aire we
drank the other day?' Very well, my good man. You are a good judge--of
ordinaire, I dare say. Nothing so provokes my anger, and rouses my sense
of justice, as to hear other men undeservedly praised. In a word, if you
wish to remain friends with me, don't praise anybody. You tell me that
the Venus de' Medici is beautiful, or Jacob Omnium is tall. Que diable!
Can't I judge for myself? Haven't I eyes and a foot-rule? I don't think
the Venus IS so handsome, since you press me. She is pretty, but she
has no expression. And as for Mr. Omnium, I can see much taller men in a
fair for twopence."

"And so," I said, turning round to Mr. Sterne, "you are actually jealous
of Mr. Fielding? O you men of letters, you men of letters! Is not the
world (your world, I mean) big enough for all of you?"

I often travel in my sleep. I often of a night find myself walking in my
night-gown about the gray streets. It is awkward at first, but somehow
nobody makes any remark. I glide along over the ground with my naked
feet. The mud does not wet them. The passers-by do not tread on them. I
am wafted over the ground, down the stairs, through the doors. This sort
of travelling, dear friends, I am sure you have all of you indulged.

Well, on the night in question (and, if you wish to know the precise
date, it was the 31st of September last), after having some little
conversation with Mr. Sterne in our bedroom, I must have got up, though
I protest I don't know how, and come down stairs with him into the
coffee-room of the "Hotel Dessein," where the moon was shining, and a
cold supper was laid out. I forget what we had--"vol-au-vent d'oeufs de
Phenix--agneau aux pistaches a la Barmecide,"--what matters what we had?

"As regards supper this is certain, the less you have of it the better."

That is what one of the guests remarked,--a shabby old man, in a wig,
and such a dirty, ragged, disreputable dressing-gown that I should have
been quite surprised at him, only one never IS surprised in dr---- under
certain circumstances.

"I can't eat 'em now," said the greasy man (with his false old teeth, I
wonder he could eat anything). "I remember Alvanley eating three suppers
once at Carlton House--one night de petite comite."

"Petit comite, sir," said Mr. Sterne.

"Dammy, sir, let me tell my own story my own way. I say, one night at
Carlton house, playing at blind hookey with York, Wales, Tom Raikes,
Prince Boothby, and Dutch Sam the boxer, Alva