"Ah! you may say that, Dr. Small," said Titus, in answer to some observation of the vicar, "that's a most original apothegm. We all of us hould our lives by a thrid. Och! many's the sudden finale I have seen. Many's the fine fellow's heels tripped up unawares, when least expected. Death hangs over our heads by a single hair, as your reverence says, precisely like the sword of Dan Maclise,[6] the flatterer of Dinnish what-do-you-call-him, ready to fall at a moment's notice, or no notice at all--eh?--Mr. Coates. And that brings me back again to Sir Piers--poor gentleman--ah! we sha'n't soon see the like of him again!"
"Poor Sir Piers!" said Mr. Coates, a small man, in a scratch wig, with a face red and round as an apple, and almost as diminutive. "It is to be regretted that his over-conviviality should so much have hastened his lamented demise."
"Conviviality!" replied Titus; "no such thing--it was apoplexy--extravasation of _sarum_."
"Extra vase-ation of rum and water, you mean," replied Coates, who, like all his tribe, rejoiced in a quibble.
"The squire's ailment," continued Titus, "was a sanguineous effusion, as we call it--positive determination of blood to the head, occasioned by a low way he got into, just before his attack--a confirmed case of hypochondriasis, as that _ould_ book Sir Piers was so fond of terms the blue devils. He neglected the bottle, which, in a man who has been a hard drinker all his life, is a bad sign. The lowering system never answers--never. Doctor, I'll just trouble you"--for Small, in a fit of absence, had omitted to pass the bottle, though not to help himself. "Had he stuck to _this_"--holding up a glass, ruby bright--"the elixir vitæ--the grand panacea--he might have been hale and hearty at this present moment, and as well as any of us. But he wouldn't be advised. To my thinking, as that was the case, he'd have been all the better for a little of your reverence's sperretual advice; and his conscience having been relieved by confession and absolution, he might have opened a fresh account with an aisy heart and clane breast."
"I trust, sir," said Small, gravely withdrawing his pipe from his lips, "that Sir Piers Rookwood addressed himself to a higher source than a sinning creature of clay like himself for remission of his sins; but, if there was any load of secret guilt that might have weighed heavy upon his conscience, it is to be regretted that he refused the last offices of the church, and died incommunicate. I was denied all admittance to his chamber."