before, so he ordered out the cold tongue and chickens. "Bolsover Priory," said Mr. Simpkinson, with the air of a connoisseur,--"Bolsover Priory was founded in the reign of Henry the Sixth, about the beginning of the eleventh century. Hugh de Bolsover had accompanied that monarch to the Holy Land, in the expedition undertaken by way of penance for the murder of his young nephews in the Tower. Upon the dissolution of the monasteries, the veteran was enfeoffed in the lands and manor, to which he gave his own name of Bowlsover, or Bee-owls-over (by corruption Bolsover),--a Bee in chief, over three Owls, all proper, being the armorial ensigns borne by this distinguished crusader at the siege of Acre." * * * * * "Ah! that was Sir Sidney Smith," said Mr. Peters; "I've heard tell of him, and all about Mrs. Partington, and--" "P., be quiet, and don't expose yourself!" sharply interrupted his lady. P. was silenced, and betook himself to the bottled stout. "These lands," continued the antiquary, "were held in grand serjeantry by the presentation of three white owls and a pot of honey--" "Lassy me! how nice!" said Miss Julia. Mr. Peters licked his lips. "Pray give me leave, my dear--owls and honey, whenever the king should come a rat-catching into this part of the country." "Rat-catching!" ejaculated the squire, pausing abruptly in the mastication of a drumstick. "To be sure, my dear sir: don't you remember that rats once came under the forest laws--a minor species of venison? 'Rats and mice, and such small deer,' eh?--Shakspear, you know. Our ancestors ate rats ("The nasty fellows!" shuddered Miss Julia in a parenthesis); and owls, you know, are capital mousers--" "I've seen a howl," said Mr. Peters; "there's one in the Sohological Gardens,--a little hook-nosed chap in a wig,--only its feathers and--" Poor P. was destined never to finish a speech. "_Do_ be quiet!" cried the authoritative voice, and the would-be naturalist shrank into his shell, like a snail in the "Sohological Gardens." "You should read Blount's 'Jocular Tenures,' Mr. Ingoldsby," pursued Simpkinson. "A learned man was Blount! Why, sir, his Royal Highness the Duke of York once paid a silver horse-shoe to Lord Ferrers--" "I've heard of him," broke in the incorrigible Peters; "he was hanged at the Old Bailey in a silk rope for shooting Dr. Johnson." The antiquary vouchsafed no notice of the interruption; but, taking a pinch of snuff, continued his harangue. "A silver horse-shoe, sir, which is due from every scion of royalty who rides across one of his manors; and if you look into the penny county histories, now publishing by an eminent friend of mine, you will find that Langhale in Co. Norf. was held by one Baldwin _per saltum, sufflatum, et pettum_; that is, he was to come every Christmas into Westminster Hall, there to take a leap, cry hem! and--" "Mr. Simpkinson, a glass of sherry?" cried Tom Ingoldsby, hastily.