“Holloa, there!” cried the usher, unable to pass over such a flagrant breach of decorum as this, in spite of the awe with which the terrible Irishman inspired him; and, springing towards the captain, the official clutched him by the collar--while, to use the words of the newspaper reporter, “the most tremendous sensation pervaded the Court.” But Gorman O’Blunderbuss was not the man to be thus assailed with impunity; and, knocking down the usher with one hand and Mr. Kicksey Fopperton on the top of him with the other, he made a desperate rush from the tribunal, no opposition being offered to his exit. A few minutes afterwards he was joined at the public-house over the way by his friend Frank Curtis and the tipstaff who had charge of the latter; and the three worthies, following the example of the pious Mr. Joshua Sheepshanks, drank spirits-and-water until they were compelled to return to the King’s Bench in a hackney-coach. CHAPTER CXX. THE LAPSE OF NINETEEN YEARS. How easy is it to record upon paper the sweeping words--“Nineteen years had passed away since the occurrences just related:”--how easy is it with a few moments’ manipulation of the pen to leap over a period embracing almost the fifth part of a century! Nineteen years!--a few short syllables--a drop of ink--a scrap of paper--and a minute’s trouble,--these are all that the novelist needs to enable him to pass by the deeds of nineteen years! Oh! this very power compels us to look with suspicion upon the utility of our own avocations,--to reflect how far removed from _the_ natural is even the _most_ natural of the works of fiction,--and to feel the nothingness of all the efforts of the imagination when placed in contrast with the stern and stubborn facts of the real world! For though the novelist, exercising a despotic power over the offspring of his fancy, may dispose of years--aye, even of centuries, with a dash of his pen,--yet of Time, as the universe actually experiences its march, not one instant can he stay--not one instant accelerate. Great Kings, who have proclaimed themselves demigods and compelled the millions to abase themselves round their mighty thrones,--at whose awful nod whole nations have trembled as if at the frown of Olympian Jove, and whose impatient stamp on the marble pavement of their palaces has seemed to shake the earth to its very centre,--proud and haughty monarchs such as these have been powerless in the hands of Time as infants in the grasp of a Giant. Though heads would fall at their command, yet not a hair of their own could they prevent from turning gray: though at their beck whole provinces were de-populated, yet not a single moment could they add to their own lives!