his guests could keep the shuttlecock in the air. He was one of those who think that even in what are considered trifling matters, we always should seek to do our best. This is indeed the real Christian's principle.

But to go on with my story: with a quick eye and ready hand the honest farmer performed his part. Steady as old Time, he hardly ever stirred from the spot on which he stood; and now five hundred times had the shuttlecock been struck, flying backwards and forwards through the hall, with the precision of a shuttle in a weaver's loom. We had gathered round in breathless expectation, for we saw that our worthy host had set to in good earnest. Six, seven, ay, eight hundred blows had been given, yet there was the farmer, as stanch on his legs as at the first, and seemingly as likely to prolong the game.

You may, in some degree, judge of our excitement in pursuing the winged shuttlecock as it lightly vaulted to and fro, for the number of blows had exceeded nine hundred. It was very hot; the combatants were as red as exercise could make them, and the perspiration streamed from their faces. The interest of the by-standers had now become almost painful, for the number had amounted to nine hundred and ninety.

The worthy farmer, as we afterwards understood, had resolved to stop when the shuttlecock had been struck a thousand times; so that when he expected to receive it, to give it the last blow, he drew back his arm that he might send it flying far over the head of his opponent, but, alas! the shuttlecock had been struck on one side, and the farmer, to his extreme mortification, missed his mark. Yes! at nine hundred and ninety nine, the shuttlecock fell to the ground. This achievement was directly recorded against the wall in the recess, by the bow windows, and there the record remains, I dare say, to this day.

It was afterwards reported, that some of the younger branches of the family had outdone this feat, but the honest farmer would never listen to it for a moment. The thing seemed to him an utter impossibility. Often have I heard him relate this adventure, with as much interest as if he had been describing the particulars of a ploughing match, or a Herefordshire show of fat cattle.

There was an order, a respectability pervading the old court house, from the master to the man, from the mistress to the maid. George, the bailiff, was a pattern of industry; John, the gardener and groom, was a trustworthy man;

never was a better servant than Mary Brian, nor a more kind and careful creature than Evans. It seems but as yesterday that I wrote their names in the new Bibles they had subscribed twopence and threepence a week to obtain.

The old hall had a strange medley of pictures hanging against its walls. Goodrich Castle, heads of old ancestors, and the Herefordshire ox, the prize pig, and the death of Epaminondas, among them.

At the old court house they had family prayers every night, when, generally, a short address was given, or a tract read; and seldom did a day pass without the elevated roof of the old hall resounding with psalmody.

The family, the guests, and the domestics, all assembled: I have known thirty or forty present on these occasions. The mistress gave out the hymn or psalm in a clear and solemn voice; the farmer took up his pitchpipe; his son put his flute to his mouth-he was a capital player; and Helen's voice was heard, clear, sweet, and powerful. Then rose the melody of praise and thanksgiving! There was a simplicity, a sincerity, a reverential solemnity, pervading these seasons of domestic devotion, that make them dear to my remembrance.

"It is a good thing to give thanks unto

the Lord, and to sing praises unto thy name, O Most High: to show forth thy loving-kindness in the morning, and thy faithfulness every night," Psalm xcii. 1, 2.

I shall have more to say about the old court house at another opportunity.

ON

RUBBING OFF OLD SCORES.

It is astonishing how soon a room, altogether neglected, becomes covered with cobwebs; and it is equally remarkable how rapidly neglected duties accumulate, burdening the mind as much as the cobwebs disfigure the chamber. I have often, in my youthful days, marvelled when Michael Dobbs, our milkman, has announced his tally to be full. There it hung behind the kitchen door, newly washed, without a score upon it, but two chalks for two pennyworth of milk in a morning, and one and a half for three halfpenny worth at night, run up so quickly, that, before we were aware of it, the board was full again, and a debt of four shillings and a penny for a single fortnight, had to be paid. "Let us rub off old scores, Mr. Humphrey, and begin again," Michael used to say on these occasions; and often, since then, have I wished that my old scores on other