“I did, Basil, I did; but don’t grieve for that—I can be resigned; I _have_ been resigned.” “Like a tame lamb,” said Basil, bursting into metaphor, “like a tame lamb you wreathed your brow with orange flowers, and in the very handsomest manner gave yourself away. Can I forget it? Ought I to forget it? Ought my sisters to forget it? Never. You married our destroyer-in-law—pardon my feelings, my dear madam; as your dutiful son I must call him so: you married our cannibal-in-law, to make the fortunes of your innocent orphans? Did you not?” “I did, Basil,” said Mrs. Jericho, and she shuddered. “Your father knows I did.” “In which case, madam, as one of those orphans, it is my first duty to take care that your intentions are honourably carried out. Now, madam, can I see Mr. Jericho?” “My dear child,” said Mrs. Jericho, “he is not yet up.” “And nearly one o’clock—what an insult”—and Basil pointed towards the sun—“what a marked insult to that respectable luminary. Never mind. We’ll hold a little bed of justice in this matter. For I do assure you, my dear lady, I tremble for myself; I do indeed. I never was so disloyal in all my life; never.” Let not Mr. Basil Pennibacker suffer in the opinion of the faithful subject. That young gentleman—it was his whim, his characteristic mode of speech—adopted the word disloyalty as his synonym of poverty. “My good sir,”—we give in the way of illustration a speech of Basil’s to an earnest tailor—“my good sir, you know I always desire to respect the constituted authorities. I always like to have their images about me. But my good sir, I have not seen the face of the monarch, sir, no not on the smallest piece of silver, for a natural twelvemonth, sir. I never felt myself such a traitor, sir. Look here”—and Basil twitched out his empty purse—“look here; not a pennyweight of loyalty in it, sir. ’Pon my life, sir, I’ve quite forgotten the quarterings of my native land. I’m a quadruped, sir, and not a gentleman, if I know whether Britannia holds a trident or a dung-fork. I’m disgusted with life, sir; for I’ve no loyalty—not an ounce of loyalty.” Thus, Mrs. Jericho—familiar with the figurative style of her son—was in no way alarmed, when he declared he felt himself the greatest traitor on earth; he had been so long lost to loyalty. “I should be very sorry, my dear madam,” he added, “for the credit of the family, very sorry to be left alone with the crown, a blue bag in my hand, and the door open. I tremble, madam, at the picture. For I know it, my dear madam—I feel it, my affectionate parent—you would not like to see the head of your only and erring son upon Tower Hill. I’m sure, my dear lady, you could not survive that moment. Therefore, to prevent serious consequences, when am I to have an advance of loyalty?” “My dear Basil, you are so impetuous. I have not yet had an opportunity”—