Arrah Neil; or, Times of Old. G. P. R. James

his speech to his companion, but more apparently to the hilt of his own sword, the point of which he had brought round between his feet, and the blade of which he twirled round and round with his hands while he was speaking.

      "Nine out of ten of them," he said, "are either rank fools or cold-hearted knaves, presumptuous blockheads, who think they have a right to command, because they have not wit enough to obey; or cunning scoundrels, who aim alone at their own interests, when they are affecting to serve only their country, and yet are fools enough not to see that the good of the whole is the good of every part."

      "Who, who, who? Whom do you mean?" answered the other.

      "English gentlemen," replied the man in black; "English gentlemen, I say."

      "Complimentary, certainly," remarked his comrade; "and by no means too general or comprehensive. I dare say it's very, true, though. So here's to your health, Master Randal."

      "Let my health alone," said Randal, "and take care of your own; for if you drink much more of that old ale, your head to-morrow morning will be as heavy as the barrel from which it comes, and I shall have to pump upon you to make you fit for any business whatsoever. Come, finish your supper, and take a walk with me upon the hill. But whom have we here? One of the rebels, I take it. Now, mind your part, but do not lie more than your nature absolutely requires."

      The last words of this speech were, as may be supposed, spoken in a low voice, an addition having been suddenly made to the party in the room where they were sitting.

      The personage who entered was the same thin, self-denying-looking gentleman who had passed poor Arrah Neil, as she sat by the fountain in the morning, and had in his own mind, charitably furnished her with a lodging in the stocks. That we may not have to return in order to relate this gentleman's previous history hereafter, we may as well pause here for a moment to say the few words that are needed on the subject, especially as some reference may be made to his former life in another place.

      Master Dry, of Longsoaken, as he was now called, had risen from an humble origin, and, though now a wealthy man, had commenced his career as the errand-boy of a grocer, or rather general dealer, in the village of Bishop's Merton. His master was a rigid man, a Puritan of the most severe cast, and his master's wife a buxom dame, given somewhat to the good things of life, especially of a fluid kind, which she employed the ingenuity of young Ezekiel Dry in obtaining for her, unknown to her more abstemious better-half. He thus acquired some small skill in deceiving sharp eyes; and it was whispered that his worthy patron did not fail to give him further improvement in this peculiar branch of science, by initiating him into the mystery of the difference between a yard measure and a yard of tape or ribbon, between a pound weight and a pound of sugar or butter; between which, as the learned reader is aware, there is a great and important distinction.

      As worthy Ezekiel Dry grew up into a young man, his master settled down into an old one; and at length Death, who, like his neighbours in a country town, is compelled occasionally to go to the chandler's shop, called one morning at the door of Ezekiel's master, and would not be satisfied without his full measure.

      The usual course of events then took place. There was a widow, and a shopman; the widow was middle-aged and wealthy, the shopman young and poor; and Mr. Dry became a married man, and master of the shop. During a probation of twenty years, which his state of matrimony lasted, he did not altogether escape scandal; but in those times, as in others, very rigid piety (at least in appearance) was not always accompanied by very rigid morality; and those people who conceived that they might exist separately, looked upon the latter as of very little consequence where the former was pre-eminent.

      At length, after having resisted time and strong waters (which her second husband never denied her in any quantity) to the age of nearly seventy, Mrs. Dry slept with her ancestors; and Mr. Dry went on flourishing, till at length he sold his house and shop to another pillar of the conventicle, and bought a good estate in the near neighbourhood, called Longsoaken. He still kept up his connection with his native town, however, became a person of the highest consideration therein, took part in all its councils, managed many of its affairs, was acquainted with all its news, and was the stay of the Puritans, the terror of the parson, and the scorn of the Cavaliers.

      It was his usual custom, as he still remained a widower, to look into the "Rose of Sharon" every fine afternoon--less, as he said, to take even the needful refreshment of the body, than to pause and meditate for half-an-hour, before he retired to his own house; but it was remarked that, on these occasions, he invariably had a small measure of some kind of liquid put down beside him, and consulted the host upon the affairs of everybody in the place.

      In the present instance, Mr. Dry had received immediate information that two strangers had appeared at the "Rose of Sharon" between eight and nine, and he had hastened up from Longsoaken without loss of time; but he had spent nearly half-an-hour with the landlord in an inner chamber, inquiring into all the particulars of their appearance and demeanour. Now, the landlord had lost more than one good customer in consequence of the unpleasant interference of his respected neighbour, who had occasionally caused some of the most expensive visiters at his house to be committed as "malignants;" but as he dared not show any resistance or make any remonstrance to a person so high in authority as Master Dry, of Longsoaken, his only course was to defend the characters of his guests as far as was safe. But the worthy host was a timid man, and never ventured to pronounce a decided opinion in the presence of his betters.

      In answer, therefore, to the questions now addressed to him, he replied, "Oh dear, no, worshipful sir! That is to say--for one cannot be certain of anything in this ungodly world--they do not look like it at all. Malignants are always gay in their apparel, and the gentleman is dressed just like yourself, all in black. He has got a Geneva skullcap, too, I should not wonder if he were a gifted man like yourself."

      "That may be a mere disguise," said Mr. Dry.

      "Then, malignants are always roystering blades," continued the landlord; "calling for all manner of things, beginning with wine, and ending with strong waters. Now, these good people have nought but beef and ale; though, doubtless, as all godly men may do for the comfort of the inner man, they will take something more warming before they go; but, as yet, one tankard of ale is all they have had."

      "That looks well," said Mr. Dry, oracularly; "not that I would condemn any man for using creature comforts in moderation, according to his necessity. Some men's complexion, if of a cold and melancholy nature, does require such helps. I myself am driven to it--but what more, my friend? Are they grave in their discourse?"

      "As heart could wish," replied the landlord. "I should take them rather for the most pious and humble----"

      "I will see them myself," interrupted Dry, who began to suspect the landlord. "It is not easy to deceive my eyes."

      But the worthy host contrived to detain his worshipful fellow-townsman for some five minutes longer, in order that the guests might finish their meal in peace, by opening a conversation relative to the return of "the poor silly girl, Arrah Neil," as he called her, in regard to whom he had shrewd suspicions that Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, entertained sentiments not quite so rigid as those which his words in the morning might seem to imply.

      On this part of their conversation, however, I shall not dwell, as it would be neither very instructive nor very amusing, but will return once more to the parlour of the inn which Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, entered with a staid and stately step, his two eyes bent upon the ground, as if he were in deep meditation. The younger of the two guests in the parlour lolled in his chair and bit his lip. The elder considered Mr. Dry attentively, but suffered him to enter the room and approach the table without saying a word. Neither did he make any movement of limb or feature, but remained cold, stiff, and dry, as if his limbs and his countenance were made of wood. Mr. Dry, however, always recollected that he was a man in authority; and great success in life, where there is any weakness of character, is sure to produce a confident self-importance, very comfortable to the possessor thereof, though not particularly agreeable to his friends and companions.

      As neither of the others uttered a word, then, he began the conversation himself without farther ado.

      "I trust we are