“Hallo! a fire!” said I, imagining for the moment that here were the remains of a house that had very nearly been burnt to the ground. Teazer burst into a loud laugh, the merriest that ever made the summer air jocund with human glee. “Why,” cried she, “this is Blenhall Abbey, the most famous ruin in the county. I don’t know how many books have been written about it.” “Oh, yes, I see the ivy now, and the green mould about the bricks.” “Some say it was built in the reign of Henry II., and some in Richard I.’s time. Two gentlemen belonging to a society came to visit it a few months ago, and afterwards called upon papa. That evening there was an argument. Papa’s library was turned topsy-turvey to prove things. One gentleman in a passion smashed his spectacles by thumping his fist on the table where they lay. The best part of it was, papa has a theory that the Abbey is of much more recent date, and declares he can show it was constructed in Queen Mary’s time. You may imagine the hubbub! It ended in all three of them becoming enemies.” “Oh, those antiquarians!” I exclaimed. “They would wrangle for hours over a brick fresh from a kiln, one swearing it was made in the time of Agricola, and another that it was the work of those Israelites who built the pyramids. I call those ruins rubbish, don’t you?” Theresa shrugged her shoulders affirmatively. “But don’t tell papa I think so,” she exclaimed with a gay laugh, wheeling her horse round. It was five o’clock when we sighted home. On the whole, in spite of the heat and my nervousness, I had enjoyed the ride. Going up the hill, a gadfly had bitten my horse; the animal plunged, and I gave myself up for lost. The movement dislodged the fly, and the horse became calm; but feeling by the coolness in that part that my left leg showed its sock, I did not doubt that I had made a spectacle of myself. Judge my surprise when Teazer congratulated me upon the first-rate style in which I had handled the horse. She assured me I had saved him from falling with enviable coolness and address; and added that she was certain I was laughing at her when I pretended I couldn’t ride! My conscience smarted, but I held my tongue. Thus, Eugenio, is honour heaped on the undeserving. Thus do muffs become great by the very ignorance that ought to suppress them. Thus does the simpleton become a field-marshal, the ninny a bishop, the frump a privy-councillor, the sumph a court-physician.