"No more it isn't, Master Grimstone; I never heard you joke yet," said

Robin.

"And I aver it is an open and avowed doubting of God's providence,"

chimed in the cook.

"What! what!" exclaimed six or eight voices: "what do you mean by such

blasphemy, Solomon Grundy? A forfeit and a fine!"

"Peace, silly brawlers!" returned he of the kitchen, who had discussed

the good things thereof, until he had no room for more, and who had

also quaffed largely of the forbidden beverage called 'strong

waters;'--"I say peace, silly brawlers! I repeat it is an open and

avowed doubting of Providence, that we should come thus far, and see

nothing but a parcel of people--parcel of sky--parcel of water--parcel

of ships--parcel----"

"Of fools!" grinned little Robin, pointing at the same time towards the

oratorical cook, who so little relished the compliment, as to elevate

the polished remnant of a mutton shoulder-blade, and aim a well-directed

blow at the manikin, which he avoided only by springing with great

agility through the aperture in the tree, so as to alight at some

distance on the other side of the hollow trunk. This harlequinade

excited much boisterous laughter among the crowd; and no one joined in

it more mirthfully than young Springall, who, for some reason known best

to Hugh Dalton, yet sanctioned by Sir Robert Cecil, had spent the last

few days in the kitchens and buttery of Cecil Place. There was another

youth of the same party, who perchance enjoyed the merriment, but who

looked as if he could have still more enjoyed melancholy. He was seated

next to Springall, on the rude bench; and the boy-sailor treated him

with such marks of attention, as manifested that he regarded him more in

the light of a superior, than as an equal. The stranger, however,

remained with his hat so much slouched over his face, that his features

were in complete shadow, while his cloak was muffled over the lower part

of his countenance.

"I say, Robin," exclaimed Springall, "come out of your shell; you have

remained there long enough to tell over a dozen creeds or paters, were

they in fashion--Come out, are you bewitched? Robin the Ranger, I say,

come forth, and give us a taste of your calling--a melody--a melody! But

you should hear our Jeromio sing his lingo songs some night astern: and

though I do hate that cunning rascal, yet, my eyes! how he does sing!"

"Singing," observed Solomon Grundy, whose potations had wonderfully

increased his piety, "singing is an invention of the beast's, yea, of

the horned beast's, of him who knoweth not a turtle from a turtle-dove,

but would incontinently stew them in the same caldron, over brimstone

and pitch; therefore shall my voice bubble and boil over against such

iniquities--yea, and my tongue shall be uplifted against them, even in

the land of Ham!"




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