' up to thy chamber, go!'open nat'ral on the very place every But theer! some people think they can time; 'a 've got so used to ’nt, 'a d' chate time by ill-using their clocks. seem to kvaw.” There's Mrs. Perry up our way ; laast And, fur's I can understand from thing at night she d'allers put clock on what they're a-tellen me, they d' want haalf-an-hour, so she may get up be- to make out that these auld ancient times in the mornen ; then back et d'Hebrews hadn' no clocks ; which don't go after brukfast, haal our slow, seem likely, do it ?" to keepie the men from grummlen The lodger believed, however, that 'cause dinner's late ; then on again, such was the case. 'cause she d’ like to have tay earlier Mr. Penelloe meditated.

66 Seem's 'an her conscience 'ull let her. And queer, a world athout clocks. How so 'a goes on, making clock tell lies, they managed I caan't think. But and then pretending to b’lieve 'en.” what I was axen was this. Ef there

“Shameful !" cried Mrs. Tonkin, had been clocks, that theer mcrracle who, by the way, is guilty of similar 'ud ha' set 'em all wrong, wouldn' conduct every day of her life.

The lodger supposed so. Here attention was directed to Mr. “ Unless, maybe, et acted on the Penelloe, who was gazing fixedly at clocks too, so to spake, and stopped the lodger, while he fumbled with his 'em ?" hands on his knees and made abortive The lodger thought this possible. efforts to speak.

“Well, et beats me, et do,” said Mr. “Well, what's the matter now, fa- Penelloe slowly. 66 Those must ha' ther ?” asked his daughter. “Spake been turr’ble unsettlen times to live up, and don't be bashful ef you've any in. Wouldn'ha’ suited me, 'a b’lieve." thing to say sensible.”

So saying, he relapsed into a brown Thus encouraged, Mr. Penelloe ad-study. dressed the lodger.

But Miss Penelloe was on her feet. “ You're somethen of a scholar, sir, “ Come, father, what wi' your chatI've no doubt. Studied a good deal, 'a ting, time's getting on, and hus must b’lieve.”

do likewise." The lodger made a suitably modest “Not afore you've had a dish o' reply.

tay!" cried Mrs. Tonkin. Then, spaken o'clocks,

“No, Mrs. Tonkin, caan't stop a you tell me what's your opinion o'minute longer." Joshua ?

Mrs. Tonkin cannot endure that The connection between the subjects the frivolous intentions of her guests was not very apparent to the lodger, should interfere with her exercise of and his expression probably showed the sacred rights of hospitality. this. Miss Penelloe came promptly to “ Set down !” she exclaimed, with the rescue.

commanding - nay, wrathful - empha“Ah, you edn’ the first father's sis. puzzled over that, sir. 'Tes a reg'lar But Miss Penelloe was obdurate. c'nundrum wi' he. Joshua the son of “Come, father, come,” she said to


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her parent. “Gie us your pipe. But- | Mr. Penelloe, was half past three. ton up your coat; et’s blawen cauld Foreseeing an invitation to partake, and wisht outside. There !” placing which he must either refuse and grievhis hat on his head and jamming it ously offend Mrs. Tonkin, or accept firmly down over his eyes. “Good to the detriment of his digestion, he day, Mrs. Tonkin ; good-day, sir. Say thought best to avoid the dilemma by good-day to the gentleman, father. retiring from the scene. Ascuse father's simmin' rudeness, sir,

CHARLES LEE. in not being quick to say good-day. Polite 'a es by nature, but 'a edn got the art of et, so to spake. 'A've took a great fancy to 'ee, raelly ; I can see

From Temple Bar. that from the free way 'a tackled 'ee SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT LOUIS over Joshua; and 'tedn’ everybody

STEVENSON. father do take a fancy to. Say goodday, why don't ’ee, father ? "

It must be fully thirty years since I Mr. Penelloe turned his peering gaze first saw Robert Louis Stevenson in the on the lodger again.

flesh — to use a somewhat inapplicable " But maybe," he said, " the merra- phrase. I had somehow or other, in cle acting all round, as we agreed, spite of a zeal for outdoor games, run when the sun went on, the clocks ’ud into a period of low, rather than bad ha' started again.”

health, and was transferred from a "Theer ! " cried Miss Penelloe in well-known Edinburgh boarding-school ecstasy, “ did 'eer ever hear the like ? to a small private school in the same You've hit et, father, right 'nough. city. I do not think there were at this That's just father's way. 'A edn’ so little seminary more than a dozen boys, quick as some ; but 'a d' sit and puz- ranging in ages from nine or ten, to zle, and the wonderful clever notions fourteen or fifteen, and our intellectual ‘at d' come into his head! But come ; calibre varied' fully as much as go we must."

years. For some of us were sent there

for reasons of health, and others be“Well !” exclaimed Mrs. Tonkin, cause they had not made that progress when Mr. Penelloe had been safely with their studies which their fond conveyed into the street, and the door parents had hoped. Others were there, had closed on the visitors. “ Well! I fancy, merely because the scheme of ded 'ee ever hear a'ch nonsense, wi' education upon which the proprietor, their clocks and fullishness? He edn' Mr. Robert Thomson, proceeded, fell azactly, I don't think; and as for she, in with the views of our parents. The wi' her talk – 'tes enough to puttie one main feature of this system was, so far deef, so 'a es. 'A course I was forced as I can recollect, that we had no home to be polite to 'em in my own kitchen ; lessons, but learned, in the two or and then you must allow for 'em be-three hours of afternoon school, what ing from the country, where sense is we were expected to remember next scarce. But theer ! "

day. My impression is, that either Words failed her, and she vented her Stevenson joined the school later than feeling in a vigorous attack on the net. I did, or that he was absent on one of

“Come! where's that dish o'tay ? his frequent health-pilgrimages, when - come.”

I first made the acquaintance of my It was Mr. Tonkin, returning to the schoolmates. However, when he did attack, and backed up by Jimmy. come, being older and somewhat more This time Mrs. Tonkin had no objec- advanced than the others, we were tion to raise, and laying down her naturally drawn much together, and work, she went to the cupboard. whatever I may have done for him, he

Looking at the clock, the lodger certainly played a leading role for me found that the time, as amended by among this juvenile “ cast.” Our free


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dom from home tasks gave us leisure that extraordinary vividness of recolfor literary activities, which would lection by which he could so astonishotherwise have been tabooed as waste ingly recall, not only the doings, but of time. Perhaps with some of us it the very thoughts and emotions of his was, but not with Stevenson. For youth. For, often as we must have even then he had — to the grief of his communed together, with all the shamefather, if not of both his parents — - a less candor of boys, hardly any remark fixed idea that literature was his call- of his has stuck to me except the ing, and a marvellously mature concep- opinion already alluded to, and which tion of the course of self-education struck me — his elder by some fifteen through which he required to put him- months — as very amusing, that “at self in order to succeed. Among other sixteen we should be men." He of all things, we were encouraged to make mortals, who was, in a sense, always verse translations, and, for some reason still a boy! Nor can I recall any speor other, I specially well remember a cial incidents beyond the episode of passage of Ovid, which he rendered in the school magazine, already alluded to Scott-like octosyllabics, and I in heroic in the Daily News for December 19th. couplets, which I probably thought He and my other schoolmates were, I commendably like those of Mr. Pope. fancy, pretty often at my house, which But, even then, Stevenson showed im- being in the couutry, was more attracpatience of the trammels of verse, and tive ou holidays than their town houses. longed for the compass and ductility of I was not often in 17 Heriot Row, and prose.

I had a potion then, of which I have Stevenson calls himself “ugly" in never been disabused, that I was not bis student days, but I think this is a a persona grata to Stevenson père on term that never at any time fitted bim. account of my being an art-and-part Certainly to him as a boy about four- accomplice in his son's literary schemes teen (with the creed which he pro- and ambitions, which he discouraged to pounded to me, that at sixteen one was the uttermost. I may have been mora man) it would not apply. In body, bidly sensitive, but I used to feel that he was assuredly badly set up. His when he looked at me he was saying limbs were long, lean, and spidery, and internally, “Oh, you're another young his chest flat, so as almost to suggest scribbling idiot like my son — only some mal-nutrition, such sharp corners weaker." Mrs. Stevenson was always did his joints make under his clothes. kind and gracious, but, in spite of that, But in his face this was belied. His I always felt rather like a bale of conbrow was oval and full over soft brown traband goods, as I passed in at the eyes, that seemed already to have door of No. 17, and followed Stevenson drunk the sunlight under southern to his den in the attic story. One of vines. The whole face had a tendency these occasions, I do distinctly rememto an oval, Madonna-like type. But ber, on which Stevenson was brimful about the mouth, and in the mirthful, of the story of “Deacon Brodie ” (one mocking light of the eyes, there lin- which never appealed to me at all), gered ever a ready Autolycus roguery and, I believe, he then read me, probthat rather suggested sly Hermes ably in 1864, portions of a proposed masquerading as a mortal. The eyes drama on the subject. were always genial, however gaily the On the other hand, our house seemed lights danced in them, but about the to have taken his romantic fancy, and mouth there was something a little in a chapter in one of his short stories tricksy and mocking, as of a spirit that called “ The House at Murrayfield,” it already peeped behind the scenes of is powerfully and, in the main, acculife's pageant and more than guessed rately described, in its very gloomiest its unrealities.

aspect as the scene of a murder, so I would now give much to possess vividly portrayed that, though I only but one of Stevenson's gifts, namely, read the passage once, and have vainly

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