* * * * *

Such was the story of the captain’s friend, with which we whiled away the morning.  The captain was, every now and then, interrupted by questions and remarks, which I have not mentioned, lest I should break the continuity of the tale.  He was a little disturbed, also, once or twice, by the general, who fell asleep, and breathed rather hard, to the great horror and annoyance of Lady Lillycraft.  In a long and tender love scene, also, which was particularly to her ladyship’s taste, the unlucky general, having his head a little sunk upon his breast, kept making a sound at regular intervals, very much like the word pish, long drawn out.  At length he made an odd abrupt guttural sound, that suddenly awoke him; he hemmed, looked about with a slight degree of consternation, and then began to play with her ladyship’s work-bag, which, however, she rather pettishly withdrew.  The steady sound of the captain’s voice was still too potent a soporific for the poor general; he kept gleaming up and sinking in the socket, until the cessation of the tale again roused him, when he started awake, put his foot down upon Lady Lillycraft’s cur, the sleeping Beauty, which yelped and seized him by the leg, and, in a moment, the whole library resounded with yelpings and exclamations.  Never did man more completely mar his fortunes while he was asleep.  Silence being at length restored, the company expressed their thanks to the captain, and gave various opinions of the story.  The parson’s mind, I found, had been continually running upon the leaden manuscripts, mentioned in the beginning, as dug up at Granada, and he put several eager questions to the captain on the subject.  The general could not well make out the drift of the story, but thought it a little confused.  “I am glad, however,” said he, “that they burnt the old chap of the tower; I have no doubt he was a notorious impostor.”

(END OF VOL.  ONE)

BRACEBRIDGE HALL;

OR,

THE HUMOURISTS.

A MEDLEY.

BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent.

VOLUME SECOND.

Under this cloud I walk, Gentlemen; pardon my rude assault.  I am a traveller, who, having surveyed most of the terrestrial angles of this globe, am hither arrived, to peruse this little spot.

  —­Christmas Ordinary.

ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN.

  His certain life, that never can deceive him,
    Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content;
  The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him
    With coolest shade, till noontide’s heat be spent. 
  His life is neither tost in boisterous seas
    Or the vexatious world; or lost in slothful ease. 
  Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

  —­Phineas Fletcher.