predecessor here, it seemed, had been an officer of a veteran battalion, with a wife, and that amount of children which is algebraically expressed by an X (meaning an unknown quantity).  He, good man, in his two years’ sojourn here, had been much more solicitous about his own affairs, than making acquaintance with his neighbours; and at last, the few persons who had been in the habit of calling on “the officer,” gave up the practice; and as there were no young ladies to refresh Pa’s memory on the matter, they soon forgot completely that such a person existed—­and to this happy oblivion I, Harry Lorrequer, succeeded, and was thus left without benefit of clergy to the tender mercies of Mrs. Healy of the Burton arms.

As during the inundation which deluged the whole country around I was unable to stir from the house, I enjoyed abundant opportunity of cultivating the acquaintance of my hostess, and it is but fair that my reader, who has journeyed so far with me, should have an introduction.

Mrs. Healy, the sole proprietor of the “Burton Arms,” was of some five and fifty—­“or by’r lady,” three score years, of a rubicund and hale complexion; and though her short neck and corpulent figure might have set her down as “doubly hazardous,” she looked a good life for many years to come.  In height and breadth she most nearly resembled a sugar-hogshead, whose rolling, pitching motion, when trundled along on edge, she emulated in her gait.  To the ungainliness of her figure her mode of dressing not a little contributed.  She usually wore a thick linsey-wolsey gown, with enormous pockets on either side, and, like Nora Creina’s, it certainly inflicted no undue restrictions upon her charms, but left

                   “Every beauty free,
                    To sink or swell as heaven pleases.”

Her feet—­ye gods!  Such feet—­were apparelled in listing slippers, over which the upholstery of her ancles descended, and completely relieved the mind of the spectator as to the superincumbent weight being disproportioned to the support; I remember well my first impression on seeing those feet and ancles reposing upon a straw footstool, while she took her afternoon dose, and I wondered within myself if elephants were liable to the gout.  There are few countenances in the world, that if wishing to convey an idea of, we cannot refer to some well-known standard; and thus nothing is more common than to hear comparisons with “Vulcan—­Venus—­Nicodemus,” and the like; but in the present case, I am totally at a loss for any thing resembling the face of the worth Mrs. Healy, except it be, perhaps, that most ancient and sour visage we used to see upon old circular iron rappers formerly—­they make none of them now—­the only difference being, that Mrs. Healy’s nose had no ring through it; I am almost tempted to add, “more’s the pity.”