more than a rendezvous for these humble folk. The London and Dover coach started from the hostel daily, and passengers who had come across the Channel, and those who started for the “grand tour,” all became acquainted with Mr. Jellyband, his French wines and his home-brewed ales. 

 It was towards the close of September, 1792, and the weather which had been brilliant and hot throughout the month had suddenly broken up; for two days torrents of rain had deluged the south of England, doing its level best to ruin what chances the apples and pears and late plums had of becoming really fine, self-respecting fruit. Even now it was beating against the leaded windows, and tumbling down the chimney, making the cheerful wood fire sizzle in the hearth. 

 “Lud! did you ever see such a wet September, Mr. Jellyband?” asked Mr. Hempseed. 

 He sat in one of the seats inside the hearth, did Mr. Hempseed, for he was an authority and an important personage not only at “The Fisherman’s Rest,” where Mr. Jellyband always made a special selection of him as a foil for political arguments, but throughout the neighbourhood, where his learning and notably his knowledge of the Scriptures was held in the most profound awe and respect. With one hand buried in the capacious pockets of his corduroys underneath his elaborately-worked, well-worn smock, the other holding his long clay pipe, Mr. Hempseed sat there looking dejectedly across the room at the rivulets of moisture which trickled down the window panes. 

 “No,” replied Mr. Jellyband, sententiously, “I dunno, Mr. ’Empseed, as I ever did. An’ I’ve been in these parts nigh on sixty years.” 

 “Aye! you wouldn’t rec’llect the first three years of them sixty, Mr. Jellyband,” quietly interposed Mr. Hempseed. “I dunno as I ever see’d an infant take much note of the weather, leastways not in these parts, an’ I’ve lived ’ere nigh on seventy-five years, Mr. Jellyband.” 

 The superiority of this wisdom was so incontestable that for the moment Mr. Jellyband was not ready with his usual flow of argument. 

 “It do seem more like April than September, don’t it?” continued Mr. Hempseed, dolefully, as a shower of raindrops fell with a sizzle upon the fire. 

 “Aye! that it do,” assented the worthy host, “but then what can you ’xpect, Mr. ’Empseed, I says, with sich a government as we’ve got?” 

 Mr. Hempseed shook his 

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