s of the
hospital may have levelled against the French. Another ornament of the
mantel-piece was a square of silken needlework or embroidery, faded
nearly white, but dimly representing that wearisome Bear and Ragged
Staff, which we should hardly look twice at, only that it was wrought by
the fair fingers of poor Amy Robsart, and beautifully framed in oak from
Kenilworth Castle at the expense of a Mr. Conner, a countryman of our
own. Certainly, no Englishman would be capable of this little bit of
enthusiasm. Finally, the kitchen-firelight glistens on a splendid
display of copper flagons, all of generous capacity, and one of them
about as big as a half-barrel; the smaller vessels contain the customary
allowance of ale, and the larger one is filled with that foaming liquor
on four festive occasions of the year, and emptied amain by the jolly
brotherhood. I should be glad to see them do it; but it would be an
exploit fitter for Queen Elizabeth's age than these degenerate times.

The kitchen is the social hall of the twelve brethren. In the day-time,
they bring their little messes to be cooked here, and eat them in their
own parlors; but after a certain hour, the great hearth is cleared and
swept, and the old men assemble round its blaze, each with his tankard
and his pipe, and hold high converse through the evening. If the Master
be a fit man for his office, methinks he will sometimes sit down
sociably among them; for there is an elbow-chair by the fireside which
it would not demean his dignity to fill, since it was occupied by King
James at the great festival of nearly three centuries ago. A sip of the
ale and a whiff of the tobacco-pipe would put him in friendly relations
with his venerable household; and then we can fancy him instructing them
by pithy apothegms and religious texts which were first uttered here by
some Catholic priest and have impregnated the atmosphere ever since. If
a joke goes round, it shall be of an elder coinage than Joe Miller's, as
old as Lord Bacon's collection, or as the jest-book that Master Slender
asked for when he lacked small-talk for sweet Anne Page. No news shall
be spoken of, later than the drifting ashore, on the northern coast,
of sonic stern-post or figure-head, a barnacled fragment of one of the
great galleons of the Spanish Armada. What a tremor would pass through
the antique group, if a damp newspaper should suddenly be spread to dry
before the fire! They would feel as if either tha