Chapter 6

O I do know him--tis the mouldy lemon
Which our court wits will wet their lips withal,
When they would sauce their honied conversation
With somewhat sharper flavour--Marry sir,
That virtue's wellnigh left him--all the juice
That was so sharp and poignant, is squeezed out,
While the poor rind, although as sour as ever,
Must season soon the draff we give our grunters,
For two legg'd things are weary on't.
_The Chamberlain--A Comedy_

The good company invited by the hospitable citizen assembled at his
house in Lombard Street at the "hollow and hungry hour" of noon, to
partake of that meal which divides the day, being about the time when
modern persons of fashion, turning themselves upon their pillow, begin
to think, not without a great many doubts and much hesitation, that
they will by and by commence it. Thither came the young Nigel, arrayed
plainly, but in a dress, nevertheless, more suitable to his age and
quality than he had formerly worn, accompanied by his servant
Moniplies, whose outside also was considerably improved. His solemn
and stern features glared forth from under a blue velvet bonnet,
fantastically placed sideways on his head--he had a sound and tough
coat of English blue broad-cloth, which, unlike his former vestment,
would have stood the tug of all the apprentices in Fleet Street. The
buckler and broadsword he wore as the arms of his condition, and a
neat silver badge, bearing his lord's arms, announced that he was an
appendage of aristocracy. He sat down in the good citizen's buttery,
not a little pleased to find his attendance upon the table in the hall
was likely to be rewarded with his share of a meal such as he had
seldom partaken of.

Mr. David Ramsay, that profound and ingenious mechanic, was safely
conducted to Lombard Street, according to promise, well washed,
brushed, and cleaned, from the soot of the furnace and the forge. His
daughter, who came with him, was about twenty years old, very pretty,
very demure, yet with lively black eyes, that ever and anon
contradicted the expression of sobriety, to which silence, reserve, a
plain velvet hood, and a cambric ruff, had condemned Mistress Marget,
as the daughter of a quiet citizen.

There were also two citizens and merchants of London, men ample in
cloak, and many-linked golden chain, well to pass in the world, and
experienced in their craft of merchandise, but who require no
particular description. There was an elderly clergyman also, in his
gown and cassock, a decent venerable man, partaking in his manners of
the plainness of the citizens amongst whom he had his cure.

These may be dismissed with brief notice; but not so Sir Mungo
Malagrowther, of Girnigo Castle, who claims a