an'! Oh,
what a beastly thing is a common person!--a shape of the trodden clay
without any alloy; a compound of dirty clothes, bacon breaths, villanous
smells, beggarly cowardice, and cattish ferocity. Pah, Devereux! rub
civet on the very thought!"

"Yet they will laugh to-day at the same things you will, and
consequently there would be a most flattering congeniality between you.
Emotion, whether of ridicule, anger, or sorrow; whether raised at a
puppet-show, a funeral, or a battle,--is your grandest of levellers. The
man who would be always superior should be always apathetic."

"Oracular, as usual, Count,--but, hark, the clock gives tongue. One, by
the Lord!--will you not dress?"

And I rose and dressed. We passed through the anteroom; my attendant
assistants in the art of wasting money drew up in a row.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," said I ("gentlemen, indeed!" cried Tarleton),
"for keeping you so long. Mr. Snivelship, your waistcoats are exquisite:
favour me by conversing with my valet on the width of the lace for my
liveries; he has my instructions. Mr. Jockelton, your horses shall be
tried to-morrow at one. Ay, Mr. Rymer, I beg you a thousand pardons;
I beseech you to forgive the ignorance of my rascals in suffering a
gentleman of your merit to remain for a moment unattended to. I have
read your ode; it is splendid,--the ease of Horace with the fire of
Pindar; your Pegasus never touches the earth, and yet in his wildest
excesses you curb him with equal grace and facility: I object, sir, only
to your dedication; it is too flattering."

"By no means, my Lord Count, it fits you to a hair."

"Pardon me," interrupted I, "and allow me to transfer the honour to Lord
Halifax; he loves men of merit; he loves also their dedications. I will
mention it to him to-morrow: everything you say of me will suit him
exactly. You will oblige me with a copy of your poem directly it is
printed, and suffer me to pay your bookseller for it now, and through
your friendly mediation; adieu!"

"Oh, Count, this is too generous."

"A letter for me, my pretty page? Ah! tell her ladyship I shall wait
upon her commands at Powell's: time will move with a tortoise speed till
I kiss her hands. Mr. Fribbleden, your gloves would fit the giants at
Guildhall: my valet will furnish you with my exact size; you will see
to the legitimate breadth of the fringe. My little beauty, you are from
Mrs. Bracegirdle: the play _shall_ succeed; I have taken seven