tinued the vicar, "evidently only differs from that contrivance in this single circumstance, that an artificial echo is produced by means of the trumpet, and thus the sound no longer appears to proceed in its original direction."

"Your remark is perfectly correct, my dear vicar,” said Mr. Seymour.

Tom Plank, with an air of self-satisfaction, at this moment emerged from his retreat, and inquired whether his performance had met with the approbation of the company.

"Gentlemen," said Tom Plank, "as I am now fully satisfied that any plan of propelling live and dead luggage through funnels can never succeed, I propose to employ tubes for conveying sounds to a great distance, so as to do away with the use of telegraphs."

66

Why that plan is more practicable, but less novel, than the one you have just abandoned," answered Mr. Seymour. "At the latter end of the last century, a man of the name of Gautier conceived a method of transmitting articulate sounds to an immense distance. He proposed the construction of horizontal tunnels that should widen at their extremities, by means of which the ticking of a watch might be heard more distinctly at the distance of two hundred feet than when placed close to the ear. I think he calculated that a succession of such tunnels would transmit a verbal message nine hundred miles in an hour." (55.)

"Only think of that!" ejaculated Tom Plank; "to make a communication from London to Edinburgh in about twentyfive minutes!"

"True, my friend; but what would you say, were I to play Puck with you, and suggest a method of communicating information to any distance without the loss even of a single second of time?" (56.)

"There now!" cried the vicar, "you have supplied Tom Plank with some fresh barm to set his brains working." "He is an indefatigable fellow, I must allow," said Mr. Seymour.

After this discourse the vicar rose from his seat, and on walking across the room, the creaking of his shoes excited the attention of Mr. Seymour, who, with his ac

customed gaiety, observed, that "the vicar had music in his sole."

"Mr. Seymour!" exclaimed Mr. Twaddleton, with a look which we should in vain endeavour to describe, “the infirmity of my shoes, crepitus crepida, is at all events sanctioned by high antiquity; for we are told by Philostratus, in his Epistles, that Vulcan, being jealous of Venus, made her creaking shoes, in order that he might hear whenever she stirred."

So ludicrous an appeal to antiquity would have overcome Heraclitus himself; no wonder then that the whole party enjoyed a hearty laugh at the worthy vicar's expense.

"Well, Mr. Twaddleton, if, as you say, I have brought down philosophy to account for the most familiar occurrences, it is but just that I should return the compliment, by declaring that you are equally prepared to throw a classical interest around the humblest as well as the most dignified subject, a capite usque ad calcem," observed Mr. Seymour.

"Now, Tom, as you have so lately been instructed in the different sources of sound, do tell your good friend, the vicar, the cause of the creaking of his shoes," said his father.

"The dryness of the leather, I suppose," answered the young philosopher.

"A certain state of dryness is certainly a necessary condition, or else the cohesion between the inner and outer sole would exclude the air. Correctly speaking, the creaking depends upon the sudden compression of the air contained between the two surfaces of leather; just as a sound is produced by the clapping of the hands by the air thus set in vibration. Shoes with single soles, therefore, never creak, and by interposing a piece of oil-silk between the two soles, you will so far insure the contact of their surfaces as to obviate the sound."

"That is at all events a piece of practical philosophy worth knowing; and I shall accordingly instruct my operator, Jerry Styles, upon this point," observed the vicar.

"So you see, my dear sir, I am no bad shoemaker, although I have never yet made a shoe."

"To be sure to be sure," exclaimed the vicar; "for as Horace has it

sapiens crepidas sibi nunquam
Nec soleas fecit; sutor tamen est sapiens.*

Hor., lib. i., sat. 3.

"You never made a happier quotation," exclaimed Mr. Seymour.

"I have only one other remark to make," continued he, "which the consideration of this subject has very naturally suggested that the various strange sounds, which have from time to time alarmed the superstitious, may be readily explained upon the simple principles we have been discussing. I well remember a whole family having been thrown into a state of terror, by a mysterious sound which regularly recurred every evening; when it was at length discovered to arise from the crawling of snails over the window; their slimy surfaces, as they moved along, produced a friction, which occasioned a vibration of the glass."

"And I never recall to my recollection, without some degree of terror," said the vicar, "the night I passed in an old oaken chamber which had the reputation of being haunted. A bright fire cheerfully blazed in the grate as I entered the apartment, and casting its ruddy light around, in some measure dissipated the prejudice which had been raised to the disparagement of my dormitory; but awaking in the night, my fire was out, and a succession of the most extraordinary noises I ever heard assailed me."

"All which are easily explicable," said Mr. Seymour. "The old oaken materials were expanded by the heat of your fire, and on the apartment cooling, they again contracted, and gave origin to all the sounds you describe."

"How unsparingly does science clip the wings of imagi nation!" observed Miss Villers.

"Reverting to the more humble subject of shoemaking," said Mr. Seymour, "let me ask the vicar, whether he remembers the receipt of Orator Henley, for making a pair in a few minutes."

"For though the wise nor shoes nor slippers made,
He's yet a skilful shoemaker by trade."

"I remember it well; he collected a number of shoemakers by promising to impart his great secret to them; and this wonderful abridgment of time and labour was exhibited to his gaping auditors by cutting off the tops of a ready-made pair of boots!"

"I think," said Mr. Seymour, "when Tom has solved the enigma I am about to propose, you will allow that, as a paradoxical shoemaker, I have fairly beaten the Orator out of the field."

"A shoemaker once made shoes without leather,
With all the four elements joined together;

There were FIRE and WATER, and EARTH too, and AIR,
And most of his customers wanted two pair.”

U

Y

"There sits our philosopher of the Porch," said Mr. Seymour; "I knew we should find him on duty."-p. 337.

AN

CHAPTER XXI.

INTERESTING COMMUNICATION, FROM WHICH THE READER MAY LEARN THAT THE MOST IMPORTANT EVENTS ARE NOT THOSE WHICH ABSORB THE GREATEST PORTION OF TIME IN THEIR RECITAL.-MAJOR SNAPWELL COMMUNICATES ΤΟ MR. SEYMOUR AND THE VICAR HIS DETERMINATION TO CELEBRATE THE MARRIAGE OF HIS NEPHEW BY A FÊTE AT OSTERLEY PARK.-PUNCH AND THE FANTOCCINI. AN ANTIQUARIAN DISCUSSION OF GRAVE IMPORTANCE.-ORIGIN OF THE BRIDECAKE. THE YULE LOG.-THE CHRISTMAS TREE. AN INTERVIEW WITH NED HOPKINS, A CHARACTER OF ODD COMBINATIONS, DURING WHICH HE DISPLAYED MUCH SHREWDNESS AND HUMOUR, AND IS ENGAGED BY THE MAJOR AS THE DIRECTOR OF HIS PROPOSED COMIC ENTERTAINMENT.

FOR some time had Major Snapwell been occupied in making arrangements for an event, which he hailed not only as the accomplishment of his most ardent wishes, but as the guarantee of his future happiness. We did not think it right to impart this secret to our readers, until the period