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“‘Ah ! that was Sir Sidney Smith,’ said Mr. Peters ; ‘I’ve heard tell of him, and all about Mrs. Partington, and y “‘P., be quiet, and don't expose yourself!' sharply interrupted his lady. P. was silenced, and betook himself to the bottled stout. “‘These lands,’ continued the antiquary, “were held in grand sergeantry by the presentation of three white owls and a pot of honey “‘Lassy me ! how nice l’ said Miss Julia. Mr. Peters licked his lips. “‘Pray give me leave, my dear—owls and honey, whenever the king should come a-rat-catching in this part of the country.” “‘Rat-catching !’ ejaculated the Squire, pausing abruptly in the mastication of a drum-stick. “‘To be sure, my dear sir; don't you remember that rats once came under the forest laws—a minor species of venison “Rats and mice, and such small deer,” eh?—Shakespeare, you know. Our ancestors ate rats ; and owls, you know, are capital mollSerS “‘I seen a howl,” said Mr. Peters.” “Bolsover Priory” is one of those few places mentioned by Ingoldsby that have not been identified with any real place in Kent. It might have been taken to mean the ruins of the Preceptory at Swingfield Minnis, some two miles from Tappington, had not Barham expressly said, in his prefatory notes to the “Witches' Frolic,” that they were not the same. The literary landmarks associated with Barham's residence in London are readily traced. On leaving Kent in 1821 to take up his residence in London, he, for a time, rented the upper part of the house, still standing, No. 51, Great Queen Street, Holborn. There his eldest surviving daughter, Caroline Frances Barham, afterwards Lady Bond, was born,


July 22nd, 1823. In 1824, following his appointment to the rectorship of St. Mary Magdalene, the family removed to a house numbered “4” on the south side of St. Paul's churchyard, and there remained until 1839, when an exchange was made to a house in Amen Corner, Paternoster Row— the first house through the gateway—by arrangement with Sydney Smith, who was leaving it to reside in Green Street, Mayfair. He describes the garden at the back of this house as “containing three polyanthus roots, a real tree, a brown box border, a snuff-coloured jessamine, a shrub which is either a dwarf acacia or an overgrown gooseberry bush, eight broken bottles, and a tortoiseshell tom-cat asleep in the sunniest corner, with a wide and extensive prospect of the back of the ‘Oxford Arms, and a fine hanging wood (the ‘new drop' at Newgate) in the distance.” But the sprightly wit, the sound common-sense, the good-natured satire, were doomed to early extinction. It was in the prime of life, and when he might well have looked forward to further consolidating and extending the fame his genius had already brought, that the blow fell which laid him low. He had already, some twenty years earlier, suffered some slight temporary trouble with a sensitive throat, and although in general a robust man, was in that respect peculiarly liable to the weather. It happened, unfortunately, that he was present as a spectator at the opening by the Queen of the new Royal Exchange, October 28th, 1844. It was a bleak day, and, sitting at an open window in Cheapside placed at his disposal by a friend, he caught a chill from whose effects he never recovered. The evil was a stubborn inflammation of the throat, which clung to him throughout the winter, and by degrees reduced the strong man to an alarmingly weak condition. In the February of 1845 he was induced to visit Bath, in the hope of recovery in that mild atmosphere, but an imprudent return to London in the treacherous month of March, in order to attend a meeting of the Archaeological



Association, aggravated the malady. Still, that strong physique struggled against illness, and he once more partly recovered, only to be again laid low by a cold caught at an April vestry meeting in St. Paul's. It was, however, not merely an exaggerated susceptibility to cold that by this time dogged his every excursion into the open air, but the grossly mistaken treatment of his medical man, who had inflamed the malady by applying caustic to the uvula. At the beginning of May, although reduced almost to the condition of a helpless child by his sufferings, he was taken again to the west; this time to Clifton, near Bristol. Unhappily, the local practitioner who was called in to attend him was by no means a properly qualified man, and on hearing of the mistaken treatment already followed, could think of nothing better than to continue it. It is not remarkable, under the circumstances, that he experienced no relief from the climate of Clifton, but grew steadily weaker. It was a sad time, for his wife was simultaneously laid low with illness. Everything devolved upon his daughter, Frances, then only in her twentieth year, for his son Dick was away in Cambridgeshire, doing duty as a clergyIman. The dying man—for the truth could be no longer disguised—kept a spirit of the supremest cheerfulness and Christian courage. His humorous verses on the incidents of his distressing illness—originally composed as replies to the inquiries of anxious friends and afterwards published in the collection of Ingoldsby Lyrics as “The Bulletin,” are no whit inferior to the productions of his careless health. When recovery at Clifton seemed hopeless, he was removed again to London, to the house he had occupied for the last six years, and made a grim joke as they assisted him into the house, on the

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