own name of Bowlsover, or
Bee-owls-over (by corruption Bolsover)--a Bee in chief, over three Owls,
all proper, being the armorial ensigns borne by this distinguished
crusader at the siege of Acre."

"Ah! that was Sir Sidney Smith," said Mr. Peters; "I've heard tell of
him, and all about Mrs. Partington, and----"

"P. be quiet, and don't expose yourself!" sharply interrupted his lady.
P. was silenced, and betook himself to the bottled stout.

"These lands," continued the antiquary, "were held in grand serjeantry
by the presentation of three white owls and pot of honey----"

"Lassy me! how nice!" said Miss Julia. Mr. Peters licked his lips.

"Pray give me leave, my dear--owls and honey, whenever the king should
come a rat-catching into this part of the country."

"Rat-catching!" ejaculated the squire, pausing abruptly in the
mastication of a drumstick.

"To be sure, my dear sir; don't you remember the rats came under the
forest laws--a minor species of venison? 'Rats and mice, and such small
deer,' eh?--Shakespeare, you know. Our ancestors ate rats ('The nasty
fellows!' shuddered Miss Julia, in a parenthesis); and owls, you know,
are capital mousers----"

"I've seen a howl," said Mr. Peters; "there's one in the Sohological
Gardens--a little hook-nosed chap in a wig--only its feathers and----"

Poor P. was destined never to finish a speech.

"_Do_ be quiet!" cried the authoritative voice; and the would-be
naturalist shrank into his shell, like a snail in the "Sohological
Gardens."

"You should read Blount's _Jocular Tenures_, Mr. Ingoldsby," pursued
Simpkinson. "A learned man was Blount! Why, sir, His Royal Highness the
Duke of York once paid a silver horse-shoe to Lord Ferrers----"

"I've heard of him," broke in the incorrigible Peters; "he was hanged at
the Old Bailey in a silk rope for shooting Dr. Johnson."

The antiquary vouchsafed no notice of the interruption; but, taking a
pinch of snuff, continued his harangue.

"A silver horse-shoe, sir, which is due from every scion of royalty who
rides across one of his manors; and if you look into the penny county
histories, now publishing by an eminent friend of mine, you will find
that Langhale in Co. Norf. was held by one Baldwin _per saltum,
sufflatum, et pettum_; that is, he was to come every Christmas into
Westminster Hall, there to take a leap, cry hem! and----"

"Mr. Simpkinson, a glass of sherry?" cried Tom Ingoldsby, hastily.

"Not any, thank you,