s forth all his agreeability for the
delectation of a grander audience than he ever had at home. But to one
who has seen all these ranks and conditions of men--who finds nothing
new in the _morgue_ of the Marquis, or the last _mot_ of the Bench--it
is somewhat too bad to be told that such intercourse is a part of your
treatment.

My worthy friend Dr. Guckhardt has mistaken me; he fancies my weariness
is the result of solitude, and that my exhaustion is but _ennui_; and,
in consequence, has he gone about on the high roads and public places
inquiring if any one knows Horace Templeton, who is "sick and ill." And
here is the fruit: a table covered with visiting cards and scented notes
of inquiry. My Lord Tollington--a Lord of the Bedchamber, a dissolute
old fop--very amusing to very young men, but intolerable to all who have
seen anything themselves. Sir Harvey Clifford, a Yorkshire Jesuit,
who travels with a _socius_ from Oscot and a whole library of tracts
controversial. Reginald St. John, a "levanter" from the Oaks. Colonel
Morgan O'Shea, absent without leave for having shot his father-in-law.
Such are among the first I find. But whose writing is this?... I know
the hand well.... Frank Burton, that I knew so well at Oxford! Poor
devil! he joined the 9th Lancers when he came of age, and ran through
every thing he had in the world in three years. He married a Lady Mary
somebody, and lives now on her family. What is his note about?

"Dear Tempy,

"I have just heard of your being here, and would have gone
over to see you, but have sprained my ancle in a hopping-
match with Kubetskoi--walked into him for two hundred,
nevertheless. Come and dine with us to-day at the France,
and we'll shew you some of the folk here. That old bore,
Lady Bellingham Blakely, is with us, and gives a pic-nic on
Saturday at the Waterfall--rare fun for you, who like a
field-day of regular quizzes! Don't fail--sharp seven--and
believe me,

"Yours,

"F. B."

This requires but brief deliberation; and so, my dear Frank, you must
excuse my company, both at dinner and pic-nic. What an ass he must be to
suppose that a man of thirty has got no farther insight into the world,
and knows no more of its inhabitants, than a boy of eighteen! These
"quizzes," doubtless, had been very amusing to me once--just as I used
to laugh at the "School for Scandal" the first fifty times I saw it;
but now