"This is language," said Jocelyn, "which I ought not to hear, and which Sir John, I am sure, can never have encouraged."

"Then he had better stop my mouth by cramming it with good victuals," said Whittaker, as he walked away in a churlish mood, still mumbling curses against the Vrouw Skinflint as he presumed to designate his mistress. After having wandered about the house, which he found in a sufficiently forlorn and comfortless plight, Jocelyn betook himself, upon the summons of the bell, to the diningroom, where Sir John and his lady were waiting his arrival before they seated themselves at the table. So sordid and sorry was the repast, that it might well justify Sir John's exclamation-"'Sblood! my lady, is this all? Another fast-day? zooks ! I could get better pickings out of a beggar's wallet, or from the orts of a costermonger's Sunday supper. As for your cat-sup water-zootje, you may stir it up as long as you like, but the devil a ladle for me."

"In troebel water is goed visschen," said her ladyship, helping herself very quietly and plentifully to some flounders from the tureen before her gij zijt wel gelukkig—you are lucky Saar Jan, een dinner to have, when ik heb niet een stuiver, quand je n'ai pas le sous, not a penny in de huis. Koper geld, kopere ziel-missen-no farding, no feast."

To the scantiness of the dinner Jocelyn was

presently reconciled, but he was shocked at the sordid falsehood which pleaded such utter destitution, when he had seen her receiving and secreting money in the morning. However, he determined not to excite any new altercation by noticing the occurrence, and with the same motive betook himself eagerly to some hashed mutton placed before him, declaring that it was a dish of which he had always been particularly fond, and which would enable him to dine like an emperor. If there were as little abstract truth in this averment, as in her ladyship's declaration that she was without a single stiver to procure more dainty cheer, it is to be hoped that the difference of the motive will make our hero's want of veracity a much more venial, if not indeed an amiable, transgression. Anxious to preserve appearances as long as possible, and avoid any matrimonial squabbles on this first day of Jocelyn's introduction, Sir John followed his son's example, dispatching the hashed mutton with an alacrity which was rather attributable to the want of any edible substitute than to his preference of that nefarious rifacimento. Thus much we have felt ourselves bound to state in vindication of the baronet's epicurean taste.

"Honger is een scherp zevaard, Saar Jan," exclaimed her ladyship, in a voice rendered more than usually plethorick and wheezing by her having just finished a whole tureen of water zootje,—“ hongry dog zall eat dirt podding.-Ha! ha!-Mijn Heer

Jocelyn, wat zal u drinken? Hier is goed dur bier."

"Good small beer!" exclaimed Sir John, thrown off his guard by so unmerited, not to say incompatible a character," what a bounce! 'Sblood! Jocelyn, do n't touch any such rascally ditch-water. It is swipes-fit for nothing but hog-wash, though my lady will swill you a gallon at a sitting."

As if in confirmation of this assertion, she filled a large mug with this vilipended liquod, emptied it at a draught, drew in a long breath, puffed it out again with distended cheeks and apparent satisfaction, and exclaimed, "Ha! dat is goed de keel smeeren; dat is goed!"

Fortunately there was a bottle of wine upon the table, of which Sir John had taken early possession, as if to secure it from his lady. From this he filled Jocelyn's glass and his own, without relinquishing possession; but her ladyship seemed to have no wish to contest the division of his prize, contenting herself with the black jack, from which she replenished her mug until the whole was exhausted. Never had Jocelyn hurried to open the door with more satisfaction, than when his beerdrinking step-mother quitted the dining-room; and never, probably, had Sir John prepared himself with greater glee for a rousing bouse, than when he drew his chair close to his son's, slapped him heartily on the back, chuckled, and cackled with

anticipation, patted a favourite old pointer that had just laid its head on his lap, and sang aloud

'What though we are made both beggars and slaves, Let's endure it, and stoutly drink on 't;

"Tis our comfort we suffer 'cause we won't be knaves, Redemption will come ere we think on 't.

Let us take t' other cup to cheer our hearts up,

And let it be purest Canary;

We 'll ne'er shrink nor care at the crosses we bear,
Let them plague us until they be weary.'

"I can't give you Canary, Jocelyn, but we have some claret that's mighty pretty tipple; and you shall drink like a judge before you budge, so finish the bottle and clear off your glass."

At these words he doubled his little finger, put it into his mouth, and blew two or three such piercing whistles, that Jack Whittaker, accustomed to the shrill signal, soon made his appearance. "Give us some hoghan-moghan glasses," cried Sir John, "ask your mistress for the key of the cellar, and bring a jug of claret."-" Ay, ay, Sir John," replied the serjeant with a familiar nod, and disappeared.

""Sblood!" continued the Baronet, "we 'll drink our first bumper to the King, for we may do it now without type or symbol

'We'll drink and pray no longer,

For the King, in mystical fashions;
But with trumpet's sound,

His health shall go round,

VOL. II.

And our prayers be proclamations.
Singing hey trolly, lolly, loe!'"
6*

Just as he had finished this ditty, Whittaker returned with the welcome jug in his hand; but something had so tickled his fancy during his absence from the room, and his efforts to suppress his laughter occasioned such heavings of his shoulders, that as Sir John held out his huge glass to be filled, he rattled the jug two or three times against the brim without pouring out a drop. "What are you sniggering at, you grim-looking gaby ?" exclaimed the Baronet, growing impatient; "fill the glass."

66

Ay, ay, Sir John," replied Whittaker, at length obeying the command, which he had no sooner done than his master exclaimed, "'Sblood! what's this? what is it ?"

"Swipes! your honour," shrieked Whittaker, delivering himself boisterously of the laughter which he had so long bottled up.

"And how dare you, saucy scoundrel, play me such a trick as this?" exclaimed Sir John, looking fiercely at his servant, and seemingly half disposed to throw the nauseous liquid in his face.

"I, Sir John? drinking swipes is too serious a matter for me to joke about. It's my lady's orders. She said you had had wine enough; she could n't afford another drop, and if she could, it would only give you the gout again; so no more should you have."

"Damn her and the gout too!" cried the Baronet, "that was her excuse for sending my hunter to be sold. What the foul fiend! are we to swill