One day, when BEZZLE had been an editor for forty years, he
fell asleep and had a dreadful dream. He thought that he rose early one
morning, dressed himself in his best suit of broadcloth, which he had
taken for a bad debt, walked up to the ticket office of a theatre where
he was well known, and asked for a couple of seats. The gentlemanly
treasurer (was there ever a treasurer that wasn't gentlemanly in a
newspaper notice?) handed him two of the best seats in the house--end
seats, middle aisle, six rows from the stage. Mr. BEZZLE slapped down a
five-dollar bill with that air of virtue which had become a second
nature to him. (Second nature, by the by, is no more like nature at
first hand than second childhood is like real childhood.)
"Why, Mr. BEZZLE!" exclaimed the treasurer, "have you taken leave of
your senses, sir? Put that back in your pocket;" and he pointed to the
recumbent bank-note. "Who ever heard of an editor paying for two seats
at the theatre since the world began? What have we ever done to offend
you, Mr. BEZZLE, that you should behave thus?"
"Sir," said Mr. BEZZLE, "I once was young, but now am old.
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