And again the literary gentleman's brow expanded.
"Yes—The Life——"
"And Times," suggested Mr. Lykspittal.
"The Life and Times of Sir Christopher Blunt," exclaimed the knight triumphantly.
"In three volumes, large octavo, with portraits," added the sycophant.
"Egad! that's a capital suggestion of your's—the portraits, I mean," said Sir Christopher. "But you must show that, although I began the world with nothing, yet I am of an ancient and highly respectable family——"
"Certainly, my dear sir. There was no doubt a Blunt at Crecy or Agincourt," observed Mr. Lykspittal. "At all events it is easy to say there was, and in a note put 'See M.S.S., British Museum.' That is the way we always manage in such cases, my dear Sir Christopher. The British Museum is a most convenient place——"
"What—to write in?" asked the Justice of the Peace.
"No, sir—to furnish pedigrees for those who haven't got any."
"Ah! I understand!" cried Sir Christopher, chuckling. "Capital! capital! Well, my good fellow, set about the Life and Times directly. But, by the bye, I wish the work to begin something in this way—'It was on a dark and tempestiferous night—the wind roared—the artillery flew in fitting gusts—the streaming shafts of electricity shot across the eccentric sky,'—and so on. That's a pretty sentence, you perceive; and being entirely my own composition—striking me, in fact, at the moment—and not suggested by any other person——"