Squire Deaker's language was not more moral than his life--for he not
only enforced his principles by his example, but also by his precept.
His conversation consequently resolved itself into a mingled stream of
swearing and obscenity. Ridicule of religion, and a hardened triumph in
his own iniquitous exploits, illustrated and confirmed by a prodigality
of blasphemous asservations, constituted the staple of his thoughts and
expressions. According to his own principles he could not look forward
to another life, and consequently all that remained for him was to look
back upon an unbroken line of seduction and profligacy--upon wealth and
influence not merely abused, but prostituted to the lowest and
grossest purposes of our worst passions--upon systematic crime--unmanly
treachery--and that dishonest avarice which constituted the act of
heartless desertion in himself the ultimate ruin and degradation of
his victims. Such was this well known squire of the old school, whose
portrait, taken from life, will be recognized by every one who ever knew
him, should any such happen to peruse these pages.

At the period of which we write Squire Deaker was near eighty, and
although feeble and broken down, he still exhibited the remains of a
large, coarse, strong-boned animal, not without a vigorous twinkle of
low cunning in his eye, and a duplicity of character and principle about
his angular and ill-shaped eye-brows which could not be mistaken. He
was confined to his bed, and for the first time during many years, was
unable to attend the Castle Cumber quarter sessions.

It was the second or third day after their close that about the hour of
ten o'clock, a.m., he awoke from a heavy and unhealthy doze, which could
scarcely be termed sleep, but rather a kind of middle state between that
and waking. At length he raised his head, gasped, and on finding no one
in the room, he let fly a volley of execrations, and rang the bell.

"Is there any one there? Any one within hearing? I say Isabel, Isabel,
jezabel, are you all dead and d----d?"

"No, your honor, not yet--some of us at least," replied a shrewd-looking
lad of about eighteen, nicking his appearance.

"Ha, Lanty--it's you, is it? What do you mean by that, you devil's
pick-tooth? Where's Isabel? Where's Jezabel? Playing her pranks, I
suppose--where is she, you devil's tooth-brush? eh?"

"Do you want your brandy and wather, sir?"

"Brandy and h--l, you scoundrel! Where's Miss Puzzl