This suggestion met with universal approval, and Britton waving his hand, consented whereupon the landlord heaved a deep sigh, and remarked, that if all the world was like him, the worshipful Master Britton, what a different world it would be to what it really was.
“Off with, you,” shouted Britton. “The canary—the canary, and we’ll have a song. I’ve got a toast, too, to propose.”
The canary was not long in appearing, and Britton rising, proposed as a toast,—
The landlord looked aghast, and the guests looked aghast, till the punchy man volunteered his opinion in the following terms,—
“Gentlemen, we don’t know Jacob Gray, but there can be no doubt he’s a very bad man—(Hear, hear.) Master Britton stands spiced canary, all round, and, consequently, it’s my humble opinion it must be right.”
The topers looked at each other in amazement at this splendid piece of reasoning; and one remarked that he, the punchy man, was the person to get over a knotty pointy which was universally responded to in the affirmative, and the toast was drunk with acclamation.
The landlord looked imploringly round him for some one to sing, but no one seemed inclined, therefore he said,—
“The worshipful Master Britton calls for a song, and there must be a song.”
“Of course,” cried Britton, “and you must sing it.”
The landlord hemmed thrice, and after taking a deep draught of the canary, he fixed his eyes on the fly-cage hanging from the ceiling, and chaunted the following Bacchanalian strains,—
“Bravo!” cried Britton. “That’s good—mind, that’s good.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the inebriated smith—“Hurrah, boys! Three—ch—ch—cheers. I—I say—I—I’m a k—k—king!”
After an ineffectual attempt to stand, he dropped on the floor in a state of unconsciousness.
Alone, and still, as a sculptured image, sat the Squire Learmont, in one of his stately halls. He was surrounded by magnificence, but he was alone. The closely-fitting easements admitted, but in subdued murmurs, the various voices of the city, but there was no one, save himself, to enjoy the luxury of the calm that reigned in that gilt and gaudy saloon. The choicest hangings depended from the walls, half concealing, yet rendering more effective, the glowing paintings that were hung in the most favourable lights; but Learmont was alone. A chandelier, shaded by coloured glasses, shed a sweet and chastened light upon every article in that costly room, but who was there to admire, to gaze in rapture upon the splendour of that magical scene? Learmont was alone, and the deep sense of his utter loneliness, crept across him with a chilling influence that seemed to penetrate even to the very marrow in his bones.