And to what, pray, do these serious, these disagreeable, these almost
personal observations tend? To this simply, that Charles Honeyman, the
beloved and popular preacher, the elegant divine to whom Miss Blanche
writes sonnets, and whom Miss Beatrice invites to tea; who comes with
smiles on his lip, gentle sympathy in his tones, innocent gaiety in his
accent; who melts, rouses, terrifies in the pulpit; who charms over the
tea-urn and the bland bread-and-butter: Charles Honeyman has one or two
skeleton closets in his lodgings, Walpole Street, Mayfair; and many a
wakeful night, whilst Mrs. Ridley, his landlady, and her tired husband,
the nobleman's major-domo, whilst the lodger on the first floor, whilst
the cook and housemaid and weary little bootboy are at rest (mind you,
they have all got their closets, which they open with their
skeleton-keys); he wakes up, and looks at the ghastly occupant of that
receptacle. One of the Reverend Charles Honeyman's grisly night-haunters
is--but stop; let us give a little account of the lodgings, and of some
of the people frequenting the same.
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