combination more calculated than any other, we believe, to awaken
attention, and bring forth the subject before the mind with truth and
distinctness.

One stormy night, in the autumn of the year 1324, mine host of the Merry
Maypole, a tavern of great resort by the market-cross in the good
borough of Wigan, was awakened from a laborious slumber. The door which
opened into a low porch projecting from the thatch, was shaken with a
vehemence that threatened some fearful catastrophe. Giles, no longer
able to endure these thundering appeals to his hospitality, desired his
wife to ascertain the cause of the disturbance.

"Gramercy! An' I be to unlatch for every graceless unthrift that chooses
to pummel at Giles Dauber's wicket, I shall have but sorry bedding wi'
an old husband."

"Old, quotha!--Old! I tell thee, dame, that I'm less by a good score of
winters than Dan o' the higher Wient, when he wed old Simon's
daughter.--Humph!--She was a merry and a buxom lass; but thou"--

How far this interesting dialogue between the tavern-keeper and his
newly-wedded spouse might have extended it is impossible with any degree
of accuracy to set forth, inasmuch as another loud and desperate lunge,
extenuated to an inaudible mutter the testy rejoinder of "Giles o' the
Maypole;" this being the cognomen by which he was more familiarly
designated.

"Anan!" shouted he, "what the---- Save us!" he continued in a low
whisper, crossing himself, "I had nigh slipped an ugly word over my
tongue; and if it should be--Dame, I say, get up, and"--