Since his first meeting with Mr. BUMSTEAD, on the evening of the
epitaph-reading, Judge SWEENEY has cultivated that gentleman's
acquaintance, and been received at his lodgings several times with
considerable cordiality and lemon-tea. On such occasions, Mr. BUMSTEAD,
in his musical capacity, has sung so closely in Judge SWEENEY'S ear as
to tickle him, a wild and slightly incoherent Ritualistic stave, to the
effect that Saint PETER'S of Rome, with pontifical dome, would by ballot
Infallible be; but for making Call sure, and Election secure, Saint
Repeater's of Rum beats the See. With finger in ear to allay the
tickling sensation, JUDGE SWEENEY declares that this young man smelling
of cloves is a person of great intellectual attainments, and understands
the political genius of his country well enough to make an excellent
Judge of Election.
Walking slowly near the churchyard on this particular freezing December
evening, with his hands behind his bank, and his eyes intent for any
envious husband who may be "with a rush retiring," monumentally
counselled, after reading the Epitaph, Judge SWEENEY suddenly comes upon
Father DEAN conversing with SMYTHE, the sexton, and Mr.
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