The Village Notary. báró József Eötvös

They shied and overturned the carriage. The torch-bearing horsemen galloped about, frightening the village out of its propriety, as the foxes did, when Samson made them torch-bearers to the Philistines. Mr. James, following the impulse of the moment, came down over his horse's head; the deputation, who were waiting in Bantornyi's hall, wrung their hands with horror. At length the horses ceased rearing and plunging; and as the danger of being kicked by them was now fairly over, the company to a man rushed to welcome their beloved lord-lieutenant.

      The deputation was splendid, at least in the Hungarian acceptation of the word, for all the dresses of all its members were richly embroidered. Shoskuty in a short blue jacket frogged and corded and fringed with gold, and with his red face glowing under the weight of a white and metal-covered kalpac, felt that the dignity of a whole county was represented by his resplendent person. Thrice did he bow to his Excellency, and thrice did the deputation rattle their spurs and imitate the movement of their leader, who, taking his speech from the pocket of his cloak, addressed the high functionary with a voice tremulous with emotion.

      "At length, glorious man, hast thou entered the circle of thy admirers, and the hearts which hitherto sighed for thee, beat joyfully in thy presence!"

      His Excellency unfolded a handkerchief ready for use; the members of the deputation cried "Helyesh!" and the curate of a neighbouring village, who had joined the deputation, became excited and nervous. The speaker went on.

      "Respect and gratitude follow thy shadow; and within the borders of thy county there is no man but glories in the consciousness that thou art his superior."

      "He talks in print! he does indeed," whispered an assessor.

      "I beg your pardon," said the curate, very nervously, "it was I who made that speech."

      "Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ! These parsons are dreadfully jealous," said the assessor. Shoskuty, turning a leaf of his manuscript, proceeded:

      "The flock which now stands before thee"—(here the members of the deputation looked surprised, and shook their heads)—"is but a small part of that numerous herd which feeds on thy pastures; and he who introduces them to thy notice"—(Shoskuty himself was vastly astonished)—"is not better than the rest: though he wears thy coat, he were lost but for thy guidance and correction."

      The audience whispered among themselves, and the lord-lieutenant could not help smiling.

      "For God's sake, what are you about?" whispered Mr. Kriver. "Turn a leaf!" Baron Shoskuty, turning a leaf, and looking the picture of blank despair, continued:

      "Here thou seekest vainly for science—vainly for patriotic merits—vainly dost thou seek for all that mankind have a right to be proud of——"

      The members of the deputation became unruly.

      "They are peasants, thou beholdest,——"

      Here a storm of indignation burst forth.

      "In their Sunday dresses——"

      "Are you mad, Baron Shoskuty?"

      "But good Christians, all of them," sighed the wretched baron, with angelic meekness: "there is not a single heretic among my flock."

      "He is mad! let us cheer!—Eljen! Eljen!"

      "Somebody has given me the wrong pelisse!" said Shoskuty, making his retreat; while the lord-lieutenant replied to the address to the best of his abilities, that is to say, very badly, for he was half choked with suppressed laughter.

      But the curate, who had displayed so unusual a degree of nervousness at the commencement of the address, followed Shoskuty to the next room, whither that worthy man fled to bemoan his defeat.

      "Sir, how dare you steal my speech?" cried the curate.

      "Leave me alone! I am a ruined man, and all through you!"

      "Well, sir; this is well. You steal my speech, and read it. Now what am I to do? I made that speech, and a deal of trouble it gave me. Now what am I to tell the bishop at his visitation on Monday next?"

      "But, in the name of Heaven, why did you take my cloak?"

      "Your cloak?"

      "Yes; my cloak. I am sure my speech is in your pocket."

      The curate searched the pockets of the pelisse, and produced a manuscript. "Dear me!" said he, wringing his hands; "it is your cloak." And the discomfited orators were very sad, and would not be comforted.