By his bedside are slippers lined with blue silk and worked of an
ecclesiastical pattern, by some of the faithful who sit at his feet. They
come to him in anonymous parcels: they come to him in silver paper: boys
in buttons (pages who minister to female grace!) leave them at the door
for the Rev. C. Honeyman, and slip away without a word. Purses are sent
to him--penwipers--a portfolio with the Honeyman arms; yea, braces have
been known to reach him by the post (in his days of popularity); and
flowers, and grapes, and jelly when he was ill, and throat comforters,
and lozenges for his dear bronchitis. In one of his drawers is the rich
silk cassock presented to him by his congregation at Leatherhead (when
the young curate quitted that parish for London duty), and on his
breakfast-table the silver teapot, once filled with sovereigns and
presented by the same devotees. The devo-teapot he has, but the
sovereigns, where are they?
What a different life this is from our honest friend of Alcantara, who
eats once in three days! At one time if Honeyman could have drunk tea
three times in an evening, he might have had it.
Pages:
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279