Sydney Smith had for an attendant in his time a clean, fair, squat, tidy little girl about twelve years of age named Bunch. Mrs. Marcet, who was staying in the house, met her host at the foot of the stair when Bunch was passing. Mr. Smith suddenly said, “Bunch, do you like roast duck or boiled chicken?” Bunch had probably never tasted either the one or the other in her life, but answered without a moment’s hesitation, “Roast duck please, sir,” and disappeared. I laughed. “You may laugh,” said he, “but you have no idea of the labour it has cost me to give her that decision of character. The Yorkshire peasantry are the quickest and shrewdest in the world, but you can never get a direct answer from them; if you ask them even their own names, they always scratch their heads and say, ‘A’s sur ai don’t knaw, sir;’ but I have brought Bunch to such perfection that she never hesitates now on any subject, however difficult. I am very strict with her. Would you like to hear her repeat her crimes? She has them by heart and repeats them everyday.” “Come here, Bunch!” (calling out to her), “come and repeat your crimes to Mrs. Marcet;” and Bunch, quite as a matter of course, as grave as a judge, without the least hesitation, and with a loud voice began to repeat--“Plate-snatching, gravy-spilling, door-slamming, blue-bottle fly-catching and curtsey-bobbing.” “Explain to Mrs. Marcet what blue-bottle fly-catching is.” “Standing with my mouth open and not attending, sir.” “And what is curtsey-bobbing?” “Curtseying to the centre of the earth, please sir.” “Good girl! now you may go.” “She makes a capital waiter, I assure you. On _state_ occasions, Jack Robinson, my carpenter, takes off his apron and waits too, and does pretty well, but he sometimes naturally makes a mistake, and sticks a gimlet into the bread instead of a fork.” SYDNEY SMITH’S COACH COMPANIONS.