e
boy.

"But two, sir, at least so Peggy told me, and she would just as soon
have blabbed about the whole two-and-thirty--the rest are as sound as
yours, which are beautiful."

"And her hair, Sampson, is that all right, too?" asks the young
gentleman.

"'Tis lovely--I have seen that. I can take my oath to that. Her ladyship
can sit upon it; and her figure is very fine; and her skin is as white
as snow; and her heart is the kindest that ever was; and I know, that is
I feel sure, it is very tender about you, Mr. Warrington."

"Oh, Sampson! Heaven, Heaven bless you! What a weight you've taken off
my mind with those--those--never mind them! Oh, Sam! How happy--that is,
no, no--ob, how miserable I am! She's as old as Madam Esmond--by George
she is--she's as old as my mother. You wouldn't have a fellow marry
a woman as old as his mother? It's too bad: by George it is. It's too
bad." And here, I am sorry to say, Harry Esmond Warrington, Esquire, of
Castlewood, in Virginia, began to cry. The delectable point, you see,
must have been passed several glasses ago.

"You don't want to marry her, then?" asks the chaplain.

"What's that to you, sir? I've promised her, and an Esmond--a Virginia
Esmond mind that--Mr. What's-your-name--Sampson--has but his word!"
The sentiment was noble, but delivered by Harry with rather a doubtful
articulation.

"Mind you, I said a Virginia Esmond," continued poor Harry, lifting up
his finger. "I don't mean the younger branch here. I don't mean Will,
who robbed me about the horse, and whose bones I'll break. I give you
Lady Maria--Heaven bless her, and Heaven bless you, Sampson, and you
deserve to be a bishop, old boy!"

"There are letters between you, I suppose?" says Sampson.

"Letters! Dammy, she's always writing me letters!--never lets me into a
window but she sticks one in my cuff. Letters! that is a good idea! Look
here! Here's letters!" And he threw down a pocket-book containing a heap
of papers of the poor lady's composition.

"Those are letters, indeed. What a post-bag!" says the chaplain.

"But any man who touches them--dies--dies on the spot!" shrieks Harry,
starting from his seat, and reeling towards his sword; which he draws,
and then stamps with his foot, and says, "Ha! ha!" and then lunges at
M. Barbeau, who skips away from the lunge behind the chaplain, who looks
rather alarmed. I know we could have had a much more exciting picture
than either of those we present of Harry