In these poems we read that such and such a king invaded
Norway with a gang of heroes; or so and so, for example, Erik
Bloodaxe, was admitted to the set of gods; but at present gang and
set are merely applied to the vilest of the vile, and the lowest of
the low,--we say a gang of thieves and shorters, or a set of
authors. How touching is this debasement of words in the course of
time; it puts me in mind of the decay of old houses and names. I
have known a Mortimer who was a hedger and ditcher, a Berners who
was born in a workhouse, and a descendant of the De Burghs, who
bore the falcon, mending old kettles, and making horse and pony
shoes in a dingle."
"Odd enough," said the jockey; "but you were saying you knew one
Berners--man or woman? I would ask."
"A woman," said I.
"What might her Christian name be?" said the jockey.
"It is not to be mentioned lightly," said I, with a sigh.
"I shouldn't wonder if it were Isopel," said the jockey with an
arch glance of his one brilliant eye.
"It was Isopel," said I; "did you know Isopel Berners?"
"Ay, and have reason to know her," said the jockey, putting his
hand into his left waistcoat pocket, as if to feel for something,
"for she gave me what I believe few men could do--a most confounded
whopping.
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