“After giving earnest thought to this your royal wish, it seemeth to us more advantageous, not only to our state, but also to your vast realm, that these prisoners be sent to the furthest point possible from the portals of the impervious wall, left their putrid odour should so terrify the entire City pf Destruction that no one would ever enter Eternity from that side of the gulf, and I, in consequence, would be unable to cool my sting, and you should have no commerce betwixt earth and hell.  But I leave you to judge them, and to cast them into the cells you deem most secure and befitting.

“From our Lower Court in the Great Tollgate of Destruction:  from the year of the restoration of my Kingdom, 1670.”

After hearing all this, I was itching to know what manner of folk these seven might be, seeing that the devils themselves feared them so much.  But ere long, the Clerk to the Crown calls them by name, as follows:  “Mister Busybody, alias Finger-in-every-pie.”  This fellow was so fussily and busily directing the others, that he had no leisure to answer to his name until Death threatened to sunder him with his dart.  Then, “Mr. Slanderer, alias Foe-of-Good-Fame,” was called, but no response came.  “He is rather bashful to hear his titles,” said the third, “he can’t abide the nicknames.”  “Have you no titles, I wonder?” asked the Slanderer, “call Mr. Honey-tongued Swaggerer, alias Smoothgulp, alias Venomsmile.”  “Here,” cried a woman, who was standing near, pointing to the Swaggerer.  “Ha, Madam Huntress!” cried he, “your humble servant; I am glad to see you well, I never saw a more beautiful woman in breeches, but woe’s me to think how pitiable is the country, having lost in you such an unrivalled ruler; and yet, your pleasant company will make hell itself somewhat better.”  “Oh, thou scion of evil,” cried she, “no one need a worse hell than to be with thee—­thou art enough.”  Then the crier called, “Huntress, alias Mistress o’ the Breeches.”  “Here,” answered someone else, she herself not saying a word because they did not “madam” her.  Next was called the Schemer, alias Jack-of-all-Trades.  But he, too, failed to answer, for he was assiduously plotting to escape the Land of Despair.  “Here, here,” cried someone behind him, “here he is spying for a place to break out of your great court, and unless you be on your guard, he has a considerable plot against you.”  “Then,” said the Schemer, “Let him also be called, to wit, The Accuser-of-his-Brethren, alias Faultfinder, alias Complaint-monger.”  “Here, here he is,” cried the Litigious Wrangler—­for each one knew the other’s name, but none would acknowledge his own.  “You are also called,” said the Accuser, “Mr. Litigious Wrangler, alias Cumber-of-Courts.”  “Witness, witness, all of you, what names the knave has given me,” cried the Wrangler.  “Ha, ha, ’tis not according to the font, but according to the fault, that everybody is named in this land,” said Death, “and with your permission, Mr. Wrangler, these names must stick to you for evermore.”  “Indeed,” quoth the Wrangler, “by the devil, I’ll make it hot for you; although you may put me to death, you have no right to nickname me.  I shall enter a plaint for this and for false imprisonment, against you and your kinsman Lucifer, in the Court of Justice.”