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‘Which is your house—I understand,’ said Minns, wishing to cut short the visit, and the story, at the same time. ‘No, no, that’s not mine; that’s Grogus’s, the great ironmonger’s. ‘Very well—thank ye—good-bye.’ ‘Be punctual.’ ‘Certainly: good morning.’ ‘I say, Minns, you’ve got a card.’ ‘Yes, I have; thank ye.’ And Mr.
And then in Spain,—’tis true, Lope de Vega and Calderon were most inordinate lickspittles; the Principe Constante of the last is a curiosity in its way; and then the Mary Stuart of Lope; I think I shall recommend the perusal of that work to the Birmingham ironmonger’s daughter—she has been lately thinking of adding “a slight knowledge of the magneeficent language of the Peninsula” to the rest of her accomplishments, he! he! he!
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