Miss Julia in a parenthesis); and owls, you now, are capital mousers—'
'I've seen a howl,' said Mr. Peters; 'there's one in the Sohological Gardens,—a little hook-nosed chap in a wig,—only its feathers and—'
Poor P. was destined never to finish a speech.
'Do be quiet!' cried the authoritative voice, and the would-be naturalist shrank into his shell, like a snail in the 'Sohological Gardens.'
'You should read Blount's 'Jocular Tenures,' Mr. Ingoldsby,' pursued Simpkinson. 'A learned man was Blount! Why, sir, his Royal Highness the Duke of York once paid a silver horse-shoe to Lord Ferrers—'
'I've heard of him,' broke in the incorrigible Peters; 'he was hanged at the old Bailey in a silk rope for shooting Dr Johnson.'
The antiquary vouchsafed no notice of the interruption; but, taking a pinch of snuff, continued his harangue.
'A silver horse-shoe, sir, which is due from every scion of royalty who rides across one of his manors; and if you look into the penny county histories, now publishing by an eminent friend of mine, you will find that Langhale in Co. Norf. was held by one Baldwin per saltum sufflatum, et pettem; that is, he was to come every Christmas into Westminster Hall, there to take a leap, cry hem! and—'
'Mr. Simpkinson, a glass of sherry?' cried Tom Ingoldsby, hastily.
'Not any, thank you, sir. This Baldwin, surnamed Le—'
'Mrs. Ogleton challenges you, sir; she insists upon it,' said Tom, still more rapidly; at the same time filling a glass, and forcing it on the scavant, who, thus arrested in the very crisis of his narrative, received and swallowed the potation as if it had been physic.
'What on earth has Miss Simpkinson discovered there?' continued Tom; 'something of interest. See how fast she is writing.'
The diversion was effectual: every one looked towards Miss Simpkinson, who, far too ethereal for 'creature comforts,' was seated apart on the dilapidated remains of an altar-tomb, committing eagerly to paper something that had strongly impressed her: the air,—the eye 'in a fine frenzy rolling,'—all betokened that the divine afflatus was come. Her father rose, and stole silently towards her.
'What an old boar!' muttered young Ingoldsby; alluding, perhaps, to a slice of brawn which he had just begun to operate upon, but which, from the celerity with which it disappeared, did not seem so very difficult of mastication.
But what had become of Seaforth and his fair Caroline all this
