the right of conquest, which genius
pretends,--the individual demonstrating his natural aristocracy best
of the best;--but less claims will pass for the time; for Fashion loves
lions, and points like Circe to her horned company. This gentleman is
this afternoon arrived from Denmark; and that is my Lord Ride, who came
yesterday from Bagdat; here is Captain Friese, from Cape Turnagain; and
Captain Symmes, from the interior of the earth; and Monsieur Jovaire,
who came down this morning in a balloon; Mr. Hobnail, the reformer; and
Reverend Jul Bat, who has converted the whole torrid zone in his Sunday
school; and Signor Torre del Greco, who extinguished Vesuvius by pouring
into it the Bay of Naples; Spahi, the Persian ambassador; and Tul Wil
Shan, the exiled nabob of Nepaul, whose saddle is the new moon.--But
these are monsters of one day, and to-morrow will be dismissed to
their holes and dens; for in these rooms every chair is waited for. The
artist, the scholar, and, in general, the clerisy, wins their way up
into these places and get represented here, somewhat on this footing of
conquest. Another mode is to pass through all the degrees, spending a
year and a day in St. Michael's Square, being steeped in Cologne water,
and perfumed, and dined, and introduced, and properly grounded in all
the biography and politics and anecdotes of the boudoirs.

Yet these fineries may have grace and wit. Let there be grotesque
sculpture about the gates and offices of temples. Let the creed
and commandments even have the saucy homage of parody. The forms of
politeness universally express benevolence in superlative degrees.
What if they are in the mouths of selfish men, and used as means of
selfishness? What if the false gentleman almost bows the true out Of the
world? What if the false gentleman contrives so to address his companion
as civilly to exclude all others from his discourse, and also to make
them feel excluded? Real service will not lose its nobleness. All
generosity is not merely French and sentimental; nor is it to be
concealed that living blood and a passion of kindness does at last
distinguish God's gentleman from Fashion's. The epitaph of Sir Jenkin
Grout is not wholly unintelligible to the present age: "Here lies Sir
Jenkin Grout, who loved his friend and persuaded his enemy: what his
mouth ate, his hand paid for: what his servants robbed, he restored: if
a woman gave him pleasure, he supported her in pain: he never forgot