five, and still the tumult rages as I retire to rest. After all, the chief fault I find with the people is the way they work their horses and donkeys. The latter, at any rate, have a hard time of it, as they drag the heavy load on a cart of two long poles with beams laid across of the most primitive order. I fancy the old country cart remains as it was in the time of the Romans. Sometimes a horse or mule or bullock is harnessed on one side; but the patient ass, who does the chief of the work, no one seems to pity. On a hot day it also stirs my indignation to see a horse dragging a cart with fourteen or fifteen strapping men inside, and on a Sunday everyone seems to drive, and as fast as he can. The swell and the costermonger all tear along at a frightful pace, and thus secure—what in England some good people are trying to insure—a pleasant Sunday afternoon. CHAPTER XXVII. IN BRUSSELS. ‘Of course, this is a plant, my dear.’ ‘Really, Colonel,’ said the lady addressed, ‘I wish you would not use such improper language; children so easily pick up slang. You ought to be very careful. It is too bad, just as we are about to move to England, where you will take your rightful place in county society as head of our ancient family.’ ‘You’re right there,’ said the Colonel to his lady in a laughing tone; ‘you’re right there, I believe. We are one of the oldest families in the country. It was one of them who was with Noah in the ark. You recollect the old epitaph— ‘“Nobles and heralds, by your leave, Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, The son of Adam and of Eve, Can Bourbon or Nassau go higher?”’ ‘Colonel,’ said the lady, ‘I am ashamed of you.’ ‘What for, dearest?’ ‘For quoting such a worldly poet. We were not allowed to read him in school. I am sure many of his poems are highly improper.’ ‘Oh, then you’ve looked into him, have you?’ ‘Certainly not,’ said the lady, with an affected shake of her head. ‘Then how can you condemn him?’ ‘Easily enough. He was of the world. His was an unsanctified genius. He had no part or lot in the one thing needful.’ ‘At any rate,’ replied the Colonel, ‘he’s buried in Westminster Abbey.’ ‘The more’s the pity.’ ‘And he was the friend of the clergy.’ ‘Yes, of the carnal and unregenerate. There are too many of such, alas, in the Church of England—wolves in sheep’s clothing.’ The lady was an Evangelical of the bitterest type. ‘Well, dear, we won’t discuss the question,’ said the Colonel meekly. ‘What am I to reply to this letter?’ ‘What, the letter from London, from Mr. Wentworth? Short and sharp. Say the idea is perfectly ridiculous. We can hear of no compromise. It is quite out of the question for us to give up our rights just as Providence has opened to us a means of extended usefulness. Mr. Wentworth is only a newspaper writer, a man of no position in society, and I am told his wife was actually an actress.’