ast in Covent Garden;--the
jolly chaplain could give the company news upon all these points,--news
that might not be very accurate indeed, but was as good as if it
were for the country gentlemen who heard it. For suppose that my Lord
Viscount Squanderfield was ruining himself for Mrs. Polly, and Sampson
called her Mrs. Lucy? that it was Lady Jane who was in love with
the actor, and not Lady Mary? that it was Harry Hilton, of the Horse
Grenadiers, who had the quarrel with Chevalier Solingen, at Marybone
Garden, and not Tommy Ruffler, of the Foot Guards? The names and dates
did not matter much. Provided the stories were lively and wicked, their
correctness was of no great importance; and Mr. Sampson laughed and
chattered away amongst his country gentlemen, charmed them with his
spirits and talk, and drank his share of one bottle after another, for
which his delighted auditory persisted in calling. A hundred years ago,
the Abbe Parson, the clergyman who frequented the theatre, the tavern,
the racecourse, the world of fashion, was no uncommon character
in English society: his voice might be heard the loudest in the
hunting-field; he could sing the jolliest song at the Rose or the
Bedford Head, after the play was over at Covent Garden, and could call a
main as well as any at the gaming-table.

It may have been modesty, or it may have been claret, which caused his
reverence's rosy face to redden deeper, but when he saw Mr. Warrington
enter, he whispered "Maxima debetur" to the laughing country squire who
sat next him in his drab coat and gold-laced red waistcoat, and rose up
from his chair and ran, nay, stumbled forward, in his haste to greet the
Virginian: "My dear sir, my very dear sir, my conqueror of spades, and
clubs, and hearts, too, I am delighted to see your honour looking so
fresh and well," cries the chaplain.

Harry returned the clergyman's greeting with great pleasure: he was glad
to see Mr. Sampson; he could also justly compliment his reverence upon
his cheerful looks and rosy gills.

The squire in the drab coat knew Mr. Warrington; he made a place beside
himself; he called out to the parson to return to his seat on the other
side, and to continue his story about Lord Ogle and the grocer's wife
in------. Where he did not say, for his sentence was interrupted by a
shout and an oath addressed to the parson for treading on his gouty toe.

The chaplain asked pardon, hurriedly turned round to Mr. Warrington,
and i