nd Toby, had become talkative, and was disposed
to take a cheerful review of the occurrences of the day. But Mrs
Varden, whose practical religion (as is not uncommon) was usually of the
retrospective order, cut him short by declaiming on the sinfulness of
such junketings, and holding that it was high time to go to bed. To bed
therefore she withdrew, with an aspect as grim and gloomy as that of the
Maypole's own state couch; and to bed the rest of the establishment soon
afterwards repaired.

Chapter 23

Twilight had given place to night some hours, and it was high noon
in those quarters of the town in which 'the world' condescended to
dwell--the world being then, as now, of very limited dimensions and
easily lodged--when Mr Chester reclined upon a sofa in his dressing-room
in the Temple, entertaining himself with a book.

He was dressing, as it seemed, by easy stages, and having performed half
the journey was taking a long rest. Completely attired as to his legs
and feet in the trimmest fashion of the day, he had yet the remainder of
his toilet to perform. The coat was stretched, like a refined scarecrow,
on its separate horse; the waistcoat was displayed to the best
advantage; the various ornamental articles of dress were severally set
out in most alluring order; and yet he lay dangling his legs between the
sofa and the ground, as intent upon his book as if there were nothing
but bed before him.

'Upon my honour,' he said, at length raising his eyes to the ceiling
with the air of a man who was reflecting seriously on what he had
read; 'upon my honour, the most masterly composition, the most delicate
thoughts, the finest code of morality, and the most gentlemanly
sentiments in the universe! Ah Ned, Ned, if you would but form your mind
by such precepts, we should have but one common feeling on every subject
that could possibly arise between us!'

This apostrophe was addressed, like the rest of his remarks, to empty
air: for Edward was not present, and the father was quite alone.

'My Lord Chesterfield,' he said, pressing his hand tenderly upon the
book as he laid it down, 'if I could but have profited by your genius
soon enough to have formed my son on the model you have left to all
wise fathers, both he and I would have been rich men. Shakespeare was
undoubtedly very fine in his way; Milton good, though prosy; Lord Bacon
deep, and decidedly knowing; but the writer who should be his country's
pride, is my Lor