as and all manner of catarrhs? I do beg, Sir
Willoughby Townshend, that you will suffer me to die a more natural and
civilized death;" and so saying, Russelton sank down into his chair,
apparently in the last state of exhaustion.

Sir Willoughby, who remembered the humourist in all his departed glory,
and still venerated him as a temple where the deity yet breathed, though
the altar was overthrown, made to this extraordinary remonstrance no
other reply than a long whiff, and a "Well, Russelton, dash my wig (a
favourite oath of Sir W.'s) but you're a queer fellow."

Russelton now turned to me, and invited me, with a tone of the most
lady-like languor, to sit down near the fire. As I am naturally of a
chilly disposition, and fond, too, of beating people in their own line,
I drew a chair close to the hearth, declared the weather was very cold,
and rung the bell for some more wood. Russelton started for a moment,
and then, with a politeness he had not deigned to exert before,
approached his chair to mine, and began a conversation, which, in spite
of his bad witticisms, and peculiarity of manner, I found singularly
entertaining.

Dinner was announced, and we adjourned to another room--poor Sir
Willoughby, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, and breathing like a pug in
a phthisis--groaned bitterly, when he discovered that this apartment was
smaller and hotter than the one before. Russelton immediately helped
him to some scalding soup--and said, as he told the servant to hand Sir
Willoughby the cayenne--"you will find this, my dear Townshend, a very
sensible potage for this severe season."

Dinner went off tamely enough, with the exception of "our stout
friend's" agony, which Russelton enjoyed most luxuriously. The
threatened mutton-chops did not make their appearance, and the dinner,
though rather too small, was excellently cooked, and better arranged.
With the dessert, the poor baronet rose, and pleading sudden
indisposition, tottered out of the door.

When he was gone, Russelton threw himself back in his chair, and laughed
for several minutes with a loud chuckling sound, till the tears ran down
his cheek. "A nice heart you must have!" thought I--(my conclusions of
character are always drawn from small propensities).

After a few jests at Sir Willoughby, our conversation turned upon other
individuals. I soon saw that Russelton was a soured and disappointed
man; his remarks on people were all sarcasms--his mind was overflowe