d, first, he is compelled to acknowledge that his
master is not a tyrant, (perhaps because he is a foreigner and a
philosopher, and, for what I and Lenny know, a republican.) But then
Parson Dale, though High Church to the marrow, is neither hypocrite nor
drone. He has a very good living, it is true--much better than he ought
to have, according to the "political" opinions of those tracts; but
Lenny is obliged to confess that, if Parson Dale were a penny the
poorer, he would do a pennyworth's less good; and, comparing one parish
with another, such as Roodhall and Hazeldean, he is dimly aware that
there is no greater CIVILIZER than a parson tolerably well off. Then,
too, Squire Hazeldean, though as arrant a Tory as ever stood upon
shoe-leather, is certainly not a vampire nor bloodsucker. He does not
feed on the public; a great many of the public feed upon him; and,
therefore, his practical experience a little staggers and perplexes
Lenny Fairfield as to the gospel accuracy of his theoretical dogmas.
Masters, parsons, and land-owners! having at the risk of all popularity,
just given a _coup de patte_ to certain sages extremely the fashion at
present, I am not going to let you off without an admonitory flea in the
ear. Don't suppose that any mere scribbling and typework will suffice to
answer the scribbling and typework set at work to demolish you--_write_
down that rubbish you can't--_live_ it down you may. If you are rich,
like Squire Hazeldean, do good with your money; if you are poor, like
Signor Riccabocca, do good with your kindness.

See! there is Lenny now receiving his week's wages; and though Lenny
knows that he can get higher wages in the very next parish, his blue
eyes are sparkling with gratitude, not at the chink of the money, but at
the poor exile's friendly talk on things apart from all service; while
Violante is descending the steps from the terrace, charged by her
mother-in-law with a little basket of sago, and such-like delicacies,
for Mrs. Fairfield, who has been ailing the last few days.

Lenny will see the Tinker as he goes home, and he will buy a most
Demosthenean "Appeal"--a tract of tracts, upon the "Propriety of
Strikes," and the Avarice of Masters. But, somehow or other, I think a
few words from Signor Riccabocca, that did not cost the Signor a
farthing, and the sight of his mother's smile at the contents of the
basket, which cost very little, will serve to neutralise the effects of
that "Appeal,