hath stood his trial upon it at Old Bailey; hath been found guilty, and therefore stands committed to the Tower."
"Papa," says I, severely, "you are become profane. Do not jest with such sacred names as 'High Treason,' 'Old Bailey,' and the 'Tower.'"
"Bab," says he, "a woman's head is far too pretty to understand these ugly matters. But 'tis enough that 'twas I that let that prisoner out in the middle of the night; 'tis my name that Captain Grantley has done me the special favour of inserting in his dispatches to the Minister of War, and it will be my body that will be committed in dishonour to the Tower. And now, my pretty Bab, suppose we wash our hands of these dirty politics, and solace ourselves with a little game of backgammon and a dish of tea?"
There was only one person in the world that this delightful mirror of the graces could not deceive with his urbanity. She chanced to be his daughter Bab. That young person's eyes could penetrate his embroidered vest and look into his heart, or any substitute that he wore for that important organ. His countenance I never saw more easy and serene, and was good enough to cheat the devil with, but behind that mask his every nerve was quivering with an agony of shame. His sensibility to politics astonished me. This worldly man, this polished heathen, this ancient fop, this hard-bit roué, who feared not God nor anybody; this scandalous Court chronicle of sixty years of
