scenes wherein the present tense is perforce
adopted; the writer acting as chorus to the drama, and occasionally
explaining, by hints or more open statements, what has occurred during
the intervals of the acts; and how it happens that the performers are in
such or such a posture. In the modern theatre, as the play-going critic
knows, the explanatory personage is usually of quite a third-rate
order. He is the two walking-gentlemen friends of Sir Harry Courtly,
who welcome the young baronet to London, and discourse about the
niggardliness of Harry's old uncle, the Nabob; and the depth of
Courtly's passion for Lady Annabel the premiere amoureuse. He is the
confidant in white linen to the heroine in white satin. He is "Tom,
you rascal," the valet or tiger, more or less impudent and acute--that
well-known menial in top-boots and a livery frock with red cuffs and
collar, whom Sir Harry always retains in his service, addresses with
scurrilous familiarity, and pays so irregularly: or he is Lucetta, Lady
Annabel's waiting-maid, who carries the billets-doux and peeps into
them; knows all about the family affairs; pops the lover under the sofa;
and sings a comic song between the scenes. Our business now is to
enter into Charles Honeyman's privacy, to peer into the secrets of that
reverend gentleman, and to tell what has happened to him during the past
months, in which he has made fitful though graceful appearances on our
scene.

While his nephew's whiskers have been budding, and his brother-in-law
has been spending his money and leave, Mr. Honeyman's hopes have been
withering, his sermons growing stale, his once blooming popularity
drooping and running to seed. Many causes have contributed to bring
him to his present melancholy strait. When you go to Lady Whittlesea's
Chapel now, it is by no means crowded. Gaps are in the pews: there is
not the least difficulty in getting a snug place near the pulpit, whence
the preacher can look over his pocket-handkerchief and see Lord Dozeley
no more: his lordship has long gone to sleep elsewhere and a host of the
fashionable faithful have migrated too. The incumbent can no more cast
his fine eyes upon the French bonnets of the female aristocracy and see
some of the loveliest faces in Mayfair regarding his with expressions of
admiration. Actual dowdy tradesmen of the neighbourhood are seated with
their families in the aisles: Ridley and his wife and son have one of
the very best seats. To be s