Tylney Hall


Tylney Hall


—Mrs. Til by, I know you're fond of vocals— run,

Pompey, and desire Mr. Hopkinson for the favour

of a song—my dear, do keep an eye on John,

he's drunk already, d n him— Mr. Sparks, a

glass of wine—the same with you, Mr. Dowson

— here, this way into the green-house— come,

hob-a-nob—a pretty scene, isn't it. Sparks, my old

boy—and all my own property—Mr. Dowson, I

can't help remembering old times ;

but many's the

time Sparks and me has clubbed our shillings to-

gether for a treat at Bagnigge Wells. A great

change though, says you, from that to this. I

little thought when I wrote T. Twigg with a water-

ing-tin, on a dusty pavement, that I should be sign-

ing it some day to cheques for thousands. I don't

care who knows it, but I wasn't always the warm

man I am to-day. Mr. Squire, pray step in

a glass of wine— glad to see you, Mr. Squire

break as much as you please, and I won't say any

thing ; we shall only be quits— now for a look

about us again—where the devil is T., junior?—

Mr. Danvers, go to my daughter's bower, she'll pre-

sent you a bouquet— Dr. Bellamy, a glass of wine

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