makes when I tells him a hymn or so; 'tis quite wicked, your honour,--for
that's what the heathen did, as you well know, Sir.

"'And when I does discourse of things
Most holy, to their tribe;
What does they do?--they mocks at me,
And makes my harp a gibe.'

"'Tis not what I calls pretty, Miss Ellinor."

"Certainly not, Peter; I wonder, with your talents for verse, you never
indulge in a little satire against such perverse taste."

"Satire! what's that? Oh, I knows; what they writes in elections. Why,
Miss, mayhap--" here Peter paused, and winked significantly--"but the
Corporal's a passionate man, you knows: but I could so sting him--Aha!
we'll see, we'll see.--Do you know, your honour," here Peter altered his
air to one of serious importance, as if about to impart a most sagacious
conjecture, "I thinks there be one reason why the Corporal has not
written to me."

"And what's that, Peter?"

"Cause, your honour, he's ashamed of his writing: I fancy as how his
spelling is no better than it should be--but mum's the word. You sees,
your honour, the Corporal's got a tarn for conversation-like--he be a
mighty fine talker surely! but he be shy of the pen--'tis not every man
what talks biggest what's the best schollard at bottom. Why, there's the
newspaper I saw in the market, (for I always sees the newspaper once a
week,) says as how some of them great speakers in the Parliament House,