two rings, which he passes in impassioned moments through
his slender flaxen hair.

A sweet odour pervades his sleeping apartment--not that peculiar and
delicious fragrance with which the Saints of the Roman Church are said
to gratify the neighbourhood where they repose--but oils, redolent
of the richest perfumes of Macassar, essences (from Truefitt's or
Delcroix's) into which a thousand flowers have expressed their
sweetest breath, await his meek head on rising; and infuse the
pocket-handkerchief with which he dries and draws so many tears. For
he cries a good deal in his sermons, to which the ladies about him
contribute showers of sympathy.

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. The glass on his
chimneypiece is crowded with invitations, not merely cards of ceremony
(of which there are plenty), but dear little confidential notes from
sweet friends of his congregation. "Ob, dear Mr. Honeyman," writes
Blanche, "what a sermon that was! I cannot go to bed to-night without
thanking you for it." "Do, do, dear Mr. Honeyman," writes Beatrice,
"lend me that delightful sermon. And can you come and drink tea with
me and Selina, and my aunt? Papa and mamma dine out, but you know I am
always your faithful Chesterfield Street." And so on. He has all the
domestic accomplishments; he plays on the violoncello: he sings a
delicious second, not only in sacred but i