394 THE STATUTES. 



nitucle of anger, uplifted his ponderous boot and hurled the pot and 

 contents at the conjuror's leg. This contretemps, for a few moments, 

 put a stop to further harmony, saving the melody of the tall lady's 

 tongue ; but peace was at length restored and the monarch again 

 commenced dancing and vaulting to an astonishing height, when, 

 O ye gods ! just as he had alighted from a wonderful spring, crash 

 went the slender supporters, and down came the entire establish- 

 ment. The conjuror alone escaped the general wreck: for the 

 moment he perceived the boards give way,he sprung among the gaping 

 crowd, and, as he went flying, like Leigh Hunt's Hermes, with his 

 arms and legs wide spread, he exclaimed, " O what a go." In his 

 fall, he prostrated several smock-frock peasants, who, not much 

 relishing the manner of his descent, arose and commenced sounding 

 his ribs by the falling of their heavy fists, until the blow-enduring 

 monarch fairly took to his heels, and found shelter in the " Blue- 

 bell." There, instead of deploring his misfortunes, he philosophi- 

 cally called for a quartern of gin, and sat down apparently comfort- 

 able to his pipe. The poor fiddler was the most unfortunate, for he 

 fell amid the thickest of the wreck plump downwards, with his elbow 

 in a blazing grease-pot, breaking his fiddle in the fall. When he 

 was rescued from the rushing ruin, he stood for a moment and opened 

 his single eye upon its desolation, with a ludicrous pathos, then 

 placing the remains of the broken fiddle under his arm, off he went 

 to console himself with the " Blue-bell" beverage, ejaculating, after 

 the manner of his master, " What a devil of a go!" 



We re-entered the " Blue-bell" and hurried up stairs to join the 

 dancers. They had already commenced : making the mud walls 

 shake at every step. " To gie the music," was the charge of old 

 Markam, who had grown gray in the merry service of statutes, 

 feasts, and wakes. There he sat in all his glory, scraping away with 

 all his strength, and stamping his foot to time. Away we went, to a 

 tune which had no variations, as hard as ever we could stamp upon 

 the wooden floor. " O dear ! the music's ceased." " What's the 

 matter ?" " Why Enoch Tomson's trodden on my toes we his nasty 

 nailed boots, an he nose I've nobert got my thin sarcnet slippers on, 

 a brute. I'll not dance we him no longer, I'll dance we yo, Tom." 

 This was over-ruled, and away we went, once more, but without 

 any music. " What's the matter, Markham, why don't you play, 



man : 



" Play the devil," answered cat-gut, " while you were bothering 

 about your dang-nails some mischevous theif's run a candle across 

 my fiddle-bow, an it won't speak." 



" We can't wait," was the answer, so away we went to the whist- 

 ling, clapping of hands and halloeing of the farmers, when, in an 

 instant, all was dark ; still the dancing continued, although first one 

 and then another came in contact, and measured their lengths upon 

 the floor. All was uproar and mistake. " Whose pulling my frock ? 

 Polly, is that you?" " Be quiet, Bill." " Where's my bonnet?" 

 " Misses Ward bring a light." " I can't get in ; somebody's fastened 

 the door." f< Whose got my fiddle ?" until at length, by the aid of 



