‘A curse light on all kite-flyers!’ vociferated a sturdy farmer. ‘Od rabbit me, here be a bundle o’ trash, measters! not worth a voive-and-zixpenny dollar all together. This comes o’ peaper-mills. “I promise to pay,” ecod! O the good old days o’ goulden guineas, when I used to ride whoame vrom market wi’ a great heavy bag in my pocket; and when I whopped it down on the old oak teable, it used to make zuch a zound as did one’s heart good to hear it. No _promise to pay_ then. Now a man may eat his whole vortin in a zandwich, or zet vire to it in a vardin rushlight. Promise to pay!—the lying rascals, they never meant to pay: they knew all the while they had no effects to pay; but zuch a pretty, zmooth-spoken, palavering zet o’ fellers! why, Lord bless you! they’d ha’ made you believe black was white! and though you could never get anything of ’em but one o’ their own dirty bits o’ peaper in change vor another, they made it out as clear as daylight that they were as rich as zo many Jews. Ecod! and we were all vools enough to believe ’em, and now mark the end o’t.’ ‘Yes, father,’ said a young fop at his elbow, ‘all blown, curse me!’ ‘Ees,’ said the farmer, ‘and thee beest blown, and thee mun zell thy hunter, and turn to the plough-tail; and thy zisters mun churn butter, and milk the cows, instead of jingling penny-vorties, and dancing at race-balls wi’ squires. We mun be old English varmers again, and none o’ your voine high-flying promise-to-pay gentlevolks. There they be—spell ’em: _I promise to pay to Mr. Gregory Gas, or bearer, on demand, the zum o’ voive pounds. Gullgudgeon Bank, April the virst. Vor Zmokeshadow, Airbubble, Zelf, and Company, Henry Hopthetwig. Entered, William Walkoff._ And there be their coat o’ arms: two blacksmiths blowing a vorge, wi’ the chimney vor a crest, and a wreath o’ smoke coming out o’t; and the motto, ‘YOU CAN’T CATCH A BOWLFUL.’ Od rabbit me! here be a whole handvul of ’em, and I’ll zell ’em all vor a voive-and-zixpenny dollar.’ The ‘Jacobin rascal,’ of whom the reverend gentleman had spoken, happened to be at the farmer’s elbow. ‘I told you how it would be,’ said he, ‘Master Sheepshead, many years ago; and I remember you wanted to put me in the stocks for my trouble.’ ‘Why, I believe I did, Mr. Lookout,’ said the farmer, with a very penitent face; ‘but if you’ll call on me zome day we’ll drown old grudges in a jug o’ ale, and light our poipes wi’ the promises o’ Measter Hopthetwig and his gang.’ ‘Not with all of them I entreat you,’ said Mr. Lookout. ‘I hope you will have one of them framed and glazed, and suspended over your chimney, as a warning to your children, and your children’s children for ever, against “_the blessed comforts of paper-money_.”’ ‘Why, Lord love you, Measter Lookout,’ said the farmer, ‘we shall ha’ nothing but peaper-money still, you zee, only vrom another mill like.’