whiskey, and a large supply of strong tumblers. This was Bill's studio-and he passed the greater portion of his time at his studies.

With all these delights, however, he was not a happy man. He missed his old associates-not that he loved them, or that they they cared an iota for him, but from mere habit. He was accustomed to them, and could not be comfortable without their noise, and their rows, and their oaths; though even Bill was too proud to exhibit his quondam friends in his new house to the critical gaze of servants and dependents. At length he resolved to give them all a grand entertainment, or, as he termed it, "a jolly blow out." So keeping himself moderately sober for once, he sallied forth, and called at the forge, and in the old alley, and sought out the most disreputable fellows in both places (they being his most intimate friends) and invited them all to a supper at the "Pig and Vampire," the landlord of which was profuse in expressions of delight at beholding Bill's charming countenance once more, and renewed his congratulations on the subject of the fortune.

The important evening arrived at last, and with it arrived also the guests-punctually at 8 P. M. Bill was greeted with the noisiest demonstrations of affection, and three cheers were raised in his honour. Already he had been at work in his studio, and was just getting on to the high road to exhilaration. The table was spread with a clean cloth-a luxury that probably only one of the party ever partook of elsewhere. Bill assumed the chair with grand importance--the dishes were brought in the covers removed, and the feast displayed. It was plentiful, if not refined in taste. There was a tremendous goose stuffed with sage and onions, a sirloin of beef, a boiled leg of mutton and turnips, a large dish of tripe and onions, a rabbit pie, and a huge piece of boiled bacon-enough, at all events, for the select party of eight, who sat down to it.

There was not much conversation while the eating was going on-mouths being more profitably employed, for every man ate as if his life depended on being able to dispose of some perfectly enormous quantity of animal food in a given small space of time. Beer was drank by the quart, and out of the pewter. Bill offered them wine if they liked it, but one and all voted it poor stuff, and not to be compared with Barclay and

Perkins-improved by the landlord of the "Pig and Vampire."

When every body had eaten till he felt as if he should never be able to eat any more as long as he lived-a sensation known occasionally to people of the ancient aldermanic class the cloth was removed, and tumblers, hot water, and spirits brought in. Then began the real business of the evening.

First, one Mr. Thomas Short, a blacksmith, arose to propose the health of the giver of the feast; which he did somewhat as follows:

"Gen'lemen-I rise to give yer an 'ealth -the 'ealth of one who's a swell now, but who aint proud for all that--for he's come 'ere to see his old friends-and we hare his friends, every one of us-(great cheering)— and he's give us a supper, which I calls a reg'lar out and outer. And it's my 'pinion he's a brick, every inch of him; and I 'ope he'll 'scuse me for saying he's a brick, (cheers --and a nod from Bill, who also muttered, "Go it, old cock) and so, gen❜lemen, I gives for his jolly good 'ealth, and many of 'em."

Tremendous approbation followed-every man drank his tumbler of grog right off, ("no heel-taps" being vociferated) and then every man thumped the table with his glass as if to test its strength.

Bill arose to return thanks, and held on pretty tight to the table in doing so, for he was conscious of feeling a little unsteady on his legs. Assuming an air of great gravity, he rolled his eyes a little, and leant his head forward-then he hiccupped, and then he winked his eye, which last feat was applauded as a great piece of wit. He opened his mouth once and seemed to be going to speak, but no words came out. His friends were all attention, but, just as he opened his mouth again, he slipped back into his seat, and from his seat he slipped to the floor. Two or three sprang to pick him up.

"Holloa, Bill! What is it? all right, old fellow, eh?" they cried, but no response came from Bill.

"He's very drunk," said one.

"Pull off his coat and loose his collar," said another.

"Blowed if he aint precious bad," said

another.

"Lor 'bless ye, I've see'd Bill a precious sight worse often enough," cried a fourth: "he'll just get up and laugh at ye, by-andbye,"

"He don't move much, and he do look

'orrid pale, any how," suggested the one who had pulled off Bill's cravat.

66

"I'm blessed if he aint dying," said one. "I see Jim Spraggs go off just like that." There was a cry of horror at this suggestion, and the tables were thrust aside, and all surrounded Bill.

"Call in the landlord," said one, and four or five rushed out to do so.

The landlord came in with his cap on his head, and his pipe in his mouth, and looked at Bill, as he was held in a sitting position on the floor, with his head in the hands of one of the men. The landlord looked, he pulled his pipe from his mouth, drew a long breath, and said,

"He's dead!"

"Run for a doctor," some one cried; and as Bill, or Bill's estate could pay for one, they were not long in procuring him.

The doctor felt his pulse, listened at his heart, and said,

"Dead, quite dead!"

And the drunken fellows around felt a cold shudder pass over them, and could not withdraw their gaze from Bill's bloated, livid face. And each one though his own turn might be next, and each one made a vow (to be broken within a week) to abstain from liquor henceforth.

And many another drunkard shook in his shoes when he heard how "staggering Bill" had died. (To be continued.)

I HAVE not yet decided whether to consider it a curse or a blessing that I was born to be an uncle John, a bachelor-uncle John. I am one of a numerous class; for where is the desolate family that cannot boast it's uncle John ;-the kind, dear old man who drops in unexpectedly at night, after the little nephews and nieces are gone to bed, and thinks he will startle them in the morning with his bear's growl at the nursery door. But the little urchins are too quick for him; they are up betimes, and see a pair of boots, not a bit like papa's, being carried down to clean; and, once on the scent, they do not rest till they hunt out the owner, and then they make such a buzzing and scrambling outside his door, that, in defence of his last hour's sleep, he starts from his bed, and scares away the little army with that terrific growl of his; but it will not do, uncle John is a universal victim. The discomfited host of curly heads catch a glimpse of his phiz, and rally from their panic; and there is nothing for uncle John then, but at once to clothe his outward man, and give himself up to his persecutors.

Then again, uncle John suffers in no small degree from the very false ideas the rising generation conceive of his funded property : his very name suggests shillings to them in their first decade, half-sovereigns as their years increase. It is really too bad that children should be brought up in such delu

sions, especially in these days, when Boards of Health are rampant, and John Bull pulls so hard at our purse-strings, to enable him to find bread for his children, and iron for the metal mouths he has planted out there on Russia's footstool.

But I must not forget that I am only uncle John, not the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

I was led to the above review of my social position by the perusal of a concise, somewhat dictatorial letter from my brotherin-law, Westerdale, Squire of Somerton. ran thus :

"DEAR JOHN,

It

deed! Uncle John has nothing better to do with his money, I suppose. However, we'll waive the "express" argument; for I must say I like that kind of travelling best, especially when I'm bound for Eastborough ; for, as it is the world's end, of course Mr. Stoker can't take us further; so I can sleep for two hundred miles, and be sure of awaking eventually at my terminus. "Must have some conversation."- Aye! there's the rub! But I'm up to old Westerdale this time, and I'll not be bamboozled into tacking on five or ten more odd shares in the E. and H. R., to the fifteen I have already been fool enough to pay my couple of hundreds for. No; I will write and say they must cut the first turf without uncle John.

And so I did write, and was once again casting my eye over my brother-in-law's letter, previous to burning it, when a T. O. in the corner caught my eye. I did the bidding of the little letters, and opened on a line or two in a running, girlish hand.

Papa gave me his letter to seal; so I can just say how we all hope you will come. Do, dear uncle John, for the sake of your affectionate niece, Grace Westerdale."

It was odd how those few words changed my thoughts on the subject of the "littleline," and ultimately my intentions respecting being present at the first cutting; for, in spite of subjecting myself to the charge of being a man of most unstable purposes, I must confess that I could not resist the appeal of that little Grace Westerdale. Of my fourteen nephews, and seventeen nieces, scattered in their respective families over England, Grace is my special favourite; not that others would find her the most attractive, for her elder sister, Julia, outshines her in all that meets the eye, and her younger sisters are such a bright little crew, that some day or other, strangers will not be able to detect the soft light of my little Grace's loveliness amidst the family refulgence. Uncle John will never fail to trace it, however it will gild his declining days like a bright reflection of the goodness and beauty of his best loved sister, whom, of all her daughters, Grace alone resembles. Yes; Easter was approaching; the opening leaves in Russell Square made me long for a real peep of Spring in the green lanes of Somerton; law business was not very pressing; so I wrote to bid Grace meet me at Eastborough on the following Wednesday.

Somerton Hall is a fine old mansion, which my brother-in-law bought some ten years ago when he retired from all active part in the iron-works at Eastborough, which had proved so lucrative a business to him. But Westerdale was not one to degenerate, in affluence, into the sloth and inactivity he so greatly abhorred when working his way to fortune; on the contrary, as Squire of Somerton he was ever bustling and astir for the public good; and, I ween, his exertions even then, oftimes tended to private advantage. Thrice Mayor of Eastborough, chairman of the Board of Health, and member of I don't know how many local committees besides, he had begun to feel himself so important a personage in the neighbourhood, that the days seemed all too short for him to travel hither and thither where his presence was needed. I am sure his old grey could have drawn him in her sleep to Eastborough, so well did she know every turning of that ten miles' drive from Somerton. But driving behind a grey mare is slow work in these days, and so Westerdale found it; and, longing as he did for some swifter means of transit, he thought, and imparted his thought to other gentlemen near him, how well it would be to have a Pegasus of steam to unite Somerton, and its distinguished agricultural neighbourhood, to the great town which was so dependent on them.

Who that conceives a spirited project, and has energy to ignore difficulties and pursue it untiringly, ever fails of success? Energy! Perseverance! these are the watchwords of our successful men ; and Westerdale was one of these. I cannot undertake to describe the race he ran for two years, to win the iron road to Somerton, nor the mental anxieties on the same account which wore him thin. Suffice it, that he got the Bill, and forthwith proceeded to make the myth of the Eastborough and Hurlestone Railway a veritable existence on the earth. Wise heads shook gravely over the affair, and portended no good would come of it; and truly there seemed but little promise of advantage to be gained.

The line was to start from the large manufacturing town of Eastborough, and to extend twenty miles over a flat country with no feature of interest about it, except a tract of peat moor,-the charm of which may be thought dubious,-and, after uniting perhaps ten little villages lying near its