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)—

66

66

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 eonquering 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 musie. 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

es, unh
ing his

the iner
him fr
ed, and

e." T

strumen
See the

the me
rchmen
el, of
forsake
escued

e was.

ell out w he kind here he

very

ones

pid:
ost bit

cried,

clarida

rst ba

dra

him. At length he came full upon the homestead. It was an old circular dwelling; so thronged about by tree and bush, that it seemed impossible that any light within could manifest itself to the distant wayfarer. A type this, as it will appear, of the heart of the master. He affected a solitude from the world: he believed that he was hidden from his fellow-man, and yet the inextinguishable goodness that glowed within him, made him a constant mark for the weary and wretched. For a brief space, St. Giles considered the cottage. It was plastered with rough-cast; at the first glance, seemingly a poor squalid nook. But a closer survey showed it to be a place where the household gods fared not upon black bread and mere water. The garden patch before it was filled with choicest flowers; not a weed intruded its idle life upon them. It was a place where neatness and comfort seemed to have met in happiest society. St. Giles listened, and heard low voices within. At length, he knocked at the door.

"Who's there?" said the master of the house. "If it's for the taxes, come in the morning."

"It's a traveller," answered St. Giles, "that wants help for a lot of poor souls that 's tumbled in a ditch.

In a moment the door was opened, and a grey-headed, largefaced, burly man, with a candle in his hand, stood at the threshold. He warily placed the light between the speaker and himself, shading it, and with a suspicious glance looked hard upon St. Giles; whose eager soul was in a moment in his eyes; and then, trembling from head to foot, he cried, "God, be blessed, sir-and is it indeed you ?

66

'My name, traveller, is Capstick," said the man, bending his. brows upon St. Giles, and looking determined to be too much for the stranger at his door; a new-comer, it was very likely, come to trick him. 66 My name is Capstick, what may be yours? Here, Jem, you slug do you know this pilgrim?

Another moment, and Jem-old Bright Jem, with grey grizzled head, shrunk face, and low bent shoulders, stood in the door-way. Ere Jem could speak, St. Giles discovered him: “And you, too, here! Lord, who'd have hoped it ?

Don't know a feather on him," said Jem, "but he seems to know us, wet as he is.'

66

Why, that's it, you see. know anybody who's a supper base part of our base nature.'

A fellow from a horse-pond will and bed to give him. It's the And then the misanthrope turned