glorifying measure that was to herald the conquest of young St. James in the cause of purity and truth.

"We

"I think we've given 'em their belly-full now," at length said the hautboy, removing that peace-breaker from his lips. needn't play to the green bushes," and the musician looked about him at the opening country. "I say," and he called to the driver, "I do hear that the other side isn't a going to have no music at all; no flags; no open houses for independent voters. A good deal he knows about the wants of the people. Bless his innocence! Thinks to get into Parliament without music!"

"Well, it is wonderful," observed one of the fiddlers, an old, thin-faced, somnolent-looking man, with the tip of his nose like an old pen dyed with red ink—" it is odd to consider what ignoramuses they are that think to go into Parliament. Why you can no more make a member without music than bricks without straw; it isn't to be done. Speechifying 's very well; but there's nothing that stirs the hearts of the people, and makes 'em think o' their rights, like a jolly band!"

"One bang of my drum," observed the humble advocate of that instrument," sometimes goes more to make a Member of Parliament than all his fine sayings. Bless your souls! if we could only come to the bottom of the matter, we should find that it was in fact our instruments that very often made the law-makers, and not the folks as vote for 'em: my big drum's represented in Parliament, though I dare be sworn there 's not a member that will own to it.

"And my clarionet 's represented too," cried the leader, advocating his claim.

"Yes, and my triangle," exclaimed the player of that threesided instrument, wholly unconscious of the satiric truth that fell from him.

"Capital ale here!" cried the driver, with increasing thickness of speech, as he drew up at an inn-door. It was plain that the county of Essex-or at least that part of it that led from London to Liquorish-was peculiarly blessed with good ale for at every inn, the driver pulled up short, and proclaimed the heart-cheering news-" Capital ale here!" They were the only words he uttered from the time he had passed Shoreditch-church. Indeed he seemed incapable of any other speech: he seemed a sort of human parrot, reared and taught in a brewery,-endowed with no other

syllables than" Capital ale here!" And still, as we have hinted, the words grew thicker and thicker in his mouth; too thick to drop from his lips, and so they rumbled in his jaws, whilst he cast a hopeless look about him, despairing to get them out; yet at every new hostelry making a sound, that plainly meant "Capital ale here." Happily for him, according to his dim idea of felicity, he mumbled to quick interpreters. Hence, ere half the journey was accomplished, the driver seemed possessed of no more intelligence than a lump of reeking clay. He twiddled the reins between his fingers, and sometimes opened his eyes, that saw not the backs of the horses they seemed to look down upon. But the brutes were intelligent: they, it appeared, knew the road; knew, it almost seemed so, the filthy imbecility of the driver; and so, with either a pity or contempt for the infirmity of human nature, they took care of their charioteer and his besotted passengers. True it is, St. Giles at times cast anxious looks about him; at times, ventured to hint a doubt of the sobriety of the driver; whereupon, he was called a fool, a coward, and a nincompoop, by his companions, who considered his anxiety for the safety of his bones as an extreme piece of conceit, very offensive to the rest of the company. "You won't break sooner than any of us, will you ?' asked the first fiddle. "Besides, you're too drunk for any harm to come to you." St. Giles was sober as a water-god. "A good deal too drunk; for if you knew anything I say, that was a jolt, wasn't it?"-(for the vehicle had bounced so violently against a mile-stone, that the shock half-opened the eyes of the driver)"you'd know that a man who's properly drunk never comes to no sort of harm. There's a good angel always living in a bottle; you 've only to empty it, and the angel takes care of you directly: sees you home, if it 's ever so dark, and finds the key-hole for you, if your hand is ever so unsteady. No: it's only your sneak-up chaps, that are afraid of the glass, that get into trouble, break their bones, and catch rheumatiz, and all that. Whereas, if your skin's as full of liquor as a grape 's full of juice, you may lay yourself down in a ditch like a little baby in his mother's lap, and wake in the morning for all the world like a opening lily."

The latter part of this sentence was scarcely heard by St. Giles, for the horses had suddenly burst into a gallop; the vehicle swayed to and fro, flew round a turning of the road, and striking against the projecting roots of a huge tree, threw all its human contents into a green-mantled pond on the other side of the narrow highway,

one wheel rolling independently off. St. Giles, unhurt, but drenched to the skin, immediately set about rescuing his all but helpless companions. He tugged and tugged at the inert mass, the driver, and at length succeeded in dragging him from the pond, and setting him against a bank. He groaned, and his lips moved, and then he grunted-" Capital ale here." The first clarionet scrambled from the pool, and seizing his instrument, that had rolled into the mud, immediately struck up "See the conquering hero comes!" The first drum, inspired by the melodious courage of his companion, banged away at the parchment, but alas! for the first fiddle: the bacchanal good angel, of which he had but a moment since so loudly vaunted, had forsaken him at his worst need; and that prime Cremona was rescued from water, mud, and duckweed with a broken arm. He was, however, unconscious of the injury; and before he was well out of the pond, assured St. Giles that if he would only have the kindness and good-fellowship to let him alone, he could sleep where he was like any angel.

It was about ten o'clock at night, but for the season very dark. St. Giles, from the time that he could see the milestones knew that he must be near the wished-for borough. It was in vain to talk to his companions. Some were senseless and stupid; some roaring bravado, and some trying to give vent to the most horrid music. Again and again he hallooed, but the louder he cried, the stronger the big drum beat-the more demoniacally the clarionet screamed. There was no other way he would seek the first habitation, that he might return with succour to the wet, the drunk, and the wounded.

CHAPTER XVIII.

ST. GILES had run pretty briskly for some quarter of an hour, when he discovered in the distance-glowing amid trees-a speck of light. It was plain, there was a human habitation, though away from the main road. He paused for a moment: should he follow the highway, or strike off in the direction of that taper? Another moment, and he had leapt the hedge, and was making fast for the beacon. He crossed two or three fields, and then found himself in a winding green lane: now, as he ran on, he lost the light; and now again, like hope renewed, it beamed upon