Geoffry now entered, informing us Lady Lustre’s butler had just left a basket of grapes, and a bottle of tokay, of which she requested my uncle’s opinion next morning, being a present from London lately received from a connoisseur in that article, who had imported it in its native bag, considering it a choice present.

“And here, sir,” continued Geoffry, producing a most flourishing envelope, emblazoned with a seal three inches sexagon, “here’s a large sort of a letter Mrs. Fungus’s boy brought, but I thought you and Mr. Victor seemed busy in conversation, and so I would not disturb you to bring it in.”

Geoffry now laid his commissions on the table, and was leaving the room, when my uncle re-called him to draw the tokay cork, whilst I sat contemplating the enormous cachet, on which was inscribed, “for particulars enquire within,” a motto much exciting my curiosity, as I handed it to my uncle, who, pouting his under lip, observed, it was no bad inscription for a lodging-house window, and supposed it a pawnbroker’s relic that had escaped redemption.

“Sir,” said I, “are you not playing the severity a little too sharp?”

“Not at all,” replied my uncle, “it may be an instrument hired for the purpose of consummate notoriety, a sort of stop trinket belonging to neighbour Deposit’s sanctorum.”

Geoffry had by this time bounced the tokay cork, declaring, “never nothing smelt so fine, and it sparkled like Miss Fitzclarence’s eyes, God bless her pretty beads.”

“Heyday!” exclaimed my uncle, “who made you a judge? who asked your opinion?”

“I have been asked it all over the willage,” replied the honest menial, “and nobody dares contradict me, big or little: I would not give up my opinion to a king.”

“Do you understand the qualities of that wine?” said my uncle.

Geoffry shook his bald pate, poured out two glasses, and withdrew, without daring to offer any further comment.

My uncle now broke the seal of Mrs. Fungus’s envelope, which contained, what appeared to him, a painted and gold emblazoned valentine, so strongly impregnated with musk, that extending it at arm’s length, while he pinched his nostrils with the other finger and thumb, he requested me to peruse the contents, which ran as follows:

“Mrs. Fungus at home, at a fete champetre, given next Thursday in celebration of Miss Fungus’s birth-day to a select party of masked friends.”

“And how many does the foolish women expect to find unmasked?” exclaimed my uncle; “to be sure, when she expresses, “Mrs. Fungus at home,” she is exactly telling us where she ought to be, but is seldom found; however, we’ll go, Victor—and, availing ourselves of the proposed disguise, I’ll adopt a magician’s dress, and you may do as you like.”

To this proposal I readily assented, and we sipped Lady Lustre’s liquor, the flavour of which we found peculiarly fine.

“It’s like herself: it can’t be better,” said my uncle, “and it’s as bright and sparkling as Rosa’s pretty beads, as master Geoffry familiarly styled them just now: it’s well I was not in one of my crabbish moods, or he’d have said less upon that subject, I assure him.”

“I believe the honest creature would die to serve her,” replied I, “he thinks her the perfection of nature.”

“And so do I,” rejoined my uncle: “but we’ll quit the subject, and advert to one less painful.”

We now strolled through the grounds, to enjoy the delightful breezes of evening, and had just passed through a small private gate which led into a green lane, when the mill cart of Cloddy Strut came rattling along the road, drove by a plain masculine woman, of truly vulgar appearance, supported in character by a birch broom on one side, with a mop, pail, door-mat, and sundry turnery utensils, subjoined to a leg of mutton, and a basket of fish, just landed from the London coach.

“Your most humble, sir,” said the female Jehu, with the gruff voice of a boatswain, “I suppose you did’nt know me, clodhopping along in this pretty trim: but I’ve been to market, you see, I don’t mind trifles, I’m none of your fine London ladies, I’m Joan Blunt, I care for nobody’s sneers.”

“Very true,” replied my uncle, “you’re the plain domestic miller’s wife, in every sense of the word, there’s nothing like buckling to one’s station in life.”

“Aye; Lord, well, I did not always ride in a cart: I’ve been the gayest of the gay in my time, till my Cymon made a convert of me, somehow, and metamorphosed me from the fine lady to poor humble Nell; well, it can’t be helped: I’m contented while my lump uses me kindly; the brats are my greatest plague; I never loved children.”

“Why, then, did you marry?” asked my uncle.

Mrs. Strut attempted to blush, but it was only a sham tinge, the practice or theory of which she had never practised, nor had she any incitement in the obscure retreat of a water mill to call that power into action.

My uncle, who only viewed women of that description in the most odious light, had passed her with a silent inclination of the head, if her loquacious tongue had not arrested his footstep, wished her good evening, and closing the gate, left her to bump along, in full riggle, with her cottage equipage of mops, brooms, and brushes.

Our walk was delightful; we marked the evening primrose close its sombre leaf; the rose was weighed with diamond dew-drops—anon we listened to the high poised sky-lark’s evening carrol; and again, a secreted nightingale, in a hawthorn hedge, delighted us with the exquisite melody of her vesper hymn; and, as the refulgent moon stole through the branches of the elegant acacia, all nature seemed to say, good night, the pillow of repose is sweet.