'The Lord, and his angels, protect us!--As I live, here comes the late governor!' ejaculated the hostess, Mrs. Bridget Sweetbread; suddenly startled out of her afternoon's nap by the horse's hoofs--and seeing right before her what she took for the apparition of Don Juan; whom, as it afterwards appeared, she had seen in a pantomime the night before. 'Thunder and lightning! my good woman,' said the student laughing, 'would you dispute the reality of my flesh and blood?' Mrs. Bridget, however, on perceiving her mistake, cared neither for the sword nor for the dog, but exclaimed, 'Why then, let me tell you, Sir, it's not the custom in this country to ride into parlours, and disturb honest folks when they're taking their rest. Innkeeping's not the trade it has been to me, God he knows: but, for all that, I'll not put up with such work from nobody.' 'Good, my dear creature; what you say is good--very good: but let me tell you, it's _not_ good that I must be kept waiting in the street, and no soul in attendance to take my horse and feed him.' 'Oh, that base villain of a hostler!' said the landlady, immediately begging pardon, and taking hold of the bridle, whilst Mr. Schnackenberger dismounted. 'That's a good creature,' said he; 'I love you for this: and I don't care if I take up my quarters here, which at first was not my intention. Have you room for me?' 'Room!' answered Mrs. Sweetbread; 'ah! now there's just the whole Golden Sow at your service; the more's the pity.' On Mr. Jeremiah's asking the reason for this superfluity of room, she poured out a torrent of abuse against the landlord of _The Double-barrelled Gun_, who--not content with having at all times done justice to his sign--had latterly succeeded, with the help of vicious coachmen and unprincipled postilions, in drawing away her whole business, and had at length utterly ruined the once famous inn of _The Golden Sow_. And true it was that the apartment, into which she now introduced her guest, showed some vestiges of ancient splendour, in the pictures of six gigantic sows. The late landlord had been a butcher, and had christened his inn from his practice of slaughtering a pig every week; and the six swine, as large as life, and each bearing a separate name, were designed to record his eminent skill in the art of fattening.