eer with his back to the sea-coal fire, and his hands in his breeches pockets--how his fine eye was lit up with anger, and his forehead gleamed with patriotism--how he stamped his foot as he thought of his heavy associates--how he all but swore as he remembered how much too clever one of them had been--my creative readers may imagine. But was he so engaged? No: history and truth compel me to deny it. He was sitting easily in a lounging chair, conning over a Newmarket list, and by his elbow on the table was lying open an uncut French novel on which he was engaged.
He opened the cover in which the message was enclosed and, having read it, he took his pen and wrote on the back of it--
For the Earl of ----, With the Earl of ----'s compliments
and sent it off again on its journey.
Thus terminated our unfortunate friend's chances of possessing the glories of a bishopric.
The names of many divines were given in the papers as that of the bishop-elect. "The British Grandmother" decla