“In sooth, Brother Stiflegig,” replied the comical coffin-maker to his inquiring mute, whose hollow laugh sounded like a double knock; “and the merry monk is no more to be blamed for the disorders that, fungus-like, have grown out of it, than is Sir Christopher Wren for the cobwebs and dust that deface the dome of St. Paul's. Right is not always the _reverse_ of wrong. Brush away the cobwebs and the dust, but spare the dome. Don't cut off a man's head to cure his toothach, or lop off his leg to banish his gout _in toto!_” The latter clause of this remark was much applauded by a sensitive member, who had evinced great anxiety to protect his physiognomy from the cutting draught of the door; and by another, who was equally careful to keep his ten toes from being trod upon. But the sexton and the two mutes exchanged significant glances, that plainly hinted their non-approval of this anti-professional, ultraliberality on the part of the comical coffin-maker. “Gentlemen,” resumed Mr. Merripall, rising-- THE JOVIAL PRIOR OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW! Sons of the fair, to Father Rahêre Chant a stave in a hollow mew; Hosier Lane shout back the strain Through the cloisters of holy Bartholomew. Saunders, Gyngell, merrily mingle; Richardson join in the choir: Two-legg'd dancers, four-legg'd prancers, You can't cry nay (neigh?) to the Prior. Now fire away in full chorus!-- Peace to the soul of the bald-pated droll! Sound him a larry-cum-twang! Toss off a toast to his good-humour'd ghost, And let it come off with a bang!”