n this costume and condition he will dance into Honeyman's apartment,
where that meek divine may be sitting with a headache or over a novel or
a newspaper; dance up to the fire flapping his robe-tails, poke it, and
warm himself there; dance up to the cupboard where his reverence keeps
his sherry, and help himself to a glass.

"Salve, spes fidei, lumen ecclesiae," he will say; "here's towards you,
my buck. I knows the tap. Sherrick's Marsala bottled three months after
date, at two hundred and forty-six shillings the dozen."

"Indeed, indeed it's not" (and now we are coming to an idea of the
skeleton in poor Honeyman's closet--not that this huge handsome jolly
Fred Bayham is the skeleton, far from it. Mr. Frederick weighs fourteen
stone). "Indeed, indeed it isn't, Fred, I'm sure," sighs the other. "You
exaggerate, indeed you do. The wine is not dear, not by any means so
expensive as you say."

"How much a glass, think you?" says Fred, filling another bumper. "A
half-crown, think ye?--a half-crown, Honeyman? By cock and pye, it is
not worth a bender." He says this in the manner of the most celebrated
tragedian of the day. He can imitate any actor, tragic or comic; any
known Parliamentary orator or clergyman; any saw, cock, cloop of a
cork wrenched from a bottle and guggling of wine into the decanter
afterwards, bee buzzing, little boy up a chimney, etc. He imitates
people being ill on board a steam-packet so well that he makes you
die of laughing: his uncle the Bishop could not resist this comic
exhibition, and gave Fred a cheque for a comfortable sum of money; and
Fred, getting cash for the cheque at the Cave of Harmony, imitated his
uncle the Bishop and his Chaplain, winding up with his Lordship and
Chaplain being unwell at sea--the Chaplain and Bishop quite natural and
distinct.

"How much does a glass of this sack cost thee, Charley?" resumes Fred,
after this parenthesis. "You say it is not dear. Charles Honeyman, you
had, even from your youth up, a villainous habit. And I perfectly well
remember, sir, in boyhood's breezy hour, when I was the delight of his
school, that you used to tell lies to your venerable father. You did,
Charles. Excuse the frankness of an early friend, it's my belief you'd
rather lie than not. Hm"--he looks at the cards in the chimney-glass
"Invitations to dinner, proffers of muffins. Do lend me your sermon. Oh,
you old impostor! you hoary old Ananias! I say, Charley, why haven't you
picked o