No doubt, too, the fellow might have got work if he had chosen--in Kamschatka or the Cannibal Islands; for the political economists have proved, beyond a doubt, that there is work somewhere or other for every one who chooses to work.

But as, unfortunately, society has neglected to inform him of the state of the Cannibal Island labour-market, or to pay his passage thither when informed thereof, he has had to choose in the somewhat limited labour-field of the Whitford Priors' union, whose workhouse is already every winter filled with abler- bodied men than he, between starvation--and this--.

Well, as for employing him, one would have thought that there was a little work waiting to be done in those five miles of heather and snipe-bog, which I used to tramp over last winter--but those, it seems, are still on the "margin of cultivation," and not a remunerative investment--that is, to capitalists.

I wonder if any one had made Crawy a present of ten acres of them when he came of age, and commanded him to till that or be hanged, whether he would not have found it a profitable investment?
But bygones are bygones, and there he is, and the moors, thanks to the rights of property--in this case the rights of the dog in the manger--belong to poor old Lavington--that is, the game and timber on them; and neither Crawy nor any one else can touch them.

What can I do for him?
Convert him?
to what?
For the next life, even Tregarva's talisman seems to fail.