that atrocious and inhuman act. The
spirit of that man haunts the family from that day to this; it is always
a messenger of evil to them whenever he appears, and it matters not
where they go or where they live, he is sure to follow them, and to
fasten upon some of the family, generally the wickedest, of course,
as his victim. Now, Mr. Woodward, what do you think of that family
tradition?"

"I think of it," replied Woodward, "with contempt, as I do of everything
that proceeds from the lips of an ignorant and illiterate Roman Catholic
priest."

"Sir," replied the friar, "I am not the inventor of this family
tradition, nor of the crime which is said--however justly I know not--to
have given rise to it; but this I do know, that no man having claims to
the character of a gentleman would use such language to a defenceless
man as you have just used to me. The legend is traditionary in your
family, and I have only given it as I have heard it. If I were not a
clergyman I would chastise you for your insolence; but my hands are
bound up, and you well know it."

"Friar," said Greatrakes, "when you know that your hands are bound up,
you should have avoided insulting any man. You should not have related
a piece of family history--perhaps false from beginning to end--in the
presence of a gentleman so intimately connected with that family as you
knew him to be. It was no topic for a common room like this, and it was
quite unjustifiable in you to have introduced it."

"I feel, sir, that you are perfectly right," replied the good-natured
friar, "and I ask Mr. Woodward's pardon for having, without the
slightest intention of offence to him, done so. You will recollect that
he himself expressed an anxiety to hear it."

"All I say upon the subject," observed the Pythagorean, "is simply this,
that Pythagoras himself could not have cured me of the rheumatism as my
friend Valentine Greatrakes has done."

"You will require no cure, and, what is better, no necessity for cure,"
replied Greatrakes, smiling, "if you will have only common sense, my
dear Cooke. Clothe yourself in warm and comfortable garments, and feed
your miserable carcass with good beef and mutton, and, in addition
to which, like myself and the friar here, take a warm tumbler of good
usquebaugh punch to promote digestion."

"I will never abandon my principles," replied the philosopher. "Linen
and vegetable diet forever."

Manifold was asleep after his gorge,--a sleep fro