Colonel Ingoldsby, and that work of mercy will never be blotted from my memory. Do you not recollect ?"

"What! mine host of St. Dunstan and the Devil! Ods my life, what my old friend Caleb Johnson, give me your manus; why!"-viewing him with a countenance suddenly lighted with the benignant smile of acknowledged old acquaintanceship, "give me your manus, Master Johnson; I am right glad to meet you once again. And how fares it with mine hostess?-It is long since I have heard the clanking of the pewter, and the tinkling of the bar bell, at the old tavern. What! is she looking as comely as ever? grown a little portly I wot, like my old friend Caleb, hey? Why Master Johnson," looking playfully at his corporation, "Why, my jolly host, as Will Shakspeare says, with good capon lined,' hey Master Caleb? How comes this about? surely you cannot have fattened on your loyalty. Your vagabond round-heads have taken good care of that. A contented mind, hey Master Caleb? Well! that after all is the best fare, as the book has it, a continual feast.'"

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Why, Master Colonel, it is of no use to fret one's bowels to fiddle-strings, as the saying is. I have not fattened on the royalists, however, that is certain. My capons have been the lawyers, Master Ingoldsby, and they you know can come down freely for feasting in all times, for these black-legged chicks have their fingers in every man's pocket, ha, ha, ha, as a body may say. But the purport of my following you this morning, which I hope you will take in good part, is to offer you my humble service, mine, and my good dame's, who saw you, knew you, and desired me to follow you; we have talked about you Colonel Ingoldsby, early and late, many and many's the day, and by God's blessing we may be instrumental in our humble capacities to your future welfare now public affairs be altered; you understand me, Sir; for I have where-with-all to serve a kind benefactor in more ways than one.”

"Thou art a right worthy soul, and that I knew years ago, Master Caleb," said the Colonel, "and it was on that account, that I now recollect my saying a good word for you with the old cut-throat jailer of Ludgate-I accept your

proffered services with frankness, for I honestly confess, that I am not overwhelmed by the obligations of friendship at this period: but nil desperandum, that is, never despair, is my motto, Master Caleb, and I shall trust to the fates, who never desert the man who dares fortune to kiss his breech."

"And where, may I be so bold, can I find you, Master Colonel? for I have a scheme in my head at your service, meanwhile," looking around to satisfy himself that no one over-heard or saw what he was about to do; when taking a small whit-leather purse from his pocket, he respectfully pressed it into the Colonel's hand, saying "that is part of my old debt, worthy Sir, and please to send me word where I can wait upon you at night-fall." St. Paul's chimes. at this moment reminded the old tavern-keeper that it was on the stroke of nine, that his help-mate was waiting all this while at Martin Colechurch's. "Good morrow, Sir," said he, "keep up your courage, Colonel," and offering his hand, the Colonel gave it a cordial shake, when, Caleb bustled along, round the choir, and descending the steps with a light

heart, peeped in at the bookseller's, and whispered, old Watkin Waller, "I've seen Master Ingoldsby, God preserve him, and another time will tell you all about it."

The inquisitive old bibliopolist peeped over the hatch, with spectacles on nose, crying, "hilloa, stop, Master Caleb," but he was too late, the generous tavern-keeper seemed to mend his speed at every step; he was impatient to make his way to the poulterer's to acquaint his excellent help-mate with the fruits of this interview.

CHAPTER III.

THE OLD BLACK EAGLE IN AN UPROAR. "How now? Whose mare's dead? What's the matter? SHAKSPEARE.

"CHRIST! Vot a noble chentleman vosh dat Colonel Ingolshpie," said Mordecai. "So vash Master Caleb Jonshon, and so vash dame Jonshon: it vas a comfort to have dealings with the Devil, so help me G-d.”

"Out! thou reprobate Jew, why every other sentence is a blasphemy, where dost expect to go to, wicked wretch! Why thou unrighteous Israelite, how canst thou be vending these holy prayer books, with naught but oaths in thy mouth? why thy very breath is pollution,” snuffled the hypocritical old shop-keeper.

*

* The Black Eagle had been a book-shop, from the time of Queen Elizabeth, in whose reign the weathercock from the top of the lofty spire of old St. Paul's cathedral was blown down in a hurricane, and falling near the north porch, demolished the bookseller's sign.