reared in the garden-temples and fed in the
basins made for gold fish.

Everything was left to fall to rack and
ruin, except just what could be turned to
profit, or what, at any rate, the master fancied
to be a profit. He took a fancy to me
from the first, because you see I was a sort of
Jack of all trades, and did not mind turning
my hand to anything. So I grew from that
to be a kind of bailiff. We had a deal of
fruit to sell in Blexborough, which though
not such a big place as it is now since
these railways were found out, was beginning
to be a pretty good market. Then
there was the hay and the potatoes, the
sheep and the pigs, and I managed all. So,
of course, I got to speak to the Squire
pretty often, and I said to him once, "I
think, Squire, if you're for farming you'd do
better to take a regular farm, and let on
sale this place that's planned for pleasure-
grounds, and never was meant for profit."
But, bless you, he'd never listen to any
common sense, for I believe the truth was
he could not bear to put money out of his
pocket, and many and many a time when
he wouldn't order a joint of meat from the
butcher's, he'd have pork, that, what with
one experiment or another, would cost him
a shilling the pound.

One day, he made up his mind to break
a fine mere of land to plough. Says I, "We
want some horses very bad, Squire, for that
stiff clay."

"Why, Robin," says he—my name's Robin
Spudder—"haven't you the four horses?"

"Lord, sir," says I, "they're no good at
all. They may do in the light carts, or for
harrowing, though that wasn't what they
were meant for; but for ploughing, you see,
you want some weight and substance, and
it's my belief you'll kill the horses, and do
no good to the land."

The Squire was a mild spoken gentleman,
unless you put his back up; but, when I
said this, his eyes flared like a forcing
furnace. Says he, "Robin are you in a
conspiracy to ruin me like all the rest? Those
horses cost my father four hundred pound,
and you told me yourself they would not
fetch twenty pound a-piece, and now you
want me to buy more!"

Well it was no use saying anything, for
I dare not tell him that he had ruined the
poor brutes with feeding them on a mess
of potatoes and chaff-stuff, he had learned
out of a French book.

Another time, I've known him sooner
than give an order for a load of coals,
make me cut down two ornamental trees.

So you see, we lived on the farm off
vegetables, poultry that didn't sell, skim-
milk; all the cream went for butter; pork,
and such old fat wethers as were not fit
for market. I used to be sorry for the poor
children, walking among the fine fruit, and
not allowed to touch so much as an apple,
unless it was bruised, and obliged to be
content with dry bread, when we were
making pounds and pounds of fine butter;
talking among themselves how different it
was when their poor Ma was alive.

But they were so young that they did not
feel the change much, as long as they could
play about; and, of course, when their father's
back was turned, they had the best of everything.
We, servants out of the house, did very
well, our wages were regular, and, of course,
we had the best of everything that was sold,
beside our perquisites.

I lived in one of the park lodges, and made
myself and my missis very comfortable, with
a garden. A cow's grass was part of my
wages; and many a time the children came
down from the Hall, and had a better tea
with us than they were allowed at home.
The worst of it was, the Squire was always
trying some new-fangled plans, and never
stuck to any of 'em long enough to make 'em
pay. He used to read something out of a
book, and come down full of it, and try it, if
it could be done without laying out too much
money, and then before it was half done, he
tried something else.

One time he was for fatting cattle in stalls;
so he fits up with faggots and clay some old
sheds, and buys a lot of poor Welch cattle at
a low figure, and goes to work very hot for a
few weeks. But the beasts wouldn't feed, or
the food was not right, and all went wrong.
They didn't sell for much more than they
cost. Then he was all for pigs, and we
had pigs by the hundred, eating their heads
off. Well, that didn't answer, and the dairy
—made in one of the wine cellars of the old
house, with fifty cows—didn't turn out much
better. The cows died, or gave no milk,
and the dairy-maids stole the butter, or
else no one would buy it; and the cheese
made on a new plan, from Holland, or
Switzerland, or some outlandish place, never
turned out right. The Squire, you see, was
quite a bookman; and when he'd given his
order, and read his explanation, he thought
he'd done all that was necessary.

It wasn't my business to make any
difficulties. Mine was a comfortable place;
and so were all the servants' and labourers',
for the matter of that; but we could none of
us understand the Squire, no more could the
neighbours. For it was said, that though the
old lawyer had not left him so much as he
expected, still there was a pretty tidy lot:
some thousands a-year at the least, I've heard
say, beside the house and park. But he had got
into his head most times that he was going to
be ruined, or that he was ruined, and was
always dwelling on the large fortune he had
to pay to his father's family. He'd talk to me,
he'd talk to any labourers about it; I don't
think he ever used to talk to his lady about
anything else; and that's the way he moped
her to death. I've heard him myself talk to
little Rupert, and Master Charles about the