me.

MR. CHAINMAIL. Nay, Doctor. The twelfth century has backed you
well. Its manners and habits, its community of kind feelings
between master and man, are the true remedy for these ebullitions.

MR. TOOGOOD. Something like it: improved by my diagram: arts for
arms.

REV. DR. FOLLIOTT. No wassail-bowl for me. Give me an
unsophisticated bowl of punch, which belongs to that blissful
middle period, after the Jacquerie was down, and before the march
of mind was up. But, see, who is floundering in the water?

Proceeding to the edge of the moat, they fished up Mr. Firedamp,
who had missed his way back, and tumbled in. He was drawn out,
exclaiming, "that he had taken his last dose of malaria in this
world."

REV. DR. FOLLIOTT. Tut, man; dry clothes, a turkey's leg and rump,
well devilled, and a quart of strong punch, will set all to rights.

"Wood embers," said Mr. Firedamp, when he had been accommodated
with a change of clothes, "there is no antidote to malaria like the
smoke of wood embers; pine embers." And he placed himself, with
his mouth open, close by the fire.

REV. DR. FOLLIOTT. Punch, sir, punch: there is no antidote like
punch.