d all this only shows what every man who has ruralised a little in his
lifetime knows, more than in theory, that the golden age lingers in no
corner of the earth, but is really quite gone and over everywhere, and
that peace and _prisca fides_ have not fled to the nooks and shadows of
deep valleys and bowery brooks, but flown once, and away to heaven
again, and left the round world to its general curse. So it is even in
pretty old villages, embowered in orchards, with hollyhocks and
jessamine in front of the houses, and primeval cocks and hens pecking
and scraping in the street, and the modest river dimpling and simpering
among osiers and apple trees, and old ivied walls close by--you
sometimes hear other things than lowing herds, and small birds singing,
and purling streams; and shrill accents and voluble rhetoric will now
and then trouble the fragrant air, and wake up the dim old river-god
from his nap.

As to Irons, if he was all that his wife gave out, he must have been a
mighty sly dog indeed; for on the whole, he presented a tolerably decent
exterior to society. It is said, indeed, that he liked a grave tumbler
of punch, and was sardonic and silent in his liquor; that his gait was
occasionally a little queer and uncertain, as his lank figure glided
home by moonlight, from the 'Salmon House;' and that his fingers fumbled
longer than need be with the latch, and his tongue, though it tried but
a short and grim 'bar'th door, Marjry,' or 'gi' me can'le, wench,'
sometimes lacked its cunning, and slipped and kept not time. There were,
too, other scandals, such as the prying and profane love to shoot
privily at church celebrities. Perhaps it was his reserve and sanctity
that provoked them. Perhaps he was, in truth, though cautious, sometimes
indiscreet. Perhaps it was fanciful Mrs. Irons' jealous hullabaloos and
hysterics that did it--I don't know--but people have been observed,
_apropos_ of him, to wink at one another, and grin, and shake their
heads, and say: 'the nearer the church, you know'--and 'he so ancient,
too! but 'tis an old rat that won't eat cheese,' and so forth.

Just as Mrs. Irons whisked round for the seventh time to start upon her
long threatened march to Dr. Walsingham's study to lay her pitiful case
before him, Captain Devereux, who was looking toward the 'Phoenix,'
saw the truant clerk and Mr. Dangerfield turn the corner together on
their return.

'Stay, Madam, here comes the traitor,' said he; 'and,