“It is something new under the sun,” said the divine, as he sat down, “to see a great dinner without fish.”
Mr. Chainmail.—Fish was for fasts in the twelfth century.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—Well, sir, I prefer our reformed system of putting fasts and feasts together. Not but here is ample indemnity.
Ale and wine flowed in abundance. The dinner passed off merrily: the old harper playing all the while the oldest music in his repertory. The tables being cleared, he indemnified himself for lost time at the lower end of the hall, in company with the old butler and the other domestics, whose attendance on the banquet had been indispensable.
The scheme of Christmas gambols, which Mr. Chainmail had laid for the evening, was interrupted by a tremendous clamour without.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—What have we here? Mummers?
Mr. Chainmail.—Nay, I know not. I expect none.
“Who is there?” he added, approaching the door of the hall.
“Who is there?” vociferated the divine, with the voice of Stentor.
“Captain Swing,” replied a chorus of discordant voices.