A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Marvel, who had been a little discomposed by the treatment he had experienced on Holborn Hill, very composedly filled and lighted his pipe. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of the populace almost universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!" The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish in promises to their proselytes. "I told you I was not unprotected. But you must allow me to observe, my good Sir, that you're wholly in the wrong respecting my friend.
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