such a jubilation, over the day of small things, as is now

astonishing to think of. Had the Termagant's own Thalamus and

Treasury been bombarded suddenly one night by red-hot balls,

Madrid City laid in ashes, or Baby Carlos's Apanage extinguished

from Creation, there could hardly have been greater English joy

(witness the "Porto-Bellos" they still have, new Towns so named);

so flamy is the murky element growing on that head. And indeed had

the cipher of tar-barrels burnt, and of ale-barrels drunk, and the