He was the friend and
adviser of statesmen; he might have ended as a Cabinet Minister, for no
man ever succeeded in gauging the extent of his miraculous ability; he
seemed to be the most powerful, as well as the most dreaded man in
England. Woe is me! We had to carry him up to bed; and he stayed on
until he spent a three-guinea cheque, which Mr. Landlord cashed for him.
I knew no good would come of his Fleet-street games, though he used to
laugh things off himself. He would come in about seven in the evening,
and seat himself at his table. Then he would hiccup, "Can't write
politics; no good. Give us a nice light subject."
"Try an article on the country at this season of the year."
"Good. I can't hold the damned pen. You sit down, I'll dictate: In this
refulgent season, when the barred clouds bloom the soft dying day, it is
pleasant to wander by the purple hedgerows where the stars of the (What
damned flower is it that twinkles now? What do you say? Ragged Robin?
Not poetic enough. Clematis? That'll do.
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