who, after the fashion of Harry V. in his
nonage, condescended in his frolics and his cups to men of low estate;
and Mary Matchwell, though fierce and deep enough, was not averse on
occasion, to partake of a bowl of punch in sardonic riot, with such
agreeable company.

Charles Nutter's unexpected coming to life no more affected Mary
Matchwell's claim than his supposed death did her spirits. Widow or
wife, she was resolved to make good her position, and the only thing she
seriously dreaded was that an intelligent jury, an eminent judge, and an
adroit hangman, might remove him prematurely from the sphere of his
conjugal duties, and forfeit his worldly goods to the crown.

Next morning, however, a writ or a process of some sort, from which
great things were expected, was to issue from the court in which her
rights were being vindicated. Upon the granting of this, Mistress
Matchwell and Dirty Davy--estranged for some time, as we have
said,--embraced. She forgot the attorney's disrespectful language, and
he the lady's brass candlestick, and, over the punch-bowl of oblivion
and vain glory, they celebrated their common victory.

Under advice, M. M. had acquiesced, pending her vigorous legal
proceedings, in poor little Sally Nutter's occupying her bed-room in the
house for a little while longer. The beleagured lady was comforted in
her strait by the worthy priest, by honest Dr. Toole, and not least, by
that handsome and stalworth nymph, the daring Magnolia. That blooming
Amazon was twice on the point of provoking the dismal sorceress, who
kept her court in the parlour of the Mills, to single combat. But
fortune willed it otherwise, and each time the duel had been interrupted
in its formal inception, and had gone no further than that spirited
prologue in which the female sex so faithfully preserve the tradition of
those thundering dialogues which invariably precede the manual business
of the Homeric fray.

This was the eve of a great triumph and a memorable gala. Next morning,
Sally Nutter was to be scalped, roasted, and eaten up, and the night was
spent in savage whoopings, songs and dances. They had got a reprobate
blind fiddler into the parlour, where their punch-bowl steamed--a most
agreeable and roistering sinner, who sang indescribable songs to the
quaver of his violin, and entertained the company with Saturnalian
vivacity, jokes, gibes, and wicked stories. Larry Cleary, thou man of
sin and music! methinks I see thee