man. Should I ever have been renowned for my exquisite lace and
web-like cambric, if I had not been vain? Never, _mon cher_! I should
have gone into a convent and worn sackcloth, and from _Count Antoine_ I
should have thickened into _Saint Anthony_."

"Nay," cried Lord Bolingbroke, "there is as much scope for vanity in
sackcloth as there is in cambric; for vanity is like the Irish ogling
master in the 'Spectator,' and if it teaches the play-house to ogle by
candle-light, it also teaches the church to ogle by day! But, pardon me,
Monsieur Chaulieu, how well you look! I see that the myrtle sheds its
verdure, not only over your poetry, but the poet. And it is right that,
to the modern Anacreon, who has bequeathed to Time a treasure it will
never forego, Time itself should be gentle in return."

"Milord," answered Chaulieu, an old man who, though considerably past
seventy, was animated, in appearance and manner, with a vivacity
and life that would have done honour to a youth,--"Milord, it was
beautifully said by the Emperor Julian that Justice retained the Graces
in her vestibule. I see, now, that he should have substituted the word
_Wisdom_ for that of Justice."

"Come," cried Anthony Hamilton, "this will never do: compliments are the
dullest things imaginable. For Heaven's sake, let us leave panegyric to
blockheads, and say something bitter to one another, or we shall die of
_ennui_."

"Right," said Boulainvilliers; "let us pick out some poor devil to begin
with. Absent or present?--Decide which."

"Oh, absent," cried Chaulieu, "'tis a thousand times more piquant to
slander than to rally! Let us commence with his Majesty: Count Devereux,
have you seen Madame Maintenon and her devout infant since your
arrival?"

"No! the priest must be petitioned before the miracle is made public."

"What!" cried Chaulieu, "would you insinuate that his Majesty's piety is
really nothing less than a miracle?"

"Impossible!" said Boulainvilliers, gravely,--"piety is as natural to
kings as flattery to their courtiers: are we not told that they are made
in God's own image?"

"If that were true," said Count Hamilton, somewhat profanely,--"if that
were true, I should no longer deny the impossibility of Atheism!"

"Fie, Count Hamilton," said an old gentleman, in whom I recognized the
great Huet, "fie: wit should beware how it uses wings; its province is
earth, not Heaven."

"Nobody can better tell what wit is _not_ than the learned Ab