THE REV. JOHN RUSSELL. 233 



a mist in the morning, took wing and passed 

 away. 



"'Holloa,' he said, looking at the table, 'this 

 won't do ; you must come up and dine with us. 

 Come as you are, plain fare and no formality.' 



" I pleaded the necessity of unpacking my 

 portmanteau, and devoting a few minutes to 

 the Graces ; but he wouldn't hear of it. 



" ' No,' he said, ' come along ; you're quite 

 smart enough. Mrs. Russell won't look at your 

 coat, if you'll only eat a good dinner.' 



" The invitation, I felt, was tantamount to 

 a command, and accordingly, without further 

 objection, I rose and obeyed. 



"The dinner, an ample one, was yet sim- 

 plicity itself — a cod's head and shoulders, the 

 produce of Barnstaple Bay, a haunch of Exmoor 

 mutton, hung to an hour ; then an apple 

 pudding, flavoured with lemon peel, and boiled 

 to perfection. ' " Carpe diem,'' which, freely 

 translated, means "keep cutting,"' said Russell, 

 calling for a hot plate, and inviting me to take 

 another slice of the delicious moor mutton. He 

 then asked how I had reached Swymbridge, 

 and by what route I had come. 



" ' Across country,' I replied ; ' by way of 

 Cobbaton and Umberleigh Bridge.' 



" ' An awkward line for a stranger,' he re- 

 marked. ' But you rode, of course ; and pray 

 what's become of vour horse ? ' 



