Down the street they tore, its occupants scattering like chaff before them, and drew up with a prodigious clatter at the inn door, when the postboy, turning in his saddle with a broad grin, said "I'm first here; I've won the wager and your bounty too." The master of that northern pack, whilst in his full vigour and prime, was struck with mortal illness. Knowing that his days were numbered, he gave orders for his own funeral, and decreed that it should resemble as little as possible the usual solemn and mournful procession to the grave. The sad day came, and all the countryside gathered to do the late master honour. The hearse stood at the door, horsed with four mettlesome black steeds, and when the signal to start was given, it went away at full gallop. The drivers of the long train of vehicles, from stately carriages to humble jauntingcars, who had expected the ordinary slow pace of such occasions, were constrained to lash their horses to keep up, and the mourners on foot were left running and gasping far behind. For seven miles, without slackening of speed, the wild cavalcade went, and it was only a scanty remnant that stood at the last by the open grave beneath the old weatherbeaten church, hard by the cliffs and the Atlantic, where the master had elected to lie. The coroner for the district, who was also a J.P., dwelt at the head of one of the Antrim glens, whose windings offered safe security for many illegal practices long after the strong arm of the law had suppressed them elsewhere. The potheen distilled in these mountain fastnesses had, from the nature of its manufacture, a flavour of peat-smoke and bogwater that, in the opinion of connoisseurs, rendered it far superior to what was known as "Parliament " or duly bonded whisky, and the worthy coroner did not suffer either his official or his magisterial position to hinder him from enjoying the highly-prized liquor that was distilled, so to say, at his own door. One morning, after having laid in a supply of this "mountain dew" from a band of stillers with whom he stood on a friendly footing, the coroner had occasion to drive down to the little town on business. He had no sooner arrived there than he was assailed by the police to sign warrants for the arrest of the very men with whom he had had commercial dealings but an hour before. A sudden and violent attack of gout in the coroner's right hand rendered him, however, quite incapable of holding a pen, though not of driving, for he forthwith returned at furious speed up the glen, standing up in his gig and crying aloud to the winds of heaven, "The police are coming! The police are on their way up!" Needless to say, when the police did arrive, it was to find the nest deserted and the birds flown. On one occasion, whilst the gentlemen of our party were visiting at a house in the neighbourhood, they were invited to attend a cock-fight which had been organised on a large scale. The coroner's residence, owing to its secluded position, was deemed the most desirable place for the battleroyal to take place, but none the less, having regard to his judicial position, it was thought prudent to hold the contest at night. When our party gained the house, after a long and difficult approach up a rugged road in the dark, the voice of the master was heard within proclaiming that, a large sack of potatoes having by mistake been placed against the halldoor, entrance must be sought by the back of the premises. Once indoors, however, they found banked-up turf-fires and the best of good cheer, as well as a numerous company already assembled. The cockfight took place in the roomy, low-ceiled kitchen, the birds fighting in the middle of the floor, the spectators gathered round the walls, whilst light was provided by four barefooted wenches squatting in the corners, each holding aloft a torch made of blazing bog-fir. It was broad daylight before the battle was ended and the last chanticleer had crowed his victory over his rivals. The house in which our party were being hospitably entertained stood high up, on the very edge of the cliffs. The first news that greeted its owner upon his return in the sunshine of the early morning was the unpleasing intelligence that one one of his best milch cows, in endeavouring to secure some specially tempting morsel of herbage, had fallen over the verge "Very sad, very sad indeed," he murmured sympathetically, without moving a muscle of his face. Then, turning to the guests, and to a group of grinning stable hands and hangers-on who had followed the party down, he empannelled a jury on the spot, and proceeded to take evidence in all proper form. There was no difficulty in arriving at a verdict, and the coroner entered in the records with the proper formalities that Mollie Mcame by her death through falling over the cliffs, that no one was to blame for the accident, and he claimed and received the fee due to him for holding an inquest. J. M. CALLWELL. TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN. BY ALFRED NOYES. VII. FLOS MERCATORUM. FLOS MERCATORUM! On that night of nights, . 'Twas Master Heywood, whom the Mermaid Inn "Clerk of the Bow Bell," all along the Cheape There came a shout that swelled into a roar. "What! Will they storm the Mermaid?" Heywood laughed, "They are turning into Bread Street!" Down they came! We heard them hooting round the poor old Clerk— "Clubs! Clubs! The rogue would have us work all night! He rang ten minutes late! Fifteen, by Paul's!" And over the hubbub rose, like a thin bell, The Clerk's entreaty-"Now, good boys, good boys, I took some forty winks, but then . . A roar A tall thin man, with yellow hair a-stream, And blazing eyes. "Hide me," he clamoured, "quick! These picaroons will murder me!" I closed The thick oak doors against the coloured storm "Clerk of the Bow Bell, With the yellow locks, Thy head shall have knocks!" Then Heywood, seeing the Clerk was all a-quake, The whole of Bread Street. Heywood knew their ways, To shouts of merriment. Then, like one deep bell His voice rang out, in answer to their peal : "Children of Cheape, Hold you all still! Rung at your will!" Loudly they cheered him. Courteously he bowed, "My clochard, sirs, is warm," quavered the Clerk. They are good lads, our prentices of Cheape, "Wine!" said Ben. He filled a cup And thrust it into Gregory's trembling hands. "Ay, sir, above the hours and days and years, I sometimes think. 'Tis a great Bell-the Bow! And hath been, since the days of Whittington." "The good old days," growled Ben. "Both good and bad Were measured by my Bell," the Clerk replied. And, while he spoke, warmed by the wine, his voice As if the music of the London bells Lingered upon his tongue. "I know them all, Remembering Richard Whittington. You should hear And cleared his throat. Gregory smiled "You must imagine, sirs, The Clerk, sitting on high, among the clouds, But bells no less, ask that the Bell of Bow Then Gregory Clopton, mellowing all I. : Clerk of the Bow Bell, four and twenty prentices, "Children of Cheape," did that old Clerk answer, "You will have a peal, then, for well may you know, All the bells of London remember Richard Whittington When they hear the voice of the big Bell of Bow!" Clerk with the yellow locks, mellow be thy malmsey! Children of Cheape, did that old Clerk answer, You shall have the Bow Bell rung at your will!" "Whittington! Whittington! O, turn again, Whittington, "Flos Mercatorum," mourned the bell of All Hallowes, Told him a tale as he lay upon the hillside, Looking on his home in the meadow-lands below!" "Told him a tale," clanged the bell of Cold Abbey; "Told him the truth," boomed the big Bell of Bow! Told him of a City that was like a blazoned missal-book, Black with oaken gables, carven and inscrolled; Every street a coloured page, and every sign a hieroglyph, Dusky with enchantments, a City paved with gold; VOL. CXCII.-NO. MCLXIV. 20 |