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However, the council thought otherwise: Mr. Deputy’s speech had produced a deep impression; and, upon his motion, they adjudged that, in twelve hours, Juno should be conducted to the frontiers of the city lands, and there solemnly outlawed: after which it should be free to all citizens of B—- to pursue her with fire and sword; and even before that period, if she were met without a responsible guide. Mr. Schnackenberger pleaded earnestly for an extension of the armistice; but then arose, for the second time, with Catonic severity of aspect, Mr. Deputy Recorder; he urged so powerfully the necessity of uncompromising principle in these dangerous times, insisted so cogently on the false humanity of misplaced lenity, and wound up the whole by such a pathetic array of the crimes committed by Juno–of the sausages she had robbed, the rabbits she had strangled, the porcelain she had fractured, the raspberry-vinegar she had spilt, the mutton she had devoted to chops (‘her own “chops,” remember,’ said Mr. Schnackenberger), the Brussels’ veil, and the Mechlin lace, which she had swallowed, the domestic harmony which she had disturbed, the laws of the land which she had insulted and outraged, the peace of mind which she had invaded, and, finally, (said he) ‘as if all this were not enough, the liver–the goose’s liver–my liver–my unoffending liver’–(‘and lights,’ said Mr. Schnackenberger) ‘which she has burglariously and inhumanly immolated to her brutal propensities:’ on all this Mr. Deputy executed such a bravura, and the sins of Juno chased each other so rapidly, and assumed so scarlet a hue, that the council instantly negatived her master’s proposition; the single dissentient voice being that of Mr. Mayor, who, with tears in his eyes, conjured Mr. Schnackenberger not to confound the innocent with the guilty.

CHAPTER XXIII.

IN WHICH MISFORTUNE EMPTIES HER LAST VIAL UPON THE HEAD OF MR. SCHNACKENBERGER.

Exhausted by the misfortunes of the day, towards evening Mr. Jeremiah was reposing at his length, and smoking in the window-seat of his room. Solemn clouds of smoke expressed the gloomy vapours which rested on his brain. The hours of Juno’s life, it seemed to him, were numbered; every soul in B—-was her sworn foe–bipeds and quadrupeds, men, women, dogs, cats, children, kittens, deputy-recorders, rabbits, cooks, legs-of-mutton, to say nothing of goose-livers, sausages, haunches of venison, and ‘quilts.’–If he were to take country-lodgings for her, and to send her out of B—-, what awaited her there? Whither could she go, but some butcher–some butterwoman–some rough-rider or other had a private account to settle with her?–‘Unhappy creature!’ ejaculated the student, ‘torment of my life!’

At this moment Mr. Schnackenberger’s anxious ruminations were further enforced by the appearance of the town-crier under his window: inert as the town-council were in giving effect to their own resolutions, on this occasion it was clear that they viewed the matter as no joke; and were bent on rigorously following up their sentence. For the crier proclaimed the decree by beat of drum; explained the provisos of the twelve hours’ truce, and enjoined all good citizens, and worthy patriots, at the expiration of that period, to put the public enemy to the sword, wherever she should be found, and even to rise en masse, if that should be necessary, for the extermination of the national robber–as they valued their own private welfare, or the honour and dignity of the state.

‘English fiend!’ said Mr. Schnackenberger, ‘will nothing reclaim thee? Now that I am rid of my German plague, must I be martyred by my English plague?’ For be it mentioned that, on our hero’s return from the council, he had received some little comfort in his afflictions from hearing that Mrs. Sweetbread had, upon her return to B—-, testified her satisfaction with the zealous leader of the butchers’ boys, by forthwith bestowing upon him her widowed hand and heart, together with the Sow and its appurtenances. ‘English fiend!’ resumed Mr. Schnackenberger, ‘most edacious and audacious of quadrupeds! can nothing be done for thee? Is it impossible to save thy life?’ And again he stopped to ruminate. For her metaphysics it was hopeless to cure; but could nothing be done for her physics? At the university of X—- she had lived two years next door neighbour to the Professor of Moral Philosophy, and had besides attended many of his lectures without any sort of benefit to her morals, which still continued of the very worst description. ‘But could no course of medical treatment,’ thought her master, ‘correct her inextinguishable voracity? Could not her pulse be lowered? Might not her appetite, or her courage, be tamed? Would a course of tonics be of service to her? Suppose I were to take her to England to try the effect of her native air; would any of the great English surgeons or physicians be able to prescribe for her effectually? Would opium cure her? Yet there was a case of bulimy at Toulouse, where the French surgeons caught the patient and saturated him with opium; but it was of no use; for he ate[26] as many children after it as before. Would Mr. Abernethy, with his blue pill and his Rufus pill, be of any service to her? Or the acid bath–or the sulphate of zinc–or the white oxide of bismuth?–or soda-water? For, perhaps, her liver may be affected. But, lord! what talk I of her liver? Her liver’s as sound as mine. It’s her disposition that’s in fault; it’s her moral principles that are relaxed; and something must be done to brace them. Let me consider.’