s master with a
rap or two of his tail on the carpet, and commenced his dinner.

The servant was summoned, and Rainscourt, without looking at either the
urn, the dog, or the man, cried--in an angry tone, "Take that heart, and
throw it away immediately."

"Sir!" replied the domestic with astonishment, who did not observe the
dog and his occupation.

"Throw it away immediately, sir--do you hear?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man, taking the urn from the table, and quitting
the room with it, muttering to himself, as he descended the stairs "I
thought it wouldn't last long." Having obeyed his supposed
instructions, he returned--"If you please, sir, where am I to put the
piece of plate?"

"The piece of plate!" Rainscourt turned round, and beheld the vacant
urn. It was too much--that evening he ordered the horses, and left
Cheltenham for ever.

Various were the reports of the subsequent week. Some said that the
fierce dog had broken open the urn, and devoured the embalmed heart.
Some told one story--some another; and before the week was over, all the
stories had become incomprehensible.

In one point they all agreed--that Mr Rainscourt's grief was all
humbug.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"'Tis well!--Thou hast `done thy spiriting gently,' or, for thy tardy
coming, I would have sentenced thee to the task of infusing thy spirit
into the consistent Eldon, or into Arthur Duke of Wellington--where,
like a viper at a file, thou shouldest have tortured thyself in vain."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Bustle. I am not certain whether I spell this modern invention
correctly; if not, I must plead ignorance. I have asked several ladies
of my acquaintance, who declare that they never heard of such a thing,
which, perhaps, the reader will agree with me, is all humbug.

CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

There leviathan,
Hugest of living creatures, on the deep,
Stretch'd like a promontory, sleeps or swims.
MILTON.

Congratulate me, Reader, that, notwithstanding I have been beating
against wind and tide, that is to say, writing this book, through all
the rolling and pitching, headache and indigestion, incident to the
confined and unnatural life of a sailor, I have arrived at my last
chapter. You may be surprised at this assertion, finding yourself in
the middle of the third volume; but such is the fact. Doubtless you
have