came whirling like a bombshell into the carriage, at which
my lord laughed more, for it knocked my lady's fan out of her hand, and
plumped into Father Holt's stomach. Then came a shower of carrots and
potatoes.

"For Heaven's sake be still!" says Mr. Holt; "we are not ten paces from
the 'Bell' archway, where they can shut the gates on us, and keep out
this canaille."

The little page was outside the coach on the step, and a fellow in the
crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him in the eye, at which the poor
little wretch set up a shout; the man laughed, a great big saddler's
apprentice of the town. "Ah! you d--- little yelling Popish bastard,"
he said, and stooped to pick up another; the crowd had gathered quite
between the horses and the inn door by this time, and the coach was
brought to a dead stand-still. My lord jumped as briskly as a boy out of
the door on his side of the coach, squeezing little Harry behind it; had
hold of the potato-thrower's collar in an instant, and the next moment
the brute's heels were in the air, and he fell on the stones with a
thump.

"You hulking coward!" says he; "you pack of screaming blackguards! how
dare you attack children, and insult women? Fling another shot at that
carriage, you sneaking pigskin cobbler, and by the Lord I'll send my
rapier through you!"

Some of the mob cried, "Huzzah, my lord!" for they knew him, and
the saddler's man was a known bruiser, near twice as big as my lord
Viscount.

"Make way there," says he (he spoke in a high shrill voice, but with
a great air of authority). "Make way, and let her ladyship's carriage
pass." The men that were between the coach and the gate of the "Bell"
actually did make way, and the horses went in, my lord walking after
them with his hat on his head.

As he was going in at the gate, through which the coach had just rolled,
another cry begins, of "No Popery--no Papists!" My lord turns round and
faces them once more.

"God save the King!" says he at the highest pitch of his voice. "Who
dares abuse the King's religion? You, you d--d psalm-singing cobbler,
as sure as I'm a magistrate of this county I'll commit you!" The fellow
shrank back, and my lord retreated with all the honors of the day.
But when the little flurry caused by the scene was over, and the flush
passed off his face, he relapsed into his usual languor, trifled with
his little dog, and yawned when my lady spoke to him.

This mob was one of many thousands that