man; "put 'em down in the bill, nevertheless, Sir. Is it Alderman
Atkins, Sir, or Mr. Higgins?"

"Pooh," said Tarleton, "bring me some lemonade; send the pagoda to the
bricklayer, the mandarin to the surgeon, and the idol to the Papist over
the way! There's a guinea to pay for their carriage. How are you, Don?"

"Oh, Mr. Tarleton, Mr. Tarleton! how could you be so cruel?"

"The nature of things demanded it, my good Don. Did I not call you a
Chinese Adam? and how could you bear that name without undergoing the
fall?"

"Oh, Sir, this is no jesting matter,--broke the railing of my pagoda,
bruised my arm, cracked my fiddle, and cut me off in the middle of that
beautiful air!--no jesting matter."

"Come, Mr. Salter," said I, "'tis very true! but cheer up. 'The gods,'
says Seneca, 'look with pleasure on a great man falling with the
statesmen, the temples, and the divinities of his country;' all of
which, mandarin, pagoda, and idol, accompanied _your_ fall. Let us have
a bottle of your best wine, and the honour of your company to drink it."

"No, Count, no," said Tarleton, haughtily; "we can drink not with the
Don; but we'll have the wine, and he shall drink it. Meanwhile, Don,
tell us what possible combination of circumstances made thee fiddler,
barber, anatomist, and virtuoso!"

Don Saltero loved fiddling better than anything in the world, but next
to fiddling he loved talking. So being satisfied that he should be
reimbursed for his pagoda, and fortifying himself with a glass or two of
his own wine, he yielded to Tarleton's desire, and told us his history.
I believe it was very entertaining to the good barber, but Tarleton
and I saw nothing extraordinary in it; and long before it was over, we
wished him an excellent good day, and a new race of Chinese monsters.

That evening we were engaged at the Kit-Cat Club, for though I was
opposed to the politics of its members, they admitted me on account of
my literary pretensions. Halifax was there, and I commended the poet to
his protection. We were very gay, and Halifax favoured us with three new
toasts by himself. O Venus! what beauties we made, and what characters
we murdered! Never was there so important a synod to the female world as
the gods of the Kit-Cat Club. Alas! I am writing for the children of an
after age, to whom the very names of those who made the blood of their
ancestors leap within their veins will be unknown. What cheek will
colour at the name of Carlis