were consciences without lands or title. Now,
Sir Badlot's conscience was a thing of infant
growth, and between his fears of its expiring
of its own accord, and his doubts as to the
means of fostering and promoting its development,
Father Blazius felt, logically speaking,
on the horns of a dilemma.

Had times and men been different, the
worthy father would probably have prescribed
change of scene, light and nutritive diet, old
Jacob Townsend's compound infusion of
sarsaparilla, and Mahommed's bath. For an
obvious chronological reason, the two latter
remedies were impracticable, and even
Peruvian bark was not yet known. As far as the
knight's conscience went, a little quiet
meditative reading might have answered. But
Sir Badlot's education had been rather
neglected, and he couldn't read—without spelling
all the little words and skipping all the big
ones.

Plainly perceiving that the knight had now
only powers enough for one vice at a time,
Father Blazius thought that fighting would be,
perhaps, the least destructive, and suggested
a pilgrimage which was likely to be attended
with some "rough service." He gave so
many good reasons for it, that the knight
eagerly embraced the proposal, and, on the
strength of the satisfaction it afforded to his
conscience and constitution, got frantically
drunk that very evening, and horsewhipped
one of his huntsmen, the next morning—both
with great relish.

We will not detail the particulars of our
knight's pilgrimage. We will pass over all
the hair's-breadth escapes, melancholy
confinements, and miraculous adventures he
encountered during his religious trip. We
merely beg our readers to put together all
that they ever read in Sir John Mandeville,
Amadis de Gaul, and Scott's novels, and to
believe that the sum total falls far short of
the adventures of Sir Badlot, in the course of
his visit to the tomb of Saint Costa-di-monga.

But it undoubtedly had a splendid effect
in restoring his health. Whether it was that
he was often compelled to ride, day after day,
through places where a public-house—we
mean an hostelry—was an impossibility;
whether the amusement of spearing infidels
acted as a tonic and agreeable stimulant,
coupled with the noble consciousness of doing
his duty; whether or no, he was so restored
in mental and bodily vigour, that he returned
to his own country quite a new man, bringing
with him the wife of an Italian Baron, whom
he had killed in single combat.

Sir Badlot had made a great mistake in
killing this Italian Baron, or at all events
in marrying his widow. The lady was a
strong-minded woman, and desperately
religious. He found himself literally nobody
in his own house. His drinking and swearing
were interdicted; the place was filled with
monks of all denominations; often, when he
wanted his breakfast, he was quietly informed
that his lady was with her confessor, and had
got the keys. As to Father Blazius, he seemed
quite happy, was constantly with the Lady de
Scampiers, and troubled himself very little
about his former patient. The knight was
dragged to prayers at all manner of strange
times, and if he demurred, his better half
resented his conduct by praying aloud in bed,
which the knight found more cruel than the
worst curtain lecture. In a word, Sir Badlot
de Scampiers was now expiating his former
sins.

A few years rolled on; they had no children;
Sir Badlot found himself sinking fast.
Unhappy at home, and unable to stir out, taunted
with the idle remembrances of a past life
disgracefully spent, and just awakening to a real
and terrible consciousness of the future, Sir
Badlot sought to stifle his memory with extensive
donations, and to compensate for a whole
life of practical blasphemy by abject displays
of attrition, contrition, and other degrees of
priest-enjoined penance.

The sudden loss of his lady might, at an
earlier period, have resuscitated the failing
spirits of Sir Badlot, but he was now too
far gone to feel even that relief. Father
Blazius managed everything, and when the
last day of the poor sinner's life had closed,
when the halls of the Castle de Scampiers
were filled with mournful hangings, and with
vassals whose sad countenances were but
doubtful representatives of their real thoughts,
there was a grand assemblage of the monks
of the new order of Saint Costa-di-Monga,
and no one felt surprised at finding that the
whole of the knight's immense domain was
given up to that worthy fraternity.

We must pass over a long interval, during
which a magnificent abbey rose upon the
Scampiers estate: in the noblest chapel of
which, was a sumptuous monument to the
memory of the knight and his wife, whose
effigies lay side by side in greater harmony
than the originals had ever enjoyed.
Allegorical representations, in that peculiar style
of art which we hope will be henceforth
confined to tombstones, told of the valiant deeds
of Sir Badlot in the cause of Christianity, and
a most appropriately extensive "brass"
detailed his virtues and accomplishments.

Abbeys, like the knights and kings who
found them, have an end. A certain king,
taking a violent fancy to the rich estates of
the order of Saint Costa-di-Monga, pillaged
its chapels of everything that could be turned
into money; leaving only the relics of a few
saints, which were not convertible into cash—
the monks—and the empty building. A few
years afterwards, when the Order had somewhat
recovered this shock, a party of drunken
soldiers, not being able to force their entrance
for a similar purpose, set fire to the building,
burnt out the monks, and left nothing but
roofless walls, and a few monuments.

Various persecutions and misfortunes
gradually reduced the wealthy order of Saint