DRAUGHT (draft), n., the quantity FAR'RI-ER, n., one who shoes or cures

Lux, v. t., to put out of joint.

drunk at once.

BRAY, v. t., to beat in a mortar.

horses.

GENUS (je'nus), n., kind; sort.

Pronounce none, nun. Do not say swaller for swallow.

Enter HOSTESS and LAM-PE'DO, followed by BAL-THAZ'AR unperceived. The latter carries a drawn sword, and overhears what is said of him.

Hostess. Doctor Lampedo, you must keep this man, if you can so contrive it, another fortnight in my house. Come, you shall not be the loser. Your bill already must be almost as long as mine is. Another fortnight, doctor.

Lampedo. It can not be. The man's as well as I am. Have some mercy. He has been here almost three weeks already. His accident ought not to have detained him half a day.

Host. Well, then, a week-detain him a week.

Lam. You talk now like a reasonable hostess that sometimes has a reckoning with her conscience. We may keep him a week.

Host. He still believes he has an inward bruise.

Lam. I would he had! Or that he had slipped his shoulder-blade, or broke a leg or two (not that I bear his person any malice), or luxed an arm, or even sprained his ankle.

Host. Ay, broken any thing except his neck.

Lam. However, for a week I'll manage him. He has the constitution of a horse-but I'll manage him. A farrier should prescribe for him— but I'll manage him.

Host. Do so, doctor. Custom is scarce; but the occupant of the best room must pay a big price.

144

THE HOSTESS AND THE QUACK.

Lam. Let me see let me see. To-morrow we phlebotomize again; the next day I make him swallow my new-invented pătent draught; then I have some pills prepared; on Thursday we throw in the bark; on Friday

Balthazar (coming forward). Well, sir, on Friday – what on Friday? Come, proceed.

Lam. Discovered!

Host. Mercy, noble sir!

Lam. We crave your mercy.

Bal. On your knees! 'Tis well. Pray,- for your time is short.

Host. Nay, do not kill us.

Bal. You have been tried, condemned, and only wait for execution. Which shall I begin with?

Lam. The elder one, by all means.

Bal. Come, then, prepare!

Host. Have pity on my weakness.

Bal. Tell me, thou quaking mountain of gross flesh -tell me, and in a breath-how many poisons you have cooked up for me.

Host. None, as I hope for mercy.

Bal. Is not thy wine a poison?

Host. No, indeed, sir. 'Tis not, I own, of the first quality, but

Bal. But what? Speak out.

Host. I always give short measure, sir, and ease my conscience that way.

Bal. Ease your conscience, indeed! I'll ease your conscience for you.

Host. Mercy, sir! The times are hard.

Bal. Rise, if you can, and hear me.

Host. Your commands, sir?

Bal. If, in five minutes, all things are prepared for my departure, you may yet survive.

Host. It shall be done in less time.

me.

THE HOSTESS AND THE QUACK.

145

Bal. Away! Be speedy. (The HOSTESS goes out.) Lam. So now comes my turn. 'Tis all over with There's dagger, rope, and ratsbane, in his looks! Bal. And now, thou sketch and outline of a man! thou thing that hast no shadow in the sun!-thouLam. I do confess my leanness. I am spare, and therefore spare me.

Bal. Why wouldst thou have made me a thoroughfare for thy whole shop?

Lam. Man, you know, must live.

Bal. Yes: he must die, too.

Lam. For the sake of my patients, good sir,

Bal. I'll send you to the major part of them. The window, sir, is open. Come, prepare!

Lam. Pray, consider; I may hurt some one in the street.

Bal. Why, then, I'll rattle thee to pieces in a dicebox, or grind thee in a coffee-mill to powder; for thou must sup with Pluto! So, make ready; whilst I, with this good small-sword for a lancet, let thy starved spirit out (for blood thou hast none), and nail thee to the wall, where thou shalt look like a dried beetle, with a pin stuck through him.

Lam. Consider my poor wife.

Bal. Thy wife!

Lam. My wife, sir.

Bal. Hast thou dared think of matrimony, too? Lam. I have a wife, and three angelic babes, who,

by those looks, are well-nigh fatherless.

Bal. Well, well! your wife and children shall plead for you. Come, come; the pills! where are the pills? Produce them.

Lam. Here is the box.

Bal. Were it Pando'ra's, and each single pill had ten diseases in it, you should take them.

Lam. What, all?

146

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

Bal. Ay, all; and quickly, too. Come, sir, begin!That's well! another.

Lam. One's a dose.

Bal. Proceed, sir! Good! Swallow it fairly. Is it down?

Lam. It is down, sir, I regret to say.

Bal. Now another.

Lam. I dare not do it.

Bal. You must. That's well! One more, now. Lam. What will become of me? Let me go home, and set my shop to rights, and, like immortal Cæsar, die with decency.

Bal. Away! and thank thy lucky star I have not brayed thee in thine own mortar, or exposed thee for a large specimen of the lizard genus.

Lam. Would I were one! for they can feed on air. Bal. Home, sir, and be more honest!

Lam. If I am not, I'll be more wise, at least. Altered from JOHN TOBIN. (1770-1804.)

TRUN'CHEON (trun'shun), n., a staff of SOV'ER-EIGN (suv'er-in), a., supreme

CHIVAL-RY (Shiv-), n., the body or FOR'EIGN-ER, n., one not a native. order of knights. HIRE'LING, a., serving for hire.

The battle of Ivry, in France, in which Henry IV. defeated the Duke of Mayenne, took place March 14, 1590. Pronounce Rochelle, Ro-shël'; Seine, Sâne; Coligni, Ko-leen'yee; Guelders, Gwěl'ders; D'Aumale, Do-mahl'.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre !

Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, O pleasant land of France!

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

147

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurra! hurra! a single field hath turned the chance of war. Hurra! hurra! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre!

O! how our hearts were boating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears!
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land!
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,
And good Coligni's hoary hair, all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The king has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest;
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,
Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our lord, the
king!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall,

as fall full well he may,

(For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray),

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of war.
And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre."

Hurra! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.
The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies now, upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest,
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,
Amid the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, Heaven be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein;

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter- the Flemish count is slain;