“It was twea o'clock int' mworning when we gat to our awn Duir—I c'aed out Fadder! Fadder!—Mudder! Mudder! ower an' ower again—She hard us, an' sed—‘That's our Betty's voice’—‘Thou's nought but fancies, lig still,’ said my Fadder—but she waddent; an' sea gat up, an' opent' Duir and there warr we stanning doddering[19]—an' daized we' cauld, as deer deead as macks nea matter—When she so us she was mare flate than we—She brast out a crying—an' we grat—an my Fadder grat an' a'—an' they duddent flight,[20] nor said nought tull us, for cumming away,—they warrant a bit angert—an' my Fadder sed we sud nivver gang back again. [Footnote 19: We still speak of _Dodder_ or _Quaker's_ grass,—a word by the way, older than the Sect.] [Footnote 20: A. S. _Flitan_—to scold.] “T' Fwoaks e' Dent nivver mist us, tilt' Neet—because they thought 'at we hed been keept at dinner time 'at finish our tasks—but when neet com, an' we duddent cum heam, they set off efter us to Kendal—an' mun ha' gane by Scotch Jins when we warr there—how they satisfied thersells I knan't, but they suppwosed we hed gane heam—and sea they went back—My Fadder wasn't lang, ye may be seur, o' finding out' T' Woman at Kendal 'at was sea good tull us—an' my Mudder put her doun a pot o' Butter, an' meead her a lile cheese an' sent her.” INTERPOLATION. The above affecting and very simple story, Reader, was taken down from the mouth of Betty Yewdale herself, the elder of the two children,—at that time an old woman, but with a bright black eye that lacked no lustre. A shrewd and masculine woman, Reader, was Betty Yewdale,—fond of the Nicotian weed and a short pipe so as to have the full flavour of its essence,—somewhat, sooth be said, too fond of it, for the pressure of the pipe produced a cancer in her mouth, which caused her death.—Knowest thou, gentle Reader, that most curious of all curious books—(we stop not to inquire whether Scarron be indebted to it, or it to Scarron)—the Anatomy of Melancholy by Democritus Junior, old Burton to wit?—Curious if thou art, it cannot fail, but that thou knowest it well,—curious or not, hear what he says of Tobacco, poor Betty Yewdale's bane! “Tobacco, divine, rare, super-excellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all their panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher's stones, a sovereign remedy to all diseases. A good vomit, I confesse, a vertuous herb, if it be well qualified, opportunely taken, and medicinally used; but, as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, 'tis a plague, a mischief, a violent purger of goods, lands, health, hellish, devilish and damned tobacco, the ruine and overthrow of body and soul.”