was carried out by supplying about a dozen prisoners with as many buckets, which they would fill with great alacrity, and, in succession, throw the contents with great force over the unyielding, from the outside.  The effect of this on naked men, bound with chains to iron bars, may be imagined; but the older Choicewest declares it was a cure.  It brought steel out of the “rascals,” and made them as submissive as shoe-strings.  Sometimes the jolly prisoners would make the bath so strong, that the niggers would seem completely drowned when released; but then they’d soon come to with a jolly good rolling, a little hartshorn applied to their nostrils, and the like of that.  About a dozen times putting through the pea and water process cured them.

So says the very respectable Mr. Choicewest, with great dignity of manners, as he seriously advises the younger Choicewest to try a little quantity of the same sort on his now useless female purchase.  Lady Choicewest must, however, be consulted on this point, as she is very particular about the mode in which all females about her establishment are chastised.  Indeed, Lady Choicewest is much concerned about the only male, heir of the family, to whom she looks forward for very distinguished results to the family name.  The family (Lady Choicewest always assures those whom she graciously condescends to admit into the fashionable precincts of her small but very select circle), descended from the very ancient and chivalric house of that name, whose celebrated estate was in Warwickshire, England; and, in proof of this, my Lady Choicewest invariably points to a sad daub, illustrative of some incomprehensible object, suspended over the antique mantelpiece.  With methodical grace, and dignity which frowns with superlative contempt upon every thing very vulgar—­for she says “she sublimely detests them very low creatures what are never brought up to manners at the north, and are worse than haystacks to larn civility”—­my lady solicits a near inspection of this wonderful hieroglyphic, which she tells us is the family arms,—­an ancient and choice bit of art she would not part with for the world.  If her friends evince any want of perception in tracing the many deeds of valour it heralds, on behalf of the noble family of which she is an undisputed descendant, my lady will at once enter upon the task of instruction; and with the beautiful fore-finger of her right hand, always jewelled with great brilliancy, will she satisfactorily enlighten the stupid on the fame of the ancient Choicewest family, thereon inscribed.  With no ordinary design on the credulity of her friends, Lady Choicewest has several times strongly intimated that she was not quite sure that one or two of her ancestors in the male line of the family were not reigning dukes as far down as the noble reign of the ignoble Oliver Cromwell!  The question, nevertheless, is whether the honour of the ancient Choicewest family descended from Mr. or Mrs. Choicewest.  The vulgar mass have been known to say (smilingly) that Lady Choicewest’s name was Brown, the father of which very ancient family sold herrings and small pigs at a little stand in the market:  this, however, was a very long time ago, and, as my lady is known to be troubled with an exceedingly crooked memory, persons better acquainted with her are more ready to accept the oblivious excuse.