his groom was walking about his
favourite saddle horse.

"A beautiful mare that is of your's," said I, carelessly looking at it,
and reaching across the table to help myself to the pate de foie gras.

"Mare!" exclaimed the incorrigible punster, delighted with my mistake:
"I thought that you would have been better acquainted with your propria
quoe maribus."

"Humph!" said Wormwood, "when I look at you I am always at least
reminded of the as in praoesenti!"

Lord Vincent drew up and looked unutterable anger. Wormwood went on with
his dry toast, and Lady Roseville, who that morning had, for a wonder,
come down to breakfast, good naturedly took off the bear. Whether or not
his ascetic nature was somewhat mollified by the soft smiles and
softer voice of the beautiful countess, I cannot pretend to say; but he
certainly entered into a conversation with her, not much rougher
than that of a less gifted individual might have been. They talked of
literature, Lord Byron, converzaziones, and Lydia White. [Note: Written
before the death of that lady.]

"Miss White," said Lady Roseville, "has not only the best command
of language herself, but she gives language to other people. Dinner
parties, usually so stupid, are, at her house, quite delightful. I have
actually seen English people look happy, and one or two even almost
natural."

"Ah!" said Wormwood, "that is indeed rare. With us every thing is
assumption. We are still exactly like the English suitor to Portia, in
the Merchant of Venice. We take our doublet from one country, our hose
from another, and our behaviour every where. Fashion with us is like
the man in one of Le Sage's novels, who was constantly changing his
servants, and yet had but one suit of livery, which every new comer,
whether he was tall or short, fat or thin, was obliged to wear. We adopt
manners, however incongruous and ill suited to our nature, and thus
we always seem awkward and constrained. But Lydia White's soirees are
indeed agreeable. I remember the last time I dined there we were six in
number, and though we were not blessed with the company of Lord Vincent,
the conversation was without 'let or flaw.' Every one, even S----, said
good things."

"Indeed!" cried Lord Vincent; "and pray, Mr. Wormwood, what did you
say!"

"Why," answered the poet, glancing with a significant sneer over
Vincent's somewhat inelegant person, "I thought of your lordship's
figure, and said--grace!"

"Hem--hem!--'Grati