their brethren! Your innocent milksops never made so jolly a supper as
did our heroes of the way. Clifford, perhaps acted a part, but the
hilarity of his comrades was unfeigned. It was a delicious contrast,--
the boisterous "ha, ha!" of Long Ned, and the secret, dry, calculating
chuckle of Augustus Tomlinson. It was Rabelais against Voltaire. They
united only in the objects of their jests, and foremost of those objects
(wisdom is ever the but of the frivolous!) was the great Peter
MacGrawler.

The graceless dogs were especially merry upon the subject of the sage's
former occupation.

"Come, Mac, you carve this ham," said Ned; "you have had practice in
cutting up."

The learned man whose name was thus disrespectfully abbreviated proceeded
to perform what he was bid. He was about to sit down for that purpose,
when Tomlinson slyly subtracted his chair,--the sage fell.

"No jests at MacGrawler," said the malicious Augustus; "whatever be his
faults as a critic, you see that he is well grounded, and he gets at once
to the bottom of a subject. Mac, suppose your next work be entitled a
Tail of Woe!"

Men who have great minds are rarely flexible,--they do not take a jest
readily; so it was with MacGrawler. He rose in a violent rage; and had
the robbers been more penetrating than they condescended to be, they
might have noticed something dangerous in his eye. As it was, Clifford,
who had often before been the protector of his tutor, interposed in his
behalf, drew the sage a seat near to himself, and filled his plate for