“Sir,” said the old gentleman, “I did but my duty at a painful moment; and ’tis matter of wonder to me that men talk still, and glorify such a trifling matter.  By our Lady’s grace, in the fair kingdom of France, there are scores of thousands of men, gentle and simple, who would do as I did.  Does not every sentinel at his post, does not every archer in the front of battle, brave it, and die where his captain bids him?  Who am I that I should be chosen out of all France to be an example of fortitude?  I braved no tortures, though these I trust I would have endured with a good heart.  I was subject to threats only.  Who was the Roman knight of whom the Latin clerk Horatius tells?”

“A Latin clerk?  Faith, I forget my Latin,” says Mr. Brummell.  “Ask the parson, here.”

“Messire Regulus, I remember, was his name.  Taken prisoner by the Saracens, he gave his knightly word, and was permitted to go seek a ransom among his own people.  Being unable to raise the sum that was a fitting ransom for such a knight, he returned to Afric, and cheerfully submitted to the tortures which the Paynims inflicted.  And ’tis said he took leave of his friends as gayly as though he were going to a vilage kermes, or riding to his garden house in the suburb of the city.”

“Great, good, glorious man!” cried Mr. Sterne, very much moved.  “Let me embrace that gallant hand, and bedew it with my tears!  As long as honor lasts thy name shall be remembered.  See this dew-drop twinkling on my check!  ’Tis the sparkling tribute that Sensibility pays to Valor.  Though in my life and practice I may turn from Virtue, believe me, I never have ceased to honor her!  Ah, Virtue!  Ah, Sensibility!  Oh—­”

Here Mr. Sterne was interrupted by a monk of the Order of St. Francis, who stepped into the room, and begged us all to take a pinch of his famous old rappee.  I suppose the snuff was very pungent, for, with a great start, I woke up; and now perceived that I must have been dreaming altogether.  “Dessein’s” of now-a-days is not the “Dessein’s” which Mr. Sterne, and Mr. Brummell, and I recollect in the good old times.  The town of Calais has bought the old hotel, and “Dessein” has gone over to “Quillacq’s.”  And I was there yesterday.  And I remember old diligences, and old postilions in pigtails and jack-boots, who were once as alive as I am, and whose cracking whips I have heard in the midnight many and many a time.  Now, where are they?  Behold they have been ferried over Styx, and have passed away into limbo.

I wonder what time does my boat go?  Ah!  Here comes the waiter bringing me my little bill.

ON SOME CARP AT SANS SOUCI.

We have lately made the acquaintance of an old lady of ninety, who has passed the last twenty-five years of her old life in a great metropolitan establishment, the workhouse, namely, of the parish of Saint Lazarus.  Stay—­twenty-three or four years ago, she came out once, and thought to earn a little money by hop-picking; but being overworked, and having to lie out at night, she got a palsy which has incapacitated her from all further labor, and has caused her poor old limbs to shake ever since.