_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—You see, Mr. Chainmail, this is the inconvenience of keeping an armoury not fortified with sand bags, green bags, and old bags of all kinds. _Mr. Mac Quedy_.—Just give them the old spits and toasting irons, and they will go away quietly. _Mr. Chainmail_.—My spears and swords! not without my life. These assailants are all aliens to my land and house. My men will fight for me, one and all. This is the fortress of beef and ale. _Mr. Mac Quedy_.—Eh! sir, when the rabble is up, it is very indiscriminating. You are e’en suffering for the sins of Sir Simon Steeltrap and the like, who have pushed the principle of accumulation a little too far. _Mr. Chainmail_.—The way to keep the people down is kind and liberal usage. _Mr. Mac Quedy_.—That is very well (where it can be afforded) in the way of prevention; but in the way of cure the operation must be more drastic. (Taking down a battle-axe.) I would fain have a good blunderbuss charged with slugs. _Mr. Chainmail_.—When I suspended these arms for ornament, I never dreamed of their being called into use. _Mr. Skionar_.—Let me address them. I never failed to convince an audience that the best thing they could do was to go away. _Mr. Mac Quedy_.—Eh! sir, I can bring them to that conclusion in less time than you. _Mr. Crotchet_.—I have no fancy for fighting. It is a very hard case upon a guest, when the latter end of a feast is the beginning of a fray. _Mr. Mac Quedy_.—Give them the old iron. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Give them the weapons! _Pessimo_, _medius fidius_, _exemplo_. Forbid it the spirit of _Frère Jean des Entommeures_! No! let us see what the church militant, in the armour of the twelfth century, will do against the march of mind. Follow me who will, and stay who list. Here goes: _Pro aris et focis_! that is, for tithe pigs and fires to roast them. He clapped a helmet on his head, seized a long lance, threw open the gates, and tilted out on the rabble, side by side with Mr. Chainmail, followed by the greater portion of the male inmates of the hall, who had armed themselves at random. The rabble-rout, being unprepared for such a sortie, fled in all directions, over hedge and ditch. Mr. Trillo stayed in the hall, playing a march on the harp, to inspirit the rest to sally out. The water-loving Mr. Philpot had diluted himself with so much wine as to be quite _hors de combat_. Mr. Toogood, intending to equip himself in purely defensive armour, contrived to slip a ponderous coat of mail over his shoulders, which pinioned his arms to his sides; and in this condition, like a chicken trussed for roasting, he was thrown down behind a pillar in the first rush of the sortie. Mr. Crotchet seized the occurrence as a pretext for staying with him, and passed the whole time of the action in picking him out of his shell. “Phew!” said the divine, returning; “an inglorious victory; but it deserves a devil and a bowl of punch.” _Mr. Chainmail_.—A wassail-bowl.