n secular music. He has a
thousand anecdotes, laughable riddles, droll stories (of the utmost
correctness, you understand) with which he entertains females of all
ages; suiting his conversation to stately matrons, deaf old dowagers
(who can hear his clear voice better than the loudest roar of their
stupid sons-in-law), mature spinsters, young beauties dancing through
the season, even rosy little slips out of the nursery, who cluster
round his beloved feet. Societies fight for him to preach their charity
sermon. You read in the papers, "The Wapping Hospital for Wooden-legged
Seamen.--On Sunday the 23rd, Sermons will be preached in behalf of this
charity, by the Lord Bishop of Tobago in the morning, in the afternoon
by the Rev. C. Honeyman, A.M., Incumbent of," etc. "Clergymen's
Grandmothers' Fund.--Sermons in aid of this admirable institution will
be preached on Sunday, 4th May, by the Very Rev. the Dean of Pimlico,
and the Rev. C. Honeyman, A.M." When the Dean of Pimlico has his
illness, many people think Honeyman will have the Deanery; that he ought
to have it, a hundred female voices vow and declare: though it is said
that a right reverend head at headquarters shakes dubiously when his
name is mentioned for preferment. His name is spread wide, and not only
women but men come to hear him. Members of Parliament, even Cabinet
Ministers, sit under him. Lord Dozeley of course is seen in a front pew:
where was a public meeting without Lord Dozeley? The men come away from
his sermons and say, "It's very pleasant, but I don't know what the
deuce makes all you women crowd so to hear the man." "Oh, Charles! if
you would but go oftener!" sighs Lady Anna Maria. "Can't you speak to
the Home Secretary? Can't you do something for him?" "We can ask him
to dinner next Wednesday if you like," Says Charles. "They say he's
a pleasant fellow out of the wood. Besides there is no use in doing
anything for him," Charles goes on. "He can't make less than a thousand
a year out of his chapel, and that is better than anything any one can
give him. A thousand a year, besides the rent of the wine-vaults below
the chapel."

"Don't, Charles!" says his wife, with a solemn look. "Don't ridicule
things in that way.

"Confound it! there are wine-vaults under the chapel!" answers downright
Charles. "I saw the name, Sherrick and Co.; offices, a green door, and
a brass plate. It's better to sit over vaults with wine in them than
coffins. I wonder whether