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"Per ambages et ministeria deorum."—PETRONTUS.
[Through the mysteries and ministerings of the gods.]
Mr. Roger Morton was behind his counter one drizzling, melancholy day.Mr. Roger Morton, alderman, and twice mayor of his native town, was athriving man. He had grown portly and corpulent. The nightly potationsof brandy and water, continued year after year with mechanicalperseverance, had deepened the roses on his cheek. Mr. Roger Morton wasnever intoxicated—he "only made himself comfortable." His constitutionwas strong; but, somehow or other, his digestion was not as good as itmight be. He was certain that something or other disagreed with him. Heleft off the joint one day—the pudding another. Now he avoidedvegetables as poison—and now he submitted with a sigh to the doctor'sinterdict of his cigar. Mr. Roger Morton never thought of leaving offthe brandy and water: and he would have resented as the height ofimpertinent insinuation any hint upon that score to a man of so soberand respectable a character.
Mr. Roger Morton was seated—for the last four years, ever since hissecond mayoralty, he had arrogated to himself the dignity of a chair. Hereceived rather than served his customers. The latter task was left totwo of his sons. For Tom, after much cogitation, the profession of anapothecary had been selected. Mrs. Morton observed, that it was agenteel business, and Tom had always been a likely lad. And Mr. Rogerconsidered that it would be a great comfort and a great saving to havehis medical adviser in his own son.
The other two sons and the various attendants of the shop were plying theprofitable trade, as customer after customer, with umbrellas and inpattens, dropped into the tempting shelter—when a man, meanly dressed,and who was somewhat past middle age, with a careworn, hungry face,entered timidly. He waited in patience by the crowded counter, elbowedby sharp-boned and eager spinsters—and how sharp the elbows of spinstersare, no man can tell who has not forced his unwelcome way through theagitated groups in a linendraper's shop!—the man, I say, waitedpatiently and sadly, till the smallest of the shopboys turned from alady, who, after much sorting and shading, had finally decided on twoyards of lilac-coloured penny riband, and asked, in an insinuatingprofessional tone,—
"What shall I show you, sir?"
"I wish to speak to Mr. Morton. Which is he?"
"Mr. Morton is engaged, sir. I can give you what you want."
"No—it is a matter of business—important business." The boy eyed thenapless and dripping hat, the gloveless hands, and the rusty neckcloth ofthe speaker; and said, as he passed his fingers through a profusion oflight curls "Mr. Morton don't attend much to business himself now; butthat's he. Any cravats, sir?"
The man made no answer, but moved where, near the window, and chattingwith the b