kitchen, and that Camilla, the aunt, and a
baked handmaiden with a black and veranillion
face, should each and all struggle through the
waiting amidst the grumbling and anathemas
of the parent Won't you cat the roast
shoulder with avidity when you are next the
dear one? Will you even refuse the onion
sauce when it is tendered by her dear hands,
and the bread-and-butter pudding in the yellow pie-dish, made by Camilla herself? Oh!
the rapture of a young loving heart! Then
the serious talk with old Bamford after dinner,
when he has mixed his hot gin-and-water
and lighted his clay, and the ladies have
retired; when he will relate his antecedents,
and give you a thousand other particulars that
you drink in with eager interest? Why should
I dwell upon the scene? Yon are happy. The
evening flies by, and you leave the house, tenderly separating from your dear one, with old
Bamford hiccoughing his blessings on your
head, and the aunt struggling with him on the
stairs to get him to bed. And you love her!
Love her more than ever!"
The doctor sank back in his chair, uttered a sort of shout of triumph, and threw his legs up wildly. This time both his slippers flew off, hit the ceiling, and then came raining down on to Mr. Charsley's head.
"Well, Guy," said Mr. Charsley, as he threw the doctor his slippers, who apologized for their eccentric flight and put them on,"well, Guy, all I can again say is that I love Camilla; and not even the reality of the supposititious picture you have drawn shall alter me in the lenst degree. By the way, I'll answer the note at once, doctor, if you'll allow me."
"Certainly, Arthur, my boy," said the doctor; and he handed him what the French dramatists call tout ce qu'il faut pour écrire.
Mr. Charsley bit his pen for a few moments, and then said, "Shall I use my own name?"
"Just as you please," returned the doctor. "Theatrical people are not particular about names. I rather fancy it is a point of honour with them not to use the names they were christened by. Camilla herself, you see, has a nom de théâtre; perhaps she will like you all the better if you imitate her example. Besides, look how it adds to the romance of the affair."
"What shall it be?" said the Gentleman with the Lily.
"The first name I put my finger upon in the first book I take down," replied Guy, as he crossed to the bookcase and took down the first volume that came under his hand. He opened it in the centre, and put his finger upon the page that presented itself. "Here it is. I'll read the passage. It was in vain that the Queen endeavoured to protect him; in vain she entreated them to spare her gentle Mortimer.' Put it down Mortimer. You shall be Mortimer. Mortimer, you know, was the lover of Queen Isabella. And then it goes on. The barons were deaf to her entreaties. He was hanged on a gibbet at a place called Elmes, about a mile from London, where his body was left hanging for two days after.' That'll do very well." And the doc tor put the book back into its place.
"Dear me! a rather ominous passage, Guy," said Mr. Charsley. "I don't much like the name. However, it is as good as any other." And he commenced writing. When he had finished, be read what he had written. It was to this effect:
"Mr. A. Mortimer, the Gentleman with the Lily, presents his compliments to Mr. John Bamford, and will be most happy to accept his kind invitation to dinner on Sunday next at 6 o'clock."
"Formal and uncompromising," cried the doctor. "Without prejudice, as the lawyers say. I shouldn't be surprised if old Bamford doesn't think that you expect something out of the usual after that formality. He may even believe you are coming in a white cravat and dress coat; and may, in consequence, plunge into extravagance, and order a boiled fowl to face the roast shoulder, and provide a dish of periwinkles for tea."
Mr. Charsley folded his letter, sealed it, and then rose to go. "I'll post it as I go along. I've got my cab at the door. I'll let you know how the affair goes off. Good night,"
The doctor rang the bell. William appeared, and Mr. Charsley took his departure.
"And now, old fellow," said Guy to me, "take another cheroot, and let us rest our minds with a game of choss."
FOUR-AND-TWENTY HOURS IN A
NEWSPAPER OFFICE.
Part II.
I have already described[1] the literary or intellectual section of a Newspaper's life. I have introduced the reader to that profound entity, the Editor, to his staff, and to the noble army of intelligence-reapers and gleaners who, like so many Ariels, do his bidding.
Though much, however, has been achieved thus far, much remains to be done before that flying sheet, which contains an epitome of the world's history for the day, can be placed upon the breakfast-table, to thousands as welcome and necessary as the hot rolls and smoking coffee.- ↑ Sco vol, ix. p. 369.
