‘Deserted, as you will remember Mr. Venus, by the waning moon, When stars, it will occur to you before I mention it, proclaim night’s cheerless noon, On tower, fort, or tented ground, The sentry walks his lonely round, The sentry walks;’

—under those circumstances, sir, I happened to be walking in the yard early one afternoon, and happened to have an iron rod in my hand, with which I have been sometimes accustomed to beguile the monotony of a literary life, when I struck it against an object not necessary to trouble you by naming⁠—”

“It is necessary. What object?” demanded Venus, in a wrathful tone.