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 manservant, 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 were among them.

At the old court house at family prayers, a short address was generally 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," Psa. 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 accounts could be rubbed

off, as easily as the chalk marks on Michael's milk board.

It is a bad plan to leave any part of a day's duties undone; for if it be difficult to do it today, it is not likely to be less so when the duties of to-morrow are added to it. He who cannot walk twenty miles, in two days, will find it up-hill work to trudge the same distance in one; and he who is too weak in the back to carry a burden of fifty pounds, will stoop terribly when a hundred-weight is placed on his shoulders. Now, all this is too plain to be gainsaid; but the mischief of it is, that, though I find it comparatively easy to talk wisely, I find it very hard to act prudently. In spite of myself, and of the admonitions which from time to time I proffer to others, my old scores, every now and then, sadly accumulate, and I have need of the friendly whisperings of Michael Dobbs in my ears— "Let us rub off old scores,

and begin again."

The reason why, at this particular time, I touch on the subject is, that there are some old scores of mine which I feel more than ordinarily anxious to rub off; and, looking up for assistance to Him, whose almighty aid can make the weak strong, and the unstable steady, I intend to accomplish my purpose. What these