SQUIRE.—“Where—what—where? Don’t pinch so hard. Bless me, do you see a ghost?” PARSON.—“There—the gentleman in black!” SQUIRE.—“Gentleman in black! What!—in broad daylight! Nonsense!” Here the Parson made a spring forward, and, catching the arm of the person in question, who himself had stopped, and was gazing intently on the pair, exclaimed— “Sir, pardon me; but is not your name Fairfield? Ah, it is Leonard—it is—my dear, dear boy! What joy! So altered, so improved, but still the same honest face. Squire, come here—your old friend, Leonard Fairfield.” “And he wanted to persuade me,” said the Squire, shaking Leonard heartily by the hand, “that you were the gentleman in black; but, indeed, he has been in strange humours and tantrums all the morning. Well, Master Lenny; why, you are grown quite a gentleman! The world thrives with you—eh! I suppose you are head-gardener to some grandee.” “Not that, sir,” said Leonard smiling. “But the world has thriven with me at last, though not without some rough usage at starting. Ah, Mr Dale, you can little guess how often I have thought of you and your discourse on Knowledge; and, what is more, how I have lived to feel the truth of your words, and to bless the lesson.” PARSON, (much touched and flattered.)—“I expected nothing less of you, Leonard; you were always a lad of great sense, and sound judgment. So you have thought of my little discourse on Knowledge, have you?” SQUIRE.—“Hang knowledge! I have reason to hate the word. It burned down three ricks of mine; the finest ricks you ever set eyes on, Mr Fairfield.” PARSON.—“That was not knowledge, Squire; that was ignorance.” SQUIRE.—“Ignorance! The deuce it was. I’ll just appeal to you, Mr Fairfield. We have been having sad riots in the shire, and the ringleader was just such another lad as you were!” LEONARD.—“I am very much obliged to you, Mr Hazeldean. In what respect?” SQUIRE.—“Why, he was a village genius, and always reading some cursed little tract or other; and got mighty discontented with King, Lords, and Commons, I suppose, and went about talking of the wrongs of the poor, and the crimes of the rich, till, by Jove, sir, the whole mob rose one day with pitchforks and sickles, and smash went Farmer Smart’s thrashing-machines; and on the same night my ricks were on fire. We caught the rogues, and they were all tried; but the poor deluded labourers were let off with a short imprisonment. The village genius, thank heaven, is sent packing to Botany Bay.” LEONARD.—“But, did his books teach him to burn ricks, and smash machines?” PARSON.—“No; he said quite the contrary, and declared that he had no hand in those misdoings.”