V.

Now that the intelligent reader is better acquainted with our hero's

history and aspirations, he will at once conceive that Mark was rather

alarmed for more reasons than one at the possible consequences of his

second altercation with John Peter Heath, as related in a previous

chapter.

Dr. Wattletop had relieved his fears in relation to any serious injury's

resulting to the brother; but, reflected Mark, what will the sister

think of it, and how has the affair been represented to her? Most

likely, I am held up as a ruffian, who brutally and causelessly assailed

her brother. Shall I submit, and let the future explain, or had I better

seek an interview, and set myself right? I must do it, and I'll do it at

once, was his decision--a decision he arrived at the more readily, as it

afforded him an excellent pretext to see and converse with the object of

his secret and constant adoration. But, on consideration, fearing that

such a step might be misinterpreted, he concluded reluctantly to

address himself to her father, and offer a frank explanation of the

occurrence. It required an effort to come to this decision, for Mark

dreaded Mr. Heath's patronizing politeness, and invariably avoided

meeting him. But he conquered his repugnance on reflecting that that

gentleman was fortunate enough to be Edna's father, and, moreover, that

there was a likelihood of meeting and conversing with that young lady in

compensation. In view of the latter probability, he prepared himself by

making a more than usual neat and careful toilet, and by the time he was

ready to start, his thoughts were far more occupied with Miss Edna's

eyes, than with her brother's broken head. Off he started for the

"Cliff," but soon his courage failed him, as he imagined the reception

he was likely to meet with. Twice or thrice he stopped, hesitated, and

only continued after much cogitation. Resolutely he walked past the

gate-lodge, and up the avenue that led to the house. He rang the bell

with a thumping heart. It was the first time he had crossed that

threshold since he had been to Jack Heath's birthday party, and he

remembered the colored servant who now ushered him into a reception

room, as the same one--with a gray poll now, however--who had assisted

the pianist in stopping the fight on that memorable occasion. Mark sent

his name up to Mr. Heath, with the wish to be allowed a few moments'

conversation with him. That gentleman, evidently, was in no haste to see

his visitor, for he kept him waiting a long time. Meanwhile, Mark amused

himself by staring at the pictures on the wall, and looking over some

books that lay on the pier-table, when he heard light tripping footsteps

coming towards him, and, turning suddenly, beheld Edna standing in the

doorway in a startled attitude--a charming picture of a surprised

maiden, lithe figure poised forward, with slightly parted lips, and

fine, large eyes opened in full wonder. "Oh, I beg pardon--excuse me, I

thought it was father;" and advancing, she added in a frank, pleasant

way, "Why, this is Mark Gildersleeve."

All the blood in Mark's body rushed to his face as he bowed and

explained, rather awkwardly, that he had called to see her father.

"I'll go and call him," said Edna; but as she was about leaving the

room, Mark arrested her with an eager exclamation, "Stay, Miss Heath;

do not leave yet, I beseech you. One moment--I beg of you--Pray tell me,

is your brother severely hurt?"

"Not seriously so. He slept quite soundly last night. He very

fortunately escaped any great harm. His horse ran away with him--upset

the wagon he was riding in, and he fell--"

"I know it all, Miss Heath. It was my fault."

"Your fault," repeated Edna with surprise.

"My fault, I regret to say. But please forgive me. I came to explain and

apologize. Your brother provoked me, and I was carried away by anger.

Had the consequences been serious, I should never have forgiven myself.

I am sorry--very sorry, Miss Heath. You were so kind as to take my part

on a former occasion, when we were children. I have never forgotten it.

(Edna colored at the reminder.) Please do so again. I know you are too

just and too kind to blame me, if you knew all the circumstances."

Edna, who knew nothing of Mark's share in the misadventure, was much

mystified by his appeal, and rather confused by his demeanor; for

emboldened by the opportunity, the young man had advanced towards her

in a supplicatory attitude, while his gaze expressed far more of

admiration than contrition. She stood with a light blush tinting her

features, not knowing how to receive so demonstrative an address, when,

fortunately, the appearance of her father permitted her to withdraw, and

caused her admirer suddenly to subdue his rather dramatic manner.

"This is--Mr. George Gildersleeve's brother, if I am not mistaken,"

quoth Mr. Heath with, easy condescension, and extending a finger to

Mark.

"Yes, sir," replied the young man. "I came to inquire about your son,

feeling it my duty to do so."

"Better this morning--much better, in fact."

"So I was glad to learn from Miss Heath. It is but proper that I should

tell you, sir, that I was unfortunately the cause of the accident," said

Mark.

"Indeed--indeed," said Mr. Heath loftily, "I wasn't aware."

This was a fib, for he knew all about the affair, and that his son had

been the aggressor.

"I came," continued Mark, "to offer any explanation that might be

required, or to do anything in my power to--"

"None is needed, sir; none is needed. The matter is fortunately of no

consequence," interrupted Mr. Heath, who was not desirous of discussing

the unpleasant event, for he was vexed and somewhat ashamed at this

fresh exhibition of his son's misconduct. "I am obliged to you for

calling, and can safely say, that my son has no grave injury

whatever--none whatever."

Mr. Heath had not asked his visitor to be seated, and as he paused in a

significant way after every sentence he uttered, Mark took the hint and

his departure.

Seldom had Mark been so happy as after this visit. The effect of the

frigid, almost discourteous reception given him by the father, was

completely effaced by his short but delightful interview with the

daughter. To be near her, and to converse with her, was compensation

enough for any annoyance. Moreover, he had discovered to his joy, that

while he had fancied himself almost forgotten and unthought of, she had

on the contrary recognized him as an old friend, and even remembered the

occasion, long since passed, when she had assumed with childish

frankness the part of his ally and defender. The bitter side of that

incident faded away for the moment, and his happiness was unalloyed. He

cared little for the opinion of father or brother. Marriage with Miss

Heath had not yet entered the scope of his aspirations. His aim was to

acquire her close friendship, and above all her esteem and admiration.

For this he resolved to live and strive. A modest ambition truly, but

might not friendship, esteem, and admiration blossom into love? And to

that complexion also, were not Edna's feelings, insensibly perhaps,

tending? For it was not from any sense of displeasure that she withdrew

so summarily from Mark's presence; on the contrary, she carried away a

very agreeable impression of him; so much so, that his pleading face

involuntarily presented itself to her repeatedly during the day. "I

never before noticed," thought she, "how much better looking Mark

Gildersleeve has grown to be. He certainly has beautiful eyes--so very

expressive, and such pleasing manners, and there is something so

gentlemanly and refined about him too." Evidently, the hoodwinked

archer-boy had sped a shaft in her direction.

Mark, certainly, had made the most of his opportunity. Casting aside all

his usual reserve, he had thrown as much eloquence and magnetism as he

could, in a pair of black eyes that proved to be not ineffective. At

least the ice was broken. But after the first moment of elation had

passed, came the disturbing idea of the obstacles he might have to

encounter in the way of future success. As has been mentioned, he only

desired such as he might win through personal distinction. Doubtless

there was a large share of vanity in this determination; but vanity was

the weak side of the Gildersleeves, half-redeemed, though, in Mark, as

it never manifested itself in any offensive way. In social standing, he

was not considered the equal of Miss Heath; for in our republic,

gradations in society are as sharply defined as elsewhere, with the

difference that with us wealth more frequently draws the line. Mark

understood this, but such was his contempt for mere money-getting, that

the enthusiastic youth, would even have preferred to resign any attempt

to gain Miss Heath's favor, if to accomplish it the acquisition of

wealth were necessary. His estimate of the young lady's character,

however, was too high to admit for a moment of the supposition that she

could in any way be influenced by mercenary motives. No money could buy

what he aspired to possess--to wit, her admiration. Fame alone could win

that; and were this the age of chivalry, how eagerly would he don

casque, mount the barbed steed, and tilt his way to death or

distinction! But in this prosaic age few paths are open to ambitious

youth. He was a draughtsman--an engineer. Howsoever eminent one might

become in that profession, it still remained a commonplace one. He did

not think Edna had any especial admiration for Brunel, or Stephenson, or

even Watt. In his calling genius itself could hardly efface the stains

of labor, and obtain the consideration accorded to mediocrity in the

genteel professions. In medicine, or law, one might with far more

facility attain celebrity; but he had no taste for those vocations. He

had dabbled with paint, and executed some very indifferent daubs, until

in disgust he had thrown away the palette and brush. Then the versatile

youth had coquetted with Euterpe, and practised on every instrument,

from the harmonica to the organ. In vocal music he was more successful;

but poesy, the art of all arts, was the one he longed to cultivate and

excel in. He loved the poets, and believed himself animated with a spark

of their celestial fire. If genius were patience, why might one not

become by constant effort, if not a Shakespeare, say a Keats, or a

Tennyson? Phrenologists taught that every faculty could be modified, and

its power increased by exercise. Knatchbull, a foreman in the Works, who

had been a Chartist in his own country, and possessed a remarkable head,

told him that he had succeeded, under the advice of a phrenologist, in

so changing his character that plaster casts of his cranium taken at

different periods showed corresponding modifications in the prominences.

This practical example of what persistence might do was encouraging; and

so Mark, stung by some stray bee from Mount Hymettus, wrote quires of

plain verses, which he thought very fine and destined to stir the world

of letters, but which were simply transpositions of ideas and similes of

the master poets with which his mind was saturated.

Could poets have been made other than by the hand of Nature, Mark would

certainly have become one, for he strove with an indefatigable ardor

that nothing could dampen to succeed; but the divine afflatus so charily

bestowed was lacking, and he thrummed the lyre without evoking strains

immortal. What phrenzy and foolscap were wasted--what moonlight walks

indulged in, and sylvan groves haunted, to meditate and seek

inspiration! How often he sauntered around the margin of the Passaic,

watching the leap of the cataract and rise of its snowy mist, as its low

thunder lulled him into delicious day dreams. Far into the night would

he linger reclining against the bole of some tree, gazing with straining

eyes towards Mr. Heath's villa, whose gray walls loomed in the moonlight

like a feudal castle, to catch, perhaps, a glimpse of a shadow that

might appear occasionally behind the curtains of a lighted room that he

knew to be Edna's. Often had the faint sound of music or mirth, that

reached him from the open drawing-room windows, filled him with envy and

jealousy, as he thought of the Rev. Spencer Abbott and young Mumbie, who

were constant visitors at the villa. Then, dismally homeward would he

wend his way, go to his room, and spend the silent watches of the night

racking his brains to commit his thoughts to paper. Quires, nay reams,

were covered with superfine tropes and metaphors, as he strove to coin

words that the world would not willingly let die. He ventured to show

his lucubrations to Dr. Wattletop, but the reception they met with was

neither flattering nor even encouraging. "My dear boy, drop all this,"

was the advice given. "Not only are you wasting precious time, but your

taste and mind are becoming vitiated by the namby-pamby trash of modern

rhymesters. If you must plagiarize, do it from Pope, or Milton, or Gray.

Study them, or the master Shakespeare. Remember, as Coleridge said,

poetry must be either music or sense, and I cannot say there is much of

either in your verses. Get at the kernel. But after all, the study for a

poetically inclined youth is medicine, singular as that may seem to you.

If the desire be to awaken sublime ideas, investigate the abstruse

problem of life. Follow the noblest calling, the art of healing, and

seek to penetrate the arcana of Nature. I wish I could induce you to

become one of us. Our profession greatly needs ardent and intelligent

recruits, else we shall be overrun with quacks in every shape. Look at

the frightful progress of that modern humbug, homoeopathy. There is no

error, however absurd, but will find supporters and disciples, and

nowhere can there be a nobler field for the exercise of the highest

talent than in combating and routing those egregious and pernicious

pretenders to science, who, with the absurd brocard, that 'like cures

like,' impose on the simple and gullible. Now I am anything but

illiberal--if anything, I err on the opposite side. Whatever my

convictions may be, I am willing to give a patient hearing and

investigation to any theory or system bearing a show of probability,

that is advanced in a truthful, earnest, and humble spirit. I do not

forget that alchemy was the mother of chemistry, and astrology of

astronomy; that Harvey met with bigoted opposition, and in short that it

becomes the seeker to be humble; but when I see a fellow like this Keene

here--this hatchet-faced Yankee from Connecticut, who probably a year

ago was peddling wooden clocks, going around Belton with his ridiculous

pellets, and presuming to be a physician, I am provoked beyond

endurance, and feel sometimes as if I could give the fellow a

horse-whipping. Well, well, the fools are not all dead yet."

"I hope, doctor, you don't class me among them," said crestfallen Mark,

with a feeble smile.

"No--no--my dear boy," replied the doctor, patting his _protege_

affectionately on the shoulder. "Not by any means. I was merely alluding

to the facility with which the generous public is gulled. As for you,

Mark, I think there is the stuff in you for something, if not for a

bard. I dislike to see you chasing jack-o'-lanterns. Think of it; there

are but a certain quantity of poetic ideas, and they have all been

thought out and put into English words long ago. Fresh attempts result

only in tricking them out in fantastic dresses, and with poor effect.

Modern critics may sneer at the old favorites, but what have your

rhymesters of to-day produced equal to the 'Universal Prayer,' 'Gray's

Elegy,' or 'The Deserted Village'? No, no, lad; love the old poets, from

Homer down, but don't attempt to soar with them to the empyrean. Stay

with us on _terra firma_; invent a new cut-off, or condenser, and let

anapest, dactyl, and trochee alone."

This advice was not relished by Mark, and like most distasteful advice,

was not followed; if anything, it proved a spur to his literary

exertions. Occasionally his effusions found their way into print, and

shone in the Literary column of the _Belton Sentinel_, accompanied by a

notice from the editor, who alluded to the talent of his young

fellow-townsman in terms of unmeasured praise. Said that influential

sheet on the appearance of _The Broken Abacus_:

"In spite of a press of matter, we determined to make room, in our

issue of to-day, for another poem from the pen of our gifted young

poet, Mark Gildersleeve, which will be found on the third page. The

favor with which the 'Withered Chaplet' and 'The Spear of Ithuriel'

were received, encourage us to print the present verses. They are

hexameters, and remind us in their flowing rhythm of the earlier

efforts of Longfellow, while in gorgeousness of imagery and

luxuriance of diction, they equal some of the finest passages in

Keats. Altogether, we congratulate Mr. Gildersleeve on this

exquisite production, whose symmetry and polished beauty can only

be fitly compared to a capital of Pentelican marble from the chisel

of Phidias."

Dr. Wattletop, though, said "Bosh" to this, when he read it, and it

could not be denied that he was a competent critic. He, also, had trod

the primrose path of literature in leisure moments, not as a poet, but

as an occasional contributor of essays to magazines and reviews. There

was a literary club in Belton, composed of young men who loved to

indulge in debates and other intellectual gymnastics. Mark, as might be

supposed, was an active member, and, indeed, at one time president of

this association. Besides deciding the momentous topics of "Whether men

of thought, or men of action, have done the most for civilization," or

"Whether the execution of Mary Queen of Scots was justifiable or not,"

and other questions of similar perplexity, the society gave lectures, or

rather lectures were given, to quote the posters, under their auspices,

during the winter months. At their solicitation, Dr. Wattletop was

induced to prepare and deliver a lecture on "Eccentricity," a theme

which he was well qualified, at least from experience, to treat of. He

diversified it with many humorous anecdotes of Porson and Abernethy, and

it met with much applause, and elicited very flattering encomiums from

the _Belton Sentinel_. So successful, indeed, was it, that efforts were

made to have the doctor repeat it in neighboring towns, but he excused

himself on the plea of want of time. Then proffers of money were made

to induce him to comply; this only served to incense him, and an

indignant refusal was the result. He was inclined to blame Mark a little

in his displeasure.

"Mark, you rascal, all this is your fault. I never would have given that

confounded lecture but for you. It ill becomes a man of my years and

profession to waste the time he owes to his patients, in relating stale

jests to a grinning audience. I don't know what I could have been

thinking of. In future, spin your nonsense as much as you like, my boy,

but don't ask me to join you--at my age, too! My remnant of life is too

short, and time has become too precious to me, to be squandered in that

way."

As well in that way, and better than in another he was prone to; and

unfortunately, he was getting rather too much on his hands, just then,

of the article he deemed so precious. For Keene, the hatchet-faced

homoeopath, had relieved the doctor of a vast deal of practice, and left

him with overmuch unemployed time on his hands. Dr. Wattletop explained

the increasing popularity of the heterodox practitioner in this wise:

"The infernal quack seduces the children with his sugar-plums, and the

mothers are silly enough to yield to their preferences; once introduced

in the family, of course it is pleasanter, if one needs physic, to

appease the conscience with a make-believe medicine than to take a

bitter though wholesome remedy. How are you to meet this folly and

weakness? Between these sugar-plums, and water-drenching, and

clairvoyant cures, the profession, I say, is going to the devil--yes,

sir, going to the devil! Come, Dagon, let's be off, old boy;" and with

his dog jogging beside him he would betake himself to a walk, which,

after a circuit of a mile or so, invariably terminated not to the

infernal regions, as one would naturally infer, but to what the Belton

"Band of Hope" would have designated as half way to it, viz.: "The

Shades." This was a little tavern at the far end of the town, kept by an

Englishman, and frequented solely by "old-country" people (of whom there

were many among the mill-hands), who resorted thither to indulge in

Welsh rarebits and old ale. You ascended a few steps, pushed open a

swing-door, and found yourself facing a little bar attached to a small

quiet room with a sanded floor. There were wire screens in the windows

on the street, and the walls were ornamented with fine engravings of the

All England Eleven, the Cambridgeshire Hunt, and portraits of Nelson,

Wellington, and Queen Victoria. The host was a "Brummagem" man,

suspected, from his blunted nose, of having been a pugilist, but as he

was a surly man of uncommunicative disposition, the suspicion had never

been verified. There were a half-dozen tables in the room, and at a

particular one in a corner Dr. Wattletop took his place, and Dagon his

(beneath the table), with undeviating method, about three days in the

week, unless prevented by professional duties. Mutely, then, the

blunt-nosed man brought a beaker of gin and sugar, and the _Albion_, or

_Illustrated London News_ to the doctor, who in silence consumed the gin

and perused the paper, his interest in the latter centring in the

"Gazette," whose announcement that Major Pipeclay was promoted, vice

Colonel Sabretasche retired, or that the ----th Foot were ordered to

Bermuda, or that some old chum had gone to his long home, recalled

recollections of by-gone days, and furnished food for reflection. After

the third beaker he laid aside the paper, and was now become intensely

grave and imposing, sitting bolt upright with his cane between his

knees, and gazing in a very uncompromising way into vacancy. The scot

settled without exchanging a word, the doctor buttoned his coat tightly,

grasped his cane firmly, and sternly began his return homeward. His way

led the length of Main Street, and seldom was any one bold enough to

accost him then.

Once, at such a time, Mr. Mumbie crossed his path (it was shortly after

the delivery of the doctor's lecture on Eccentricity), and ventured to

greet him with a smile and extended hand: "Good-day, doctor."

"Sir to you," replied the doctor, halting in a military attitude.

"Fine afternoon, doctor."

"Very fine indeed, sir. Ha! very fine."

"Doctor, you'd hardly believe it, but to-day is my birthday," said Mr.

Mumbie, assuming a triumphant air as if he were imparting a surprising

piece of news.

"I see no reason to doubt it," replied the doctor, curtly.

"Yes, sir, that is so," rejoined Mr. Mumbie with decision; "I'm a much

older man, let me tell you, than you take me for."

Dr. Wattletop looked as if he were prepared to take Mr. Mumbie for any

age whatever, for that gentleman presented what might be styled an

anachronistic appearance. He was a large man, offering at first view a

protuberant expanse of waistcoat, supported by somewhat unstable legs.

His head was an oblong one, covered with a curly glossy brown wig, that

contrasted singularly with thick gray eyebrows, and dyed whiskers on

flabby cheeks flanked by two large ears.

"Yes, sir," repeated Mr. Mumbie, "I'm a much older man than you take me

for. You know Mrs. Mumbie is much my junior, and that I never made up my

mind to marry until late in life--that accounts for it."

"Accounts for what?" inquired the doctor, beginning to be bored.

"Accounts for the--the discrepancy I spoke of. Now, here's a knife," and

Mr. Mumbie drew from his pocket a jack-knife, the bone-handle of which

was yellow with age, "here's a knife that I have carried about with me

since I was a boy. It was given to me as a birthday present. Just

notice the date I scratched on the handle--Nov. 16th, 1814. Just think

of that. I've carried it for going on fifty years--yes, sir, fifty

years. I doubt if there's many men, or in fact any man, can say as much;

and what changes have taken place since then! But I'm a man of strong

local attachments. I had an umbrella, doctor, when I was first married

that I had used steadily for twenty-six years--think of that! I suppose

I would have had it yet, but Mrs. Mumbie, unfortunately, was prejudiced

against that umbrella, and one day it disappeared. I never saw it

again." This was said solemnly, and Mr. Mumbie looked as if he were

about to pay the tribute of a tear to the manes of the departed

umbrella.

The doctor's patience becoming weary, he was about to turn on his heel

to leave, when Mr. Mumbie resumed:

"Doctor, I ought to thank you for the pleasure you afforded me the other

evening. I haven't had such a treat in a long time. 'Pears to me you

might make lots o' money going about delivering that lecture. It was

capital. You did get off some of the funniest anecdotes I ever heard,

and I assure you I was really very much entertained."

"Entertained, sir! Dammit, sir, do you take me for a mountebank?"

exclaimed the doctor, swelling with rising indignation.

It required very many apologies and explanations on Mr. Mumbie's part to

allay the ire of the physician, who continued, after parting with his

interlocutor, to mutter to himself as he went along: "Entertained him!

Am I, Basil Wattletop, a buffoon? Does he attempt to patronize me? The

insolence of these Yankee upstarts is really something perfectly

amazing! It's almost beyond belief." Unfortunately, his dignity that day

was destined to be subjected to further ruffling, for as he neared the

Archimedes Works he caught sight of the proprietor thereof, who was

lounging as usual on the door-step of his "office," with his hands in

his pockets. No man, we will venture to say, that kept his hands as

often pocketed, ever earned so much money as George Gildersleeve; but if

his hands were idle, his eyes were busy and everywhere. A more vigilant

pair of optics never lodged in a human head. "Now, that fellow,"

soliloquized the doctor, alluding to George, "has sense enough to know

that he springs from the lees. He don't attempt to ape his betters or to

patronize them, and his rudeness and ignorance are far less offensive

than the insufferable pretensions of that snob Mumbie--um--um."

"Hold up, Major," broke in George, hailing the doctor stentoriously.

"Step over here a moment. Foreman of my finishing-shop split his thumb

to-day in a lathe, and I want you to look at it."

The doctor was in doubts whether to respond to an appeal so

unceremoniously conveyed. He decided, however, after a short debate with

himself, to cross over to the counting-room and examine the injured man.

The hurt being dressed and pronounced but a slight affair, he was about

to leave when George Gildersleeve must needs engage him in a discussion,

which gradually drifted into the delicate subject of the comparative

merits of Englishmen and Americans. At this time there were sputterings

in Congress, and in the newspapers, in regard to a fresh "outrage"

perpetrated by the navy of Great Britain on our flag, and the general

expression was that we were not "going to stand it."

George for his part certainly was not, and said so plainly: "Look here,

Major, do you see that?" (pointing to an old horse-shoe nailed over the

fire-place.) "Right here was my grandfather's forge, and right about

here's where he shod Gineral Washington's horse just awhile afore he

fought the great battle of Trenton, and that's one of the cast-off

shoes, and I wouldn't take a thousand dollars for it. Well, sir, the man

that rode that horse that my grandfather shod, flaxed you Englishmen out

of your boots; and I tell you we've plenty more that can do it now, and

they'll do it again, if you Johnny Bulls don't behave yourselves; now

mind."

Dr. Wattletop, being in that condition when he was excessively

patriotic, prejudiced, and punctilious, was so utterly dumbfounded by

this tirade, that for a moment apoplexy was imminent. Luckily, contempt

supervened, and with a smile of scorn and withering irony, he repeated,

"Washington--Trenton--great battle of Trenton, I believe you said? Do

you seriously call that a battle? Why, my man, do you know what a battle

is? At the so-called battle of Trenton the total loss, according to your

historians, and their statements are evidently grossly exaggerated--the

total loss in killed on both sides amounted to five-and-twenty,

including a drummer, who received a black eye in the shindy;

five-and-twenty killed! all told--all told!"

George Gildersleeve shook his head incredulously at this statement, and

the doctor continued: "Now, if you will take the trouble to instruct

yourself a bit, you will find out what Englishmen can do. Read, for

instance, an account of the battle of Waterloo. Talk of Homeric heroes!

What's Achilles and the well-greaved Greeks to the Iron Duke and the

Guards?--what's Ajax Telamon to Shaw the Life-guardsman? tell me

that--tell me that?" Shaw the Life-guardsman was the doctor's favorite

hero, and he never failed, when the occasion offered, to bring him in as

the compeer of all the paladins of old, from Hector to Roland.

"Ah! there was fighting such as the world ne'er saw before," continued

the doctor, kindling with enthusiasm. "Not the famous Macedonian phalanx

nor the Roman legion held their ground so stoutly as the squares of

British linesmen when the steel-clad squadrons of cuirassiers broke

against them in vain."

"That was all very well when you fought them Frenchmen and Greeks. But

when you tackled us, you found a different sort of people to deal with,

I reckon. Old Put, and Jackson, and Gineral Scott, were too much for

you, old man," returned George, with a shake of the head that ought to

have settled matters.

Dr. Wattletop's nose glowed with a fiercer heat, and if looks could have

scorched a man, Gildersleeve would have shrivelled on the spot; but the

chances are that even the glances of that pleasant dame Medusa would

have fallen harmless on the pachydermatous master of the Archimedes

Works.

"Why, confound it, man, you talk like an ass. Should her Gracious

Majesty, the Queen of England, ever deign to notice the vaporings of

your politicians, and take it into her head to resent them, she'd send

the Channel fleet over here and knock your blasted country into flinders

in no time, and dammit, I wish she would!" and with that volley the

doctor turned on his heel, and left abruptly, to work off his choler by

an additional tramp of a mile or two.

"How are you to convince a pig-headed, obstinate man like that?" said

George, turning to his book-keeper. "He's so prejudiced that he won't

listen to reason, and must have his own way."