world but the philosopher.  If monotonous, the one note of the drum is very correct.  Like the speaking of great Nature, what it means is implied by the measure.  When the drum beats to the measure of a common human pulsation it has a conquering power:  inspiring us neither to dance nor to trail the members, but to march as life does, regularly, and in hearty good order, and with a not exhaustive jollity.  It is a sacred instrument.

Now the drum which is heard to play in this cheerful fashion, while at the same time we know that discomfiture is cruelly harrying it:  that its inmost feelings are wounded, and that worse is in store for it, affects the contemplative mind with an inexpressibly grotesque commiseration.  Do but listen to this one, which is the joint corporate voice of the men of Hillford.  Outgeneraled, plundered, turned to ridicule, it thumps with unabated briskness.  Here indeed might Sentimentalism shed a fertile tear!

Anticipating that it will eventually be hung up among our national symbols, I proceed.  The drum of Hillford entered the Brookfield grounds as Ipley had done, and with a similar body of decorated Clubmen; sounding along until it faced the astonished proprietor, who held up his hand and requested to know the purpose of the visit.  One sentence of explanation sufficed.

“What!” cried Mr. Pole, “do you think you can milk a cow twice in ten minutes?”

Several of the Hillford men acknowledged that it would be rather sharp work.

Their case was stated:  whereupon Mr. Pole told them that he had just been ‘milked,’ and regretted it, but requested them to see that he could not possibly be equal to any second proceeding of the sort.  On their turning to consult together, he advised them to bear it with fortitude.  “All right, sir!” they said:  and a voice from the ranks informed him that their word was ‘Jolly.’  Then a signal was given, and these indomitable fellows cheered the lord of Brookfield as lustily as if they had accomplished the feat of milking him twice in an hour.  Their lively hurrahs set him blinking in extreme discomposure of spirit, and he was fumbling at his pocket, when the drum a little precipitately thumped:  the ranks fell into order, and the departure was led by the tune of the ’King of the Cannibal islands:’  a tune that is certain to create a chorus on the march.  On this occasion, the line:—­

     “Oh! didn’t you know you were done, sir?”

became general at the winding up of the tune.  Boys with their elders frisked as they chimed it, casting an emphasis of infinite relish on the declaration ‘done’; as if they delighted in applying it to Mr. Pole, though at their own expense.

Soon a verse grew up:—­

     “We march’d and call’d on Mister Pole,
     Who hadn’t a penny, upon his soul,
     For Ipley came and took the whole,
     And didn’t you know you were done, sir!”

I need not point out to the sagacious that Hillford and not Mr. Pole had been ‘done;’ but this was the genius of the men who transferred the opprobrium to him.  Nevertheless, though their manner of welcoming misfortune was such, I, knowing that there was not a deadlier animal than a ‘done’ Briton, have shudders for Ipley.