let us see what the church militant, in the armour of the twelfth
century, will do against the march of mind. Follow me who will,
and stay who list. Here goes: Pro aris et focis! that is, for
tithe pigs and fires to roast them.

He clapped a helmet on his head, seized a long lance, threw open
the gates, and tilted out on the rabble, side by side with Mr.
Chainmail, followed by the greater portion of the male inmates of
the hall, who had armed themselves at random.

The rabble-rout, being unprepared for such a sortie, fled in all
directions, over hedge and ditch.

Mr. Trillo stayed in the hall, playing a march on the harp, to
inspirit the rest to sally out. The water-loving Mr. Philpot had
diluted himself with so much wine as to be quite hors de combat.
Mr. Toogood, intending to equip himself in purely defensive armour,
contrived to slip a ponderous coat of mail over his shoulders,
which pinioned his arms to his sides; and in this condition, like a
chicken trussed for roasting, he was thrown down behind a pillar in
the first rush of the sortie. Mr. Crotchet seized the occurrence
as a pretext for staying with him, and passed the whole time of the
action in picking him out of his shell.

"Phew!" said the divine, returning; "an inglorious victory; but it
deserves a devil and a bowl of punch."

MR. CHAINMAIL. A wassail-bowl.

REV. DR. FOLLIOTT. No, sir. No more of the twelfth century for