Mr. Mortimer would have said more to himself,—but he just then happened to be glancing down into the street, as he was tying his neckerchief, and seeing an omnibus going by,—one of the regular and frequent conveyances from Gravesend to Chatham,—that run the eight miles with passengers,—he read upon one of its sides—"Meets conveyances to Maidstone."
"Why, what in the world has possessed me, all this time?" exclaimed Mr. Mortimer, aloud, although he was alone,—"what in the world has possessed me, that I have been going round Kent, and calling at every little hole without thinking of Maidstone,—the county town, where the assizes are held,—in the very core and centre of the shire?"
There was no one to answer Mr. Mortimer,—but he was down stairs in another minute,—besought the landlord to stop the omnibus,—paid his bill,—and set off, breakfastless, for Maidstone, by way of Chatham. Mr. Mortimer was resolved he would have his own unbiassed judgment this time, and so called on no one at Chatham or Rochester.
Maidstone—finished Mr. Mortimer! A new newspaper for Kent?—why, every one assured him it was of all schemes the most foolish. The "Maidstone Gazette," on the Whig side, was edited by Mr. Whiting, a gentleman of real talent, swarmed with advertisements, and had a good circulation: the "Maidstone Journal," on the Conservative side, was rising into favour and patronage, with its own party: these were the two real representatives of Kent: there was no room for another paper: fools might speculate, in any corner, to please knaves, and throw their money away: there was no full growth of radicalism, as in the manufacturing districts: London was so near at hand that its daily papers and literary periodicals supplied every want:—in short, every man of any pretensions to common sense assured Mr. Mortimer, if he desired to throw away his fortune, his projected "lever" was the very instrument to enable him to throw it away effectually,—if he chose Kent for the "fulcrum!"
Mr. Mortimer returned to London an altered man. He believed he had been "humbugged;" and so it proved. He tried to find "the solicitor," but no such person was to be found at the house he had pencilled down on his tablets. "Ah!" thought Mr. Mortimer, as he returned towards the West end,—"how lucky it was that I bethought me not to let the fellow place the types and the press in his 'office,' as he called it!" Mr. Mortimer resolved to sell the materials, get back his hundred pounds, and give up the scheme. He sent for an appraiser. The press was only fit to burn, and the types had to be sold for old metal!!—
Mr. Mortimer is not in parliament yet.
NICHOLAS NIXON, "GENTLEMAN,"
WHO COULD NOT UNDERSTAND WHY, BUT WHO KNEW "IT WAS SO."
Dullness was well nigh at the meridian of her reign in old Lincoln. In the solemn "precincts" of the cathedral the humble bees seemed almost afraid to disturb the solitude by a hum; and venerable maiden ladies had no vicissitude of existence, save an occasional scold at their servants, or a grumbling complaint of "short measure" to the coalman as he made his weekly call. And, indeed, the rest of the city was most autumnally tame and uninteresting. The fashionables were at the watering-places,—the throng of the working population was in the fields,—and while one tradesman complained, with a yawn, to his neighbour, that there was "nothing doing, and no money stirring," the other invariably rejoined, "No, nor won't be, till after harvest!"—and then imitated his neighbour in stretching his mouth from ear to ear.