Rodney Stone . hisbuckled et à chaussures, et l'incendie de battre à son grimschoolmaster face. Ma parole comment il a évalué la façon dont nous, et nous avons été heureux d'introduire enfin quietlyaway ! Vous foies de un mensonge, dit-il. Vous andthose comme vous ont prêché la paix pour nightwo 000 ans, et de coupe gorge le wholetime ! Si l'argent qui est perdu dans la prise de Frenchlives ont été consacrées à l'enregistrement de l'anglais, vous wouldhave plus le droit de brûler des bougies dans votre Windows..Qui êtes-vous qui osent venir ici à insulter l'homme respectueux des lois alaw ? Nous sommes le peuple de Fra-terre, s'écria le jeune maître Ovington, fils du squire Tory.

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Rodney Stone . at and hisbuckled shoes, and the fire beating upon his grimschoolmaster face. My word how he rated us, and how glad we were at last to sneak quietlyaway! You livers of a lie, said he. You andthose like you have been preaching peace for nightwo thousand years, and cutting throats the wholetime! If the money that is lost in taking Frenchlives were spent in saving English ones, you wouldhave more right to burn candles in your windows..Who are you that dare to come here to insult alaw-abiding man ? We are the people of Eng-land, cried young Master Ovington, the son ofthe Tory squire. You—you horse-racing, cock-iighting, neer-do-weel, do you presume to talkfor the people of England? They are a deep, strong, silent stream, and you are the scum, thebubbles, the poor silly froth that floats upon thesurface. We thought him very wicked then, but, looking back, I am not sure that we were notvery wicked ourselves. And then there were the smugglers! TheDowns swarmed with them, for since there might. My word, how he rated us ! THE PLAY ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS. 39 be no lawful trade between France and England ithad all to run in that channel. I have been up onSt. Johns Common upon a dark night, and, lyingamong the bracken, I Jiave seen as many as sev-enty mules and a man at the head of each go flit-ting past me as silently as fish in a stream. Notone of them but bore its two ankers of the rightFrench cognac, or its bale of silk of Lyons andlace of Valenciennes. I knew Dan Scales, thehead of them, and I knew Tom Hislop, the ridingofficer, and I remember the night they met. Doyou fight, Dan? asked Tom. Yes, Tom, thoumust fight for it. On which Tom drew his pis-tol and blew Dans brains out. It was a sadthing to do, he said afterward, but I knew Danwas too good a man for me, for we tried it outbefore. It was Tom who paid a poet fromBrighton to write the lines for the tombstone, which we all thought were very true and good, beginning— Alas ! Swift flew the fatal leadWhich

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