alsingham in Lord Castlemallard's
ear--'I know the verses well--the ingenious and pious Howel penned them
in the reign of King James the First.'

'Ha! thank you, Sir,' said his lordship.

(_Loftus, solo._)

'Or to refrain from all high dishes,
But feed our thoughts with wanton wishes,
Making the soul, like a light wench,
Wear patches of concupiscence.

(_Chorus of Officers._)

'Making the soul, like a light wench,
Wear patches of concupiscence

(_Loftus, solo._)

'This is not to keep Lent aright,
But play the juggling hypocrite;
For we must starve the inward man,
And feed the outward too on bran.

(_Chorus of Officers._)

'For we must starve the inward man,
And feed the outward too on bran.'

I believe no song was ever received with heartier bursts of laughter and
applause. Puddock indeed was grave, being a good deal interested in the
dishes sung by the poet. So, for the sake of its moral point, was Dr.
Walsingham, who, with brows gathered together judicially, kept time with
head and hand, murmuring 'true, true--_good_, Sir, good,' from time to
time, as the sentiment liked him.

But honest Father Roach was confoundedly put out by the performance. He
sat with his blue double chin buried in his breast, his mouth pursed up
tightly, a red scowl all over his face, his quick, little, angry,
suspicious eyes peeping cornerwise, now this way, now that, not knowing
how to take what seemed to him like a deliberate conspiracy to roast him
for the entertainment of the company, who followed the concluding verse
with a universal roaring chorus, which went off into a storm of
laughter, in which Father Roach made an absurd attempt to join. But it
was only a gunpowder glare, swallowed in an instant in darkness, and
down came the black portcullis of his scowl with a chop, while clearing
his voice, and directing his red face and vicious little eyes straight
on simple Dan Loftus he said, rising very erect and square from an
unusually ceremonious bow--

'I don't know, Mr. Loftus, exactly what you mean by a "ring-goat in a
Spanish dress"' (the priest had just smuggled over a wonderful bit of
ecclesiastical toggery from Salamanca): 'and--a--person wearing patches,
you said of--of--patches of concupiscence, I think.' (Father Roach's
housekeeper unfortunately wore patches, though, it is right to add, she
was altogether virtuous, and by no means young); 'but I'm bound to
suppose, by the amusemen