One dare swear that, in these days of easy morality, there may bs more questionable ways of spending a brief holiday, by a bachelor, than seeking the treat of a suburban hostelry in company with a fair Dulcinea, and there sojourning in blissful content. What matters if the host should make entry in his guest book of Mr and Mrs Corflambo, or any other name, and the hostess, in the innocence of her heart, treat her visitors with all the at tention to comfort and convenience which married couples are wont to receive? It would but give zest to the pleasures of the holiday to keep up the joke and meet mine host’s bill with a demure countenance. But, ah me ! As the little rift within the lute spoils the sweetest music, so the slightest little mischance spoils the eprightliest adventure. I have heard of two turtledoves who, recently billing and cooing somewhat after the fashion described, found the cup of their content dashed to fragments by the merest accident. The male bird of the kind, troubled with a prosaic cough, had taken with him to their temporary abode of bliss a bottle of learned doctor’s stuff, and that bottle he’d left on the mantelshelf, and on the bottle was a label and on that label his name ! And behold it was thus revealed unto the keeper of the house that he had not entertained angels unawares. And with that bottle in his packet, and virtuous indignation stirring his manly bosom, he is seeking up and down for the gay young bachelor who beguiled him.
