_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—No, sir. No more of the twelfth century for me. _Mr. Chainmail_.—Nay, Doctor. The twelfth century has backed you well. Its manners and habits, its community of kind feelings between master and man, are the true remedy for these ebullitions. _Mr. Toogood_.—Something like it: improved by my diagram: arts for arms. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—No wassail-bowl for me. Give me an unsophisticated bowl of punch, which belongs to that blissful middle period, after the Jacquerie was down, and before the march of mind was up. But, see, who is floundering in the water? Proceeding to the edge of the moat, they fished up Mr. Firedamp, who had missed his way back, and tumbled in. He was drawn out, exclaiming, “that he had taken his last dose of malaria in this world.” _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Tut, man; dry clothes, a turkey’s leg and rump, well devilled, and a quart of strong punch, will set all to rights. “Wood embers,” said Mr. Firedamp, when he had been accommodated with a change of clothes, “there is no antidote to malaria like the smoke of wood embers; pine embers.” And he placed himself, with his mouth open, close by the fire. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Punch, sir, punch: there is no antidote like punch. _Mr. Chainmail_.—Well, Doctor, you shall be indulged. But I shall have my wassail-bowl, nevertheless. An immense bowl of spiced wine, with roasted apples hissing on its surface, was borne into the hall by four men, followed by an empty bowl of the same dimensions, with all the materials of arrack punch, for the divine’s especial brewage. He accinged himself to the task with his usual heroism, and having finished it to his entire satisfaction, reminded his host to order in the devil. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—I think, Mr. Chainmail, we can amuse ourselves very well here all night. The enemy may be still excubant: and we had better not disperse till daylight. I am perfectly satisfied with my quarters. Let the young folk go on with their gambols; let them dance to your old harper’s minstrelsy; and if they please to kiss under the mistletoe, whereof I espy a goodly bunch suspended at the end of the hall, let those who like it not leave it to those who do. Moreover, if among the more sedate portion of the assembly, which, I foresee, will keep me company, there were any to revive the good old custom of singing after supper, so to fill up the intervals of the dances, the steps of night would move more lightly. _Mr. Chainmail_.—My Susan will set the example, after she has set that of joining in the rustic dance, according to good customs long departed. After the first dance, in which all classes of the company mingled, the young lady of the mansion took her harp, and following the reverend gentleman’s suggestion, sang a song of the twelfth century. FLORENCE AND BLANCHFLOR.