Leoline; ay, and something more substantial than empty thanks.  Guinessa was right, after all; she knows where to find a valiant and a worthy man; and, by Heaven!  I am glad that she preferred you to your rival.  Right nobly have you won her, and honourably shall you wear the prize.  There she is; speak to her; I warrant your voice will revive her more quickly than that of Gryffhod; her consent you need not ask, for that you have obtained already, so take her for your wife when you will, and God give you joy of your choice, as for my part, I thank Heaven for bestowing on me so dauntless a son-in-law!’

“Cordial were the congratulations from all parties except Oscar, who, filled with mortification and jealous hatred, slunk away before the others; and during the march to Canterbury, which was commenced immediately after their descent from the Druid’s Chair, kept himself aloof, equally incensed against Gryffhod, Hengist, and Guinessa, and meditating dark schemes of vengeance.”

Oscar attempts to assassinate his successful rival at Canterbury; he escapes, but in crossing the sea for Gaul, is taken by the piratical Picts, carried to Scotland, and condemned to a rigorous and lifelong slavery.  Leoline and Guinessa are married, and Hengist becoming paramount in Kent, assigns to them a castle with ample domains in the Isle of Thanet; and in sailing along the coast they often pointed to “the dizzy summit of the Druid’s Chair,” which Leoline often proudly declared to be far more precious to him than any other object in existence, since it had given him that which alone made existence valuable—­his Guinessa!

In one of the Tales—­of the Council of Nice, in the fourth century, Mr. Smith indulges his usual felicitous vein of humour, in a burlesque which he puts into the mouth of a slave of the Bishop of Ethiopia,—­“a little, corpulent, bald-headed, merry-eyed man of fifty, whose name was Mark; whose duty it was to take charge of the oil, trim the lamps, and perform other menial offices in the church of Alexandria.”  The profane wight deserved, for his wit, a better place.

* * * * *

THE JUST DYING SPEECH AND CONFESSION OF THE PAGAN IMMORTALS.

  Alack and alas! it hath now come to pass,
    That the Gods of Olympus, those cheats of the world,
  Who bamboozled each clime from the birthday of Time,
    Are at length from their mountebank eminence hurl’d.

  On their cold altar-stone are no offerings thrown,
    And their worshipless worships no passenger greets,
  Though they still may have praise for amending our ways,
    If their statues are broken for paving the streets.

  The Deus Opt.  Max. of these idols and quacks
    Is now thrust in a corner for children to flout,
  And the red thunder-brand he still grasps in his hand. 
    Lights not Jupiter Tonans to grope his way out.