The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 286: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

266 REYNOLDS’ WORKS Earl of Lascelles,’ — although, by the bye, there was not a line written at the time, —I1 was waited upon by an old gentleman who offered me his literary assistance. I asked him for his qualifications, and I think he said he had written three voyages to the North Pole, eleven around the world, six travels in China, three into the heart of Africa, four to the Rocky Mountains, and about fifty others to different parts of the earth, including six or seven ascents up Mont Blanc, and about seventeen shipwrecks.” ‘But my dear father,’ exclaimed Adolphus, “ this man was an impostor. A little calculation would show that a dozen lives would not suffice for so much travelling and voyaging.” “‘ God bless your soul! ”’ cried the earl, ‘‘ the worthy gen- tleman had never been out of England in his life, or else how could he possibly have found time to write the books at all? They were all composed at the British Museum, and published under an infinite variety of names and titles. Why, this good gentleman who came to me, as I am telling you, was a colonial bishop, an officer in the East India Company’s service, a subaltern unattached, an old naval officer, a Lady of Rank, an Oxonian, an Etonian, a missionary to the South Sea Islands, a trader to Hudson’s Bay, and Heaven only knows what! But you will fancy the answer I gave him. Of course I told him that the Earl of Lascelles did not want a hodgepodge dished up for him, but that they were my own personal experiences, adventures, and impressions that I was about to give to the world. I only mention all this to let you see that if you do travel, you could easily have a book confectioned for you on your return.”’ ‘But, my dear father, I do not want to write a book,” replied Lord Osmond, — ‘‘ much less to have one written for me.” ‘“‘ Well, well, every one to his taste,” said the earl, com- placently stroking his wrinkled chin, as much as to imply that it was his taste, and his pride, too, to become an illus- trious ornament of the literary world. ‘“‘ However,’ he con- tinued, “‘ I have not the slightest objection that you should take a tour on the Continent during your honeymoon.” “My honeymoon?” ejaculated Adolphus, in a sort of dismayed amazement, but rather at the unexpected mention of such words than because he was at a loss to comprehend CORNICLOOOLK