Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, No. 401, March 1849Various
Science
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, No. 401, March 1849
Various
England -- Periodicals; Scotland -- Periodicals
"Well, my young Athenian," said he, after congratulating me on the
result of the negotiations, and endeavouring again in vain to bear at
least some share in my father's losses--"well, I see I cannot press
this farther; but at least I _can_ press on you any little interest I
may have, in obtaining some appointment for yourself in one of the
public offices. Trevanion could of course be more useful, but I can
understand that he is not the kind of man you would like to apply to."
"Shall I own to you, my dear Sir Sedley, that I have no taste for
official employment? I am too fond of my liberty. Since I have been at
my uncle's old tower, I account for half my character by the
Borderer's blood that is in me. I doubt if I am meant for the life of
cities, and I have odd floating notions in my head, that will serve to
amuse me when I get home, and may settle into schemes. And now, to
change the subject, may I ask what kind of person has succeeded me as
Mr Trevanion's secretary?"
"Why, he has got a broad-shouldered, stooping fellow, in spectacles
and cotton stockings, who has written upon 'Rent,' I believe--an
imaginative treatise in his case, I fear, poor man, for rent is a
thing he could never have received, and not often been trusted to pay.
However, he is one of your political economists, and wants Trevanion
to sell his pictures, as 'unproductive capital.' Less mild than Pope's
Narcissa, 'to make a wash,' he would certainly 'stew a child.' Besides
this official secretary, Trevanion trusts, however, a good deal to a
clever, good-looking young gentleman, who is a great favourite with
him."
"What is his name?"
"His name?--oh, Gower--a natural son, I believe, of one of the Gower
family."
Here two of Sir Sedley's fellow fine gentlemen lounged in, and my
visit ended.
CHAPTER LVIII.
"I swear," cried my uncle, "that it _shall_ be so;" and with a big
frown, and a truculent air, he seized the fatal instrument.
"Indeed, brother, it must not," said my father, laying one pale,
scholar-like hand mildly on Captain Roland's brown, bellicose, and
bony fist; and with the other, outstretched, protecting the menaced,
palpitating victim.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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