edn'.

Good 'nough to

set down for a bit. Long legs d' want | "Ha-ha! Ess, to be sure. Hark a rest, as much as short ones, 'a to Mrs. Tonkin, father. Plenty in b'lieve." the say,' she d' say; 'trouble is to Miss Penelloe entered -a plump, get 'em out.' Well, that edn' badyoungish woman, ruddy, black-haired, not bad, that with a typical Celtic face, high cheek-put in the paper, 'a b'lieve. Father, bones, small twinkling grey eyes, and a get your handkercher out o' your coat long upper lip like a portcullis over a pocket and blaw your nose to wance, big, thin mouth. Behind her stooped afore there's a haccident. Eh! Mrs. her father, immensely tall, thin, loose- Tonkin, I do admire to be'old the way jointed, near-sighted, and wearing a your fingers d' go about that net. In big grizzled beard. and out, in and out they d' go. That's Mrs. Tonkin introduced the lodger. a big hole theer." Miss Penelloe nodded and smiled gra- "Them plaguy sharks ciously, and remarked on the state of ejaculated Mrs. Tonkin. the weather, in an affable tone, calcu- a net so full o' holes. lated to set him at his ease at once.knaw, Miss Penelloe, 'twill be fuller o' Mr. Penelloe stood and swayed about holes when 'tes done mending." in the middle of the room, gazing helplessly at the net, whose coils surrounded him on the floor. His daughter proceeded to take him in hand.

"Step auver the net and set down, father. Gie me your hat, or you'll be setten on 'ts'ch a habsent man as you be. Don't 'ee set theer in a draught, and you with a cold; come auver here," catching him by the elbow, and steering him to a chair in a corner, where he collapsed limply.

"Ess, Mrs. Tonkin," she continued, sitting down and folding her hands, "us couldn' pass your door and not look in for a bit of a chat. 'Tedn' often we d' come this way. And how's your health, Mrs. Tonkin? What are 'ee a-sarchen after, father? Your pipe? Here 'a es, in my bag. No trusting father with his pipe, 'a b'lieve, Mrs. Tonkin. S'ch a man as 'a es for losing of 'nt and breaking of 'nt. Your baccy's in your purse, father, and your purse in your left trousies pocket, and so's your knife. Mind, when you d' want to spittie, g' out to the door, dacent, and liv Mrs. Tonkin's clane slab alone. Well, Mrs. Tonkin, my dear, and how's fishing ?"

"Aw- plenty o' fish, 'a b'lieveplenty."

"Sure?"

-

"Ess, plenty in the say; trouble is

to get 'em out."

and dogs!" "Never was But you d'

"I don't understand your manen, Mrs. Tonkin."

"Why, 'tes a sort o' puzzle we fishing people d' 'ave. What is that which the more you mend et, the more et's full o' holes?' Answer is, a net; the meases being holes, in a manner spaken, you d' see."

"Well, now!" cried Miss Penelloe, "that's clever, too. Father, d'st hear that? Why, what's the matter wi' 'ee now, father?

fidget."

Do set still and don't

Mr. Penelloe was shifting uneasily on his chair and mournfully shaking his head, while his eyes were fixed on the corner of the room where the clockcase stood.

"Scand'lous!" he exclaimed in a voice of tragic hoarseness. "That theer clock's seventeen minutes slow!"

"Theer!" cried Miss Penelloe delightedly ; "that's father all over! One thing 'a d' think upon is clocks and time. Do 'ee mind setten that clock right, Mrs. Tonkin? Father won't rest a minute in the same room with a lying clock.”

"Dear me !" exclaimed Mrs. Tonkin in troubled tones. "I'm vexed, that I am. Gie 'ce my word I thought 'twas c'rrect. I'll get on a cheer and set 'n right to wance."

"Wait a bit," interposed Miss Penelloe. "You don't mind letten father

The time-honored pleasantry was do 'nt hisself? 'Twill plaise 'en

well received.

mighty, and save trouble; father don't

You caan't

'tes somethen uncommon, but I caan't
azackly mind what."
"The

affliction o' that p'tic'lar clock," said Mr. Penelloe slowly, and, as the lodger thought, in rather a pointed tone, "is being like some females, a brae sight too fond of et's own voice."

66

need no cheer for the loftiest clock in the kingdom, 'a b'lieve. Go, father, set 'n right; go! Why, 'twas his great heighth 'at set father to mending clocks. You must know, sir," she continued, turning to the lodger," father's a carpenter by trade. But when 'a was courten mawther up Camborne way, grandf'er, who was a clockmaker, Aw, ess, to be sure. Striking, fasaid to father one day, 'Jacob,' 'a ther d' mane," explained his daughter said, 'tes plain what Providence in- condescendingly. "Twill start at tended 'ee for, when 'a made 'ee seven dead o' night, and work off three days foot high-'twas to mendie eight-day in ten minutes; or 'twill take a fancy clocks, sure 'nough. Why, look at to strike seventeen for every hour o' me,' 'a said — 'a was a little chap, the day." grandf'er — ' look at me. "Now!" exclaimed Mrs. Tonkin, think the divers perils I've gone rather over-doing the accent of wonder through along o' standen on rotten- in her polite anxiety to show that legged auld cheers and wee-waw stools, though her hands might be at work on up top o' steers, and all sorts o' risky places. Ay,' says he, 'tes a trade full o' danger for a little chap like me. I d' get my liven on the brink o' destruction, and peril do compass me round about. With your nose in the vitals of a clock,' says grandf'er, 'you don't pay no 'tention to nawthen else; "Bless you," Miss Penelloe went on, maybe you see a wheel loose, or some- "clocks d''ave their ways, and fancies, then, and you get excited and make a and wakenesses, and obstinatenesses step one way or t'other, and there you just like Christians. No two clocks are on the ground, and lucky ef clock alike, 'a b'lieve. But father d' knaw edu' atop of 'ee. But you're made for how to manage 'em all. Not but what the business, Jacob,' 'a said to father; 'a draws the line somewhere, as we 'throwed away, you are, on planen all must. There was a chap come to wood and such. Take my advice,' father once with a guckoo-clock for 'm said he, make a proper use o' your gifts, and larn to mend clocks.' And so father did, though 'a 've always sticked to his carpenter work, being what 'a was brought up to."

"Clocks is my pastime, only my pastime, so to spake," murmured Mr. Penelloe, shambling back to his chair.

the net, her thoughts were all absorbed in her visitor's story. "Well!". holding up the net, and with knitted brows scanning its surface for rents. "Sure!"— pouncing on a torn spot and attacking it vigorously with knife and needle.

6

to mendie, but father said 'No' to wance. 'Bring me a clock 'at do strike proper,' said he, and I'll see to 'nt; or bring me a clock 'at don't strike at all, and I'll see to 'nt; but a clock 'at d' make a noise like the fowls o' the air | edn' no clock at all,' says father, 'caal 'nt what you will. I don't hauld wi' no s'ch fullishness, nor I waan't ha' nawthen to do wi' 'en,' said he."

"Theer, think o' that!" cried Mrs. Tonkin. "Wouldn' ha' nawthen to do wi' 'en! O' course 'ee wouldn', Mr. Penelloe, and I do hauld 'ee in honor for 'nt. Guckoo clocks, indeed! Such fullishness as we do find in this mortal world!"

"Yet there's few d' knaw more about clocks and their saycret mysteries 'an father," said his daughter proudly. "There's a clock wi' a brass face up foreign, nobody caan't manage but he. The people 'at d' b'long to that clock send for father reg'lar, and pay for his travelling and all, every time 'a d' go wrong. Nobody else waan't do for 'em, they must have father. Let's "Fullishness you may well say, Mrs. see, father, what's the matter wi' that Tonkin, and roguishness you might clock up to Trebollyvean? I knaw say, and wouldn' be fur wrong. The

way people be'ave over clocks

"What I want to knaw," said Mr. Penelloe earnestly, "is this. I've puzzled over et a good bit, Sundays, and other times

"So 'a has, Mrs. Tonkin," interjected Miss Penelloe. "Every time 'a take up his Bible, 'a turns to Joshua, chapter ten, sure 'nough. Book do open nat'ral on the very place every time; 'a 've got so used to 'nt, 'a d' seem to knaw."

well | Nun, 'a d' mane, when 'a made the there! scand'lous, that 'a es! No sun stand still in Gibeon.” notion they haven't o' the way to trate 'em. Father d' often say clock sh'd be 'counted the true master in a house. Et says to 'ee, 'Do this, do that,' every time 'a d' strike. Seven o'clock, get up, thou sluggard, and lightie the fire; 'leven o'clock, put the 'taties on; four o'clock, fill the kettle, ef ye plaize; ten o'clock, g' up to thy chamber, go!' But theer! some people think they can chate time by ill-using their clocks. There's Mrs. Perry up our way; laast thing at night she d' allers put clock on haalf-an-hour, so she may get up betimes in the mornen; then back et d' go after brukfast, haalf an hour slow, to keepie the men from grummlen 'cause dinner's late; then on again, 'cause she d' like to have tay earlier 'an her conscience 'ull let her. And so 'a goes on, making clock tell lies, and then pretending to b'lieve 'en."

"Shameful!" cried Mrs. Tonkin, who, by the way, is guilty of similar conduct every day of her life.

Here attention was directed to Mr. Penelloe, who was gazing fixedly at the lodger, while he fumbled with his hands on his knees and made abortive efforts to speak.

“And, fur's I can understand from what they're a-tellen me, they d' want to make out that these auld ancient Hebrews hadn' no clocks; which don't seem likely, do it?"

The lodger believed, however, that such was the case.

Mr. Penelloe meditated. "Seem's queer, a world athout clocks. How they managed I caan't think. But what I was axen was this. Ef there had been clocks, that theer merracle 'ud ha' set 'em all wrong, wouldn' et?"

The lodger supposed so.

"Unless, maybe, et acted on the clocks too, so to spake, and stopped 'em?"

The lodger thought this possible.

"Well, et beats me, et do," said Mr. Penelloe slowly. "Those must ha' been turr'ble unsettlen times to live Wouldn' ha' suited me, 'a b'lieve." So saying, he relapsed into a brown

"Well, what's the matter now, father?" asked his daughter. "Spake up, and don't be bashful ef you've any-in. thing to say sensible."

Thus encouraged, Mr. Penelloe ad-study. dressed the lodger.

"You're somethen of a scholar, sir, I've no doubt. Studied a good deal, 'a b'lieve."

The lodger made a suitably modest reply.

But Miss Penelloe was on her feet. "Come, father, what wi' your chatting, time's getting on, and hus must do likewise."

"Not afore you've had a dish o' tay!" cried Mrs. Tonkin.

"No, Mrs. Tonkin, caan't stop a

"Then, spaken o' clocks, can you tell me what's your opinion o' minute longer." Joshua ?"

The connection between the subjects was not very apparent to the lodger, and his expression probably showed this. Miss Penelloe came promptly to the rescue.

"Ah, you edn' the first father's puzzled over that, sir. 'Tes a reg'lar c'nundrum wi' he. Joshua the son o'

Mrs. Tonkin cannot endure that the frivolous intentions of her guests should interfere with her exercise of the sacred rights of hospitality.

"Set down!" she exclaimed, with commanding nay, wrathful - emphasis.

--

But Miss Penelloe was obdurate.
"Come, father, come," she said to

L

her parent. "Gie us your pipe. But Mr. Penelloe, was half past three. ton up your coat; et's blawen cauld Foreseeing an invitation to partake, and wisht outside. There!" placing which he must either refuse and grievhis hat on his head and jamming it ously offend Mrs. Tonkin, or accept firmly down over his eyes. "Good- to the detriment of his digestion, he day, Mrs. Tonkin; good-day, sir. Say thought best to avoid the dilemma by good-day to the gentleman, father. retiring from the scene. Ascuse father's simmin' rudeness, sir, in not being quick to say good-day. Polite 'a es by nature, but 'a edn' got the art of et, so to spake. 'A 've took a great fancy to 'ee, raelly; I can see

CHARLES LEE.

From Temple Bar.

STEVENSON.
I.

that from the free way 'a tackled 'ee SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF ROBERT LOUIS over Joshua; and 'tedn' everybody father do take a fancy to. Say goodday, why don't 'ee, father?"

IT must be fully thirty years since I

Mr. Penelloe turned his peering gaze first saw Robert Louis Stevenson in the on the lodger again.

"But maybe," he said, "the merracle acting all round, as we agreed, when the sun went on, the clocks 'ud ha' started again."

"Theer!" cried Miss Penelloe in ecstasy, "did 'eer ever hear the like? You've hit et, father, right 'nough. That's just father's way. 'A edn' so quick as some; but 'a d' sit and puzzle, and the wonderful clever notions 'at d' come into his head! But come; go we must."

flesh to use a somewhat inapplicable phrase. I had somehow or other, in spite of a zeal for outdoor games, run into a period of low, rather than bad health, and was transferred from a well-known Edinburgh boarding-school to a small private school in the same city. I do not think there were at this little seminary more than a dozen boys, ranging in ages from nine or ten, to fourteen or fifteen, and our intellectual calibre varied fully as much as our years. For some of us were sent there for reasons of health, and others because they had not made that progress with their studies which their fond parents had hoped. Others were there, I fancy, merely because the scheme of education upon which the proprietor, Mr. Robert Thomson, proceeded, fell in with the views of our parents. The main feature of this system was, so far as I can recollect, that we had no home lessons, but learned, in the two or three hours of afternoon school, what we were expected to remember next day. My impression is, that either Stevenson joined the school later than I did, or that he was absent on one of his frequent health-pilgrimages, when I first made the acquaintance of my schoolmates. However, when he did come, being older and somewhat more advanced than the others, we were naturally drawn much together, and whatever I may have done for him, he Looking at the clock, the lodger certainly played a leading role for me found that the time, as amended by among this juvenile "cast." Our free

"Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Tonkin, when Mr. Penelloe had been safely conveyed into the street, and the door had closed on the visitors. "Well! ded 'ee ever hear s'ch nonsense, wi' their clocks and fullishness? He edn' azactly, I don't think; and as for she, wi' her talk'tes enough to puttie one deef, so 'a es. 'A course I was forced to be polite to 'em in my own kitchen; and then you must allow for 'em being from the country, where sense is scarce. But theer!"

Words failed her, and she vented her feeling in a vigorous attack on the net. "Come! where's that dish o' tay? - come."

It was Mr. Tonkin, returning to the attack, and backed up by Jimmy. This time Mrs. Tonkin had no objection to raise, and laying down her work, she went to the cupboard.

prose.

dom from home tasks gave us leisure that extraordinary vividness of recolfor literary activities, which would lection by which he could so astonishotherwise have been tabooed as waste ingly recall, not only the doings, but of time. Perhaps with some of us it the very thoughts and emotions of his was, but not with Stevenson. For youth. For, often as we must have even then he had to the grief of his communed together, with all the shamefather, if not of both his parents-a less candor of boys, hardly any remark fixed idea that literature was his call- of his has stuck to me except the ing, and a marvellously mature concep- opinion already alluded to, and which tion of the course of self-education struck me- his elder by some fifteen through which he required to put him- months as very amusing, that "at self in order to succeed. Among other sixteen we should be men. He of all things, we were encouraged to make mortals, who was, in a sense, always verse translations, and, for some reason still a boy! Nor can I recall any speor other, I specially well remember a cial incidents beyond the episode of passage of Ovid, which he rendered in the school magazine, already alluded to Scott-like octosyllabics, and I in heroic in the Daily News for December 19th. couplets, which I probably thought He and my other schoolmates were, I commendably like those of Mr. Pope. fancy, pretty often at my house, which But, even then, Stevenson showed im- being in the country, was more attracpatience of the trammels of verse, and tive on holidays than their town houses. longed for the compass and ductility of I was not often in 17 Heriot Row, and I had a notion then, of which I have never been disabused, that I was not a persona grata to Stevenson père on account of my being an art-and-part accomplice in his son's literary schemes and ambitions, which he discouraged to the uttermost. I may have been morbidly sensitive, but I used to feel that when he looked at me he was saying internally, "Oh, you're another young scribbling idiot like my son - only weaker." Mrs. Stevenson was always kind and gracious, but, in spite of that, I always felt rather like a bale of contraband goods, as I passed in at the door of No. 17, and followed Stevenson to his den in the attic story. One of these occasions, I do distinctly remember, on which Stevenson was brimful of the story of "Deacon Brodie " (one which never appealed to me at all), and, I believe, he then read me, probably in 1864, portions of a proposed drama on the subject.

Stevenson calls himself "ugly" in his student days, but I think this is a term that never at any time fitted him. Certainly to him as a boy about fourteen (with the creed which he propounded to me, that at sixteen one was a mau) it would not apply. In body, he was assuredly badly set up. His limbs were long, lean, and spidery, and his chest flat, so as almost to suggest some mal-nutrition, such sharp corners did his joints make under his clothes. But in his face this was belied. His brow was oval and full over soft brown eyes, that seemed already to have drunk the sunlight under southern vines. The whole face had a tendency to an oval, Madonna-like type. But about the mouth, and in the mirthful, mocking light of the eyes, there lingered ever a ready Autolycus roguery that rather suggested sly Hermes masquerading as a mortal. The eyes were always genial, however gaily the lights danced in them, but about the mouth there was something a little tricksy and mocking, as of a spirit that already peeped behind the scenes of life's pageant and more than guessed its unrealities.

I would now give much to possess but one of Stevenson's gifts, namely,

On the other hand, our house seemed to have taken his romantic fancy, and in a chapter in one of his short stories called "The House at Murrayfield," it is powerfully and, in the main, accurately described, in its very gloomiest aspect as the scene of a murder, so vividly portrayed that, though I only read the passage once, and have vainly