“What! going?” I cried, as my uncle presently appeared, bearing his book and his baggage.

“Nephew Frederick!” said he, “after this treatment, can you ask me if am going?”

“Really,” I shouted, “it is not my fault that the fellow proved an impostor.  I employed him with the best of intentions, for your—­and our—­good!” “Nephew Frederick,” said he, “this is insufferable; you will regret it!  I shall never—­NEVER” (as if he had been pronouncing my doom)—­“accept of your hospitalities again!”

He did, however, accept some money which I offered him, and likewise a seat in the buggy.  I watched his departure with joy and terror,—­for at any moment he might relent and stay nor was I at ease in my mind until I saw Andrew come riding back alone.

We have never seen the old gentleman since But last winter I received a letter from him he wrote in a forgiving tone, to inform me that he had been appointed chaplain in a prison, and to ask for a loan of money to buy a suit of clothes.  I sent him fifty dollars and my congratulations.  I consider him eminently qualified to fill the new situation.  As a hardship he can’t be beat; and what are the rogues sent to prison for, but to suffer punishment?

Yes, it would be a joke if my little Iron-Clad should end his career of imposture in that public institution, and sit once more under my excellent uncle!  But I can’t wish him any such misfortune.  His mission to us was one of mercy.  The place has been Paradise again, ever since his visit.—­Scribners Magazine, August, 1873.

OLIVER BELL BUNCE.

(BORN, 1828.)

* * * * *

MR. BLUFF DISCOURSES OF THE COUNTRY AND KINDRED THEMES.

(In a Country Lane.)

BACHELOR BLUFF.  A LISTENER.

“The country,” exclaimed Mr. Bluff, with an air of candor and impartiality, “is, I admit, a very necessary and sometimes a very charming place.  I thank Heaven for the country when I eat my first green peas, when the lettuce is crisp, when the potatoes are delicate and mealy, when the well-fed poultry comes to town, when the ruddy peach and the purple grape salute me at the fruit-stands.  I love the country when I think of a mountain ramble; when I am disposed to wander with rod and reel along the forest-shadowed brook; when the apple-orchards are in blossom; when the hills blaze with autumn foliage.  But I protest against the dogmatism of rural people, who claim all the cardinal and all the remaining virtues for their rose-beds and cabbage-patches.  The town, sir, bestows felicities higher in character than the country does; for men and women, and the works of men and women, are always worthier our love and concern than the rocks and the hills ...