she surveyed. She had no relative, save one nephew, a wild, shy boy,
strange and moody in his habits, passing whole days no one knew
where--holding little or no communication with any of those who visited
the tavern--none at all with the boys of the village, poring over some
book of wild adventure when at home, ranging the woods with an old duck
gun on his shoulders, or laying down beneath some shady tree poring over
the same wild legends when abroad. His aunt could make nothing of him,
and nobody else took the trouble. The curate, indeed, tried to teach him
once or twice, but he disconcerted the old man so by discharging his
musket at an old wig, hanging by the wall in the midst of a lecture on
the propriety of going to school, that he gave him up as hopeless.

The tap-room presented its usual evening appearance when the agent
entered. The curate and lawyer were deep in a discussion on the beauties
of the new poor-law; the farmers grumbling at the weather; the landlady
quietly seated behind the bar, while the bar-maid, a smart, coquettish
girl of nineteen, carried the ale and brandy around to the thirsty
customers, and all the usual concomitants of a scene then common, but,
what we must now call of the olden time, though half a century has
scarce passed away since it occurred. The agent was a great man there,
few liked him--in fact, all hated him, for though generally a just man,
he was entirely a man of business; punctuality was his deity--there was
no excuse with him for not meeting rent or bills when due; he did not
overcharge or wrong anyone, but he must have his bond, like Shylock,
without his ferocity. If money was due it must be paid; sickness, bad
crops, death itself was nothing to him; if not, he proceeded _legally_;
oh, what a world of anguish! what a number of crimes, crying aloud to
Heaven for justice and retribution, are committed under the cloak of
Man's legality. The type was forged in Hell that stamped the letter of
the law.