e
made a blow upon some unfortunate leg of mutton, which required
shanking, that this would she do to the Knight of the Black Visage, or
the cruel Tyrant of the Bloody Tower, or the Renegades of the Cross, or
any other anti-hero, so that it might be said romance was _scotched_ in
her, not killed, as we shall hear in the sequel.

After Miss Squeamish became Mrs. Mumbles she determined to endeavour to
'civilize' her husband, as she called it. It did not follow because he
was a butcher that he was to have butchering ideas for ever, or that he
was to know nothing of 'literature,' as she termed it--that is, novels.
Mr. Mumbles had read 'Puss in Boots,' 'Jack the Giant Killer,' 'Tom
Thumb,' 'Jack and the Bean Stalk,' 'Whittington and his Cat,' and
'Mother Goose' in his childhood. In his boyhood he had gone through
'Robinson Crusoe,' 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' and 'The Seven Champions of
Christendom,' and therefore knew there was something in the world
besides scrags of mutton.

Having made these discoveries Mrs. Mumbles was determined to put her
husband under regular training, to win him, by degrees, from his boorish
estate to that of poetry and refinement. She looked at his unwieldy
bulk--it was not exactly the size for a hero, but then she thought of
bluff Harry the Eighth, who was both stout and romantic, and the Field
of the Cloth of Gold, and so as Mr. Mumbles became romantic she made up
her mind to put up with his stoutness.

Mr. Mumbles had no other relaxation on a summer's evening than a game of
bowls, but as his fat increased so did his difficulty of playing this
noble game. He used to think that once down it would require something
more than the levers of his legs to lift him up again. So just as Mr.
Mumbles had made up his mind within himself to leave off bowls did Mrs.
Mumbles think of making him a hero outright. But she went cautiously
about her work. She knew that to change the man she must first change
the mind, and therefore she commenced her operations upon the mental
part of Mr. Mumbles.

Her first thought was as to the kind of hero she was to train him into.
She would not like him to be a 'Jack Sheppard,' for fear he might break
into some lady's heart with a crowbar of his impudence. Nor would she
like him to be a 'Eugene Aram,' for fear he should make a mistake and
hang her some night instead of himself. He seemed fitter for a 'Jack
Falstaff' than anything else. But Falstaff was too witty for a hero, an