CHAPTER XXXI.

February 14-Saturday.,

BEING SO near Bath, I thought it worth while to visit a place remarkable for its medicinal spring, and I am obliged to pass the night here on account of the rain. The road from Mount Morant is uninteresting for some few miles, although very hilly. The town or village is embosomed in trees, and surrounded by mountains, which supply it plentifully with

I was directed to the house of a white lady, who I was told received guests, or pensioners, anxious to drink the waters, and entertained them at so much per diem; but, as I was uncertain of my way, and my valet did not know the place, I made several enquiries before I found out the object of my search. A young lady, standing at the door of a rambling old house, seemed to signify by her looks that she guessed I was hunting out

this half-and-half sort of tavern; and, as her physiognomy invited a nearer approach, I saluted her, and asked for Mrs. White. "She lives here," was the reply: "will you dismount and walk in ?" The offer was not to be refused. "Can I dine here?" "Yes, certainly," cried the old woman, hurrying to the piazza; "come in, sir, I pray, out of the rain." The rain came down on the shingles like a shower of marbles or bullets, as I entered this antique and dilapidated mansion, where the first objects that presented themselves to my eyes (after the ladies) were all the crockery of the establishment ranged in rows to catch the water that streamed through the roof. It was a most curious exhibition; cracked and disjointed fragments of one colour grafted on stocks of another, some tied round with zones of packthread and red tape, that seemed to have suffered a degradation from more honourable service. The rain fell so fast into these reservoirs, that it caused a -splashing all over the room or hall, and I would fain parry it with my umbrella, which I opened and hoisted for the purpose, much to the amusement of Miss, who had the kindness to give me a wash for the red half of my face,

while the old lady begged to know what I would have for my dinner. I left the office of catering to her, as she told me I might have anything I liked; only excepting black puddings, which I told her I disliked—anything else, no matter what, would content me. “A fowl, Louisa, I think the gentleman would like-a fowl-oh yes, a fowl and some soup." "Pepper pot, anything in the world, madam." The old lady went to the opposite side of the hall, where another door opened into a back piazza, and by some enchantment of corn or eloquence, enticed and caught a cock that had taken shelter there from the rain. This she began twirling round and round by the neck, standing all the while with her back towards me, and singing the "Blue bell of Scotland," to drown the cries of the dying chanticleer. Miss had been commissioned, I suppose, to create a diversion of my eyes and ears from the ceremony of this murder, for she placed herself between me and her mother, and offered me an old volume of Roderick Random, in which she called my attention to the plates. The over anxiety of the parties however betrayed them. As an humble musician, I was bound to listen to the lady's solo,

to which the raging of the rain contributed a grumbling bass, of something like toy kettledrums, and the tinkling of the crockery served for cymbals or triangles. The cock now and then was heard, first in recitativo, then as taking part in a mutilated trio, for the old lady got out of breath with singing, with the exertion and the struggling of the bird, that she lost the time, and stopped now and then half a bar, to recover her respiration, while the other performers occupied her pauses. The whole effect was happily ludicrous. The Prima Donna had begun adagio with "Oh! where, and oh! where"-the young lady's "Roderick Random" coming in after "Your Highland Laddie," mingled with the scream of Alectryon. From a trio, we got to a finale; thus it

ran

PR. Dox. He's gone to fight the French for...... on the throne
MISS L.

Roderick Random

PR. D. And it's oh! in my heart I wish. . . . . safe at home
ALECT

cock, cock, cock! ...

....

PR. D. His bonnet's of the Saxon... waistcoat plaid..

Strap..Narcissa.. pretty pictures

TRAVELLER. I think he was a rascal

not a prude

ALECT.

cock, cock!..ach!

..... cock, cock!

Here, with a violent struggle, chanticleer stuck one of his spurs in the old woman's left hand, on which she screamed and let him fall, with his neck twisted;-he fluttered into the room, and began a dismal solo of groans and screams. The Prima Donna grumbled and stormed; the young lady ran on about Roderick Random's red hair; the rain rattled; an old turkey-cock, enraged at the noise, began to gobble; and I would have laughed, but Miss Louisa would not give me time. How Alectryon was dispatched, I know not: a black imp whisked into the hall, popped him under her apron, and flew off like a harpy; when she returned, it was to apply a bit of rag to the old lady's bridle arm.

After waiting the proper time, the soup entered between the sable paws of little Kitty, oozing through the cracks of a white slop basin, all the rest of the dinner-set being in requisition for the rain. It was as black as ink, as black as Kitty, and tasted of nothing but pepper and water. I was obliged to decline it, which I was loth to do, for fear of offending my hostess, and because I expected to see nothing else but poor Alectryon, who I knew must be as tough as a halter from age.