s,
now, that they never thought of calling virtues formerly. The rising
generation wants a new dictionary, damnably.

_Sir Simon._ Deplorably, indeed! You can't think, my dear Tom, what
a scurvy figure you, and the dashing fellows of your kidney, make in
the old ones. But you have great influence over my son Frank; and
want you to exert it. You are his intimate--you come here, and pass
two or three months at a time, you know.

_Shuff._ Yes--this is a pleasant house.

_Sir Simon._ You ride his horses, as if they were your own.

_Shuff._ Yes--he keeps a good stable.

_Sir Simon._ You drink our claret with him, till his head aches.

_Shuff._ Your's is famous claret, Baronet.

_Sir Simon._ You worm out his secrets: you win his money; you----.
In short, you are----

_Shuff._ His friend, according to the next new dictionary. That's
what you mean, Sir Simon.

_Sir Simon._ Exactly.--But, let me explain. Frank, if he doesn't
play the fool, and spoil all, is going to be married.

_Shuff._ To how much?

_Sir Simon._ Damn it, now, how like a modern man of the world that
is! Formerly they would have asked to who.

_Shuff._ We never do, now;--fortune's every thing. We say, "a good
match," at the west end of the town, as they say "a good man," in
the city;--the phrase refers merely to money. Is she rich?

_Sir Simon._ Four thousand a-year.

_Shuff._ What a devilish desirable woman! Frank's a happy dog!

_Sir Simon._ He's a miserable puppy. He has no more notion, my dear
Tom, of a modern "good match," than Eve had of pin money.

_Shuff._ What are his objections to it?

_Sir Simon._ I have smoked him; but he doesn't know that;--a silly,
sly amour, in another quarter.

_Shuff._ An amour! That's a very unfashionable reason for declining
matrimony.

_Sir Simon._ You know his romantic flights. The blockhead, I
believe, is so attach'd, I shou'dn't wonder if he flew off at a
tangent, and married the girl that has bewitch'd him.

_Shuff._ Who is she?

_Sir Simon._ She--hem!--she lives with her father, in Penzance.

_Shuff._ And who is he?

_Sir Simon._ He----upon my soul I'm asham'd to tell you.

_Shuff._ Don't be asham'd; we never blush at any thing, in the New
School.

_Sir Simon._ Damn me, my dear Tom, if he isn't a brazier!

_Shuff._ The devil!

_Sir Simon._ A dealer in kitchen candlesticks, coal skuttles,
coppers, and cauldrons.

_Shuff._ And is the girl pretty?

_Sir Simon._ So they tell me;--a plu