'Since I must speak out,' cried Jerry, 'I think it was the bluest business that ever was botched by poltroons.'
'It was all your own doing, however,' said I. 'So now you may walk on, Sir.'
Jerry tossed his hat at one side, and strutted forward.
'Come back, Jerry,' cried I. 'Here is my hand. You are a faithful fellow, and would have died for me.'
'Ah, bless you!' cried he. 'You quarrel like a cat, but you make up like an angel!'
It was night before we reached the castle; and as I had not tasted a morsel all day, I dispatched Jerry to the village for provisions, and other matters. I then divided six guineas among my domestics, and desired them to return next morning, as I should want them to repair the fortifications, dig a mote, and excavate subterranean passages.
They gave three cheers, and departed.
In about an hour Jerry returned with a cart containing an abundant stock of provisions;—bread, meat, potatoes, tea, sugar, &c. besides, a kettle, plates, cups and saucers, &c.
After having unloaded and dismissed the cart, we made a fire in the Black Chamber, and supped. I then took a solitary walk, and carried some victuals to the poor cottagers. They received the donation with gratitude, and I left them to the comforts of a hearty meal.
It is now probable that I may reside some time at my castle; and as to my villa, I wish Lady Gwyn joy of it; for in my opinion it is a fright. Conceive the difference between the two. The villa mere lath and plaster; with its pretty little stucco-work, and its pretty little paintings, and its pretty little bronzes. Nice, new, sweet, and charming, are the only epithets that one can apply to it; while antique, sublime, terrible, picturesque, and Gothic, are the adjectives appropriate to my castello. What signify laced footmen, Chinese vases, Grecian tripods, and Turkish sofas, in comparison with feudal vassals, ruined towers, black hangings, dampness, and ivy? And to a person of real taste, a single stone of this edifice is worth a whole cart-load of such stones as the onyx, and sardonyx, and the other barbarous baubles belonging to Lady Gwyn. But nothing diverts me more than the idea that poor Lady Gwyn is twice as old as the house she lives in. I have got a famous simile on the subject. What think you of a decayed nut in an unripe shell? The woman is sixty if she is a day.