before stated in these "Confessions"--but never mind that) is in some
sort dear to me: and were I Lord Shootingcastle or Colonel Popland,
I think after a residence of six months there I should love the Fleet
Prison. As I saw the old familiar pipe, I took it down, and crammed it
with Cavendish tobacco, and lay down on a sofa, and puffed away for an
hour wellnigh, thinking of old, old times.

"You're very entertaining to-night, Fitz," says young Blake, who had
made several tumblers of punch for me, which I had gulped down without
saying a word. "Don't ye think ye'd be more easy in bed than snorting
and sighing there on my sofa, and groaning fit to make me go hang
myself?"

"I am thinking, Blake," says I, "about Pumpernickel, where old Speck
gave you this pipe."

"'Deed he did," replies the young man; "and did ye know the old Bar'n?"

"I did," said I. "My friend, I have been by the banks of the Bendemeer.
Tell me, are the nightingales still singing there, and do the roses
still bloom?"

"The HWHAT?" cries Blake. "What the divvle, Fitz, are you growling
about? Bendemeer Lake's in Westmoreland, as I preshume; and as for roses
and nightingales, I give ye my word it's Greek ye're talking to me." And
Greek it very possibly was, for my young friend, though as good across
country as any man in his county, has not the fine feeling and tender
perception of beauty which may be found elsewhere, dear madam.

"Tell me about Speck, Blake, and Kalbsbraten, and Dorothea, and