"Ha, ha! yes, I fancy I have heard them before. But, indeed, I never fail to wonder at the blindness of the man who, once delivered from matrimony, chooses to surrender his liberty a second time. Chi perde moglie e un quattrino, ha gran perdita del quattrino."

"In the present instance," said Lady Mary, bridling, "Mr Walpole speaks with less than his usual courtesy; he surely forgets that the moglie in question was my mother."

My companion bit his lip.

"True," he said, "few persons can vie with your ladyship in the happy use of polyglot quotation. Good evening, Mr Pope" (204), he exclaimed, stopping an ugly little man in a bright green cloak and scarlet cap who was hobbling by; "active as ever, I see, and with an eye upon everybody."

"Mr Walpole, your very humble servant," replied the poet stiffly, rolling his protruding watery eyes.

As soon as Lady Mary caught sight of him she was off, her Turkish draperies flying behind her.

"As for humility—that we know is your constant failing, my dear sir," said Mr Walpole, watching her retreating figure, "and there is no doubt that on this occasion you have done me valuable service. I believe no one but yourself could put a stop to that woman's tongue. Few people

can tempt me to rudeness; but there is something in her restlessness, her vanity, her continual innuendo about the Prince of Wales's passion for her, her scraps of Latin, and her ridiculous affectation, that makes me forget all breeding."

"The lady seems at least to have this singular gift," sneered Mr Pope, "that she can make

Mr Walpole speak with absolute sincerity."

So saying the poet passed on, leaving Mr Walpole somewhat disconcerted. He turned to me with a shade of confusion, and remarked

"The aid of a common libeller to rid one of a malicious bluestocking is like encouraging the gout because it keeps other ailments away. Of all the persons of my acquaintance, I think I have just parted with the two I dislike most."

"Yet Lady Mary has left behind her the reputation of a wit," I remarked.

"Oh, I am not surprised," replied Mr Walpole; "she amuses some people. When they cannot laugh at her sallies they can always laugh at her. But Lady Mary is well informed-far better than nine hundred and ninety-nine hundredths of her sex (or, for that matter, ours either)—what makes her ridiculous is that she is always straining for admiration. In a young woman, ostentation of learning is endurable, because youth and grace atone for almost anything; but an old woman brandishing her accomplishments in your face only intensifies the unloveliness of age. Then she is for ever imposing her company upon people far younger than

herself, which is a common, but deplorable, weakness. I suppose no one ever carried with him into old age a stronger disposition towards the society of young people than I did; but I had enough sagacity to perceive that the presence of an aged person is to them as a draught of cold air in a parlour-they are never at ease till it is shut out."

"At least you must give Lady Mary the credit of one service to her fellow-creatures," I persisted, feeling a little displeased at my companion's ill-natured speech; "she introduced inoculation for smallpox, did she not?"

"Ah, my dear sir, you have indeed reminded me of what I should be the last to forget, for no one could understand better the value of that invention. Yes; odious as I must ever regard Lady Mary's character, conduct, and conversation, let it be inscribed to her undying fame that she brought this blessing among our people. When I was young, what a state of society there was. Every man of position drenched his intellect with strong drink, every woman's beauty must run the gauntlet of the most loathsome of all diseases. Thank God! I lived to see a great change in both respects, and half the improvement we owed to Lady Mary's importation. Yes, yes; give the devil his due and Lady Mary hers."

We had been moving during this conversation towards the South Room, where there was a dense throng of figures. I followed Mr Walpole to where half-a-dozen men were standing in earnest conversation. They opened out to welcome him, and here I felt indeed that I was with the immortals. A stoutish man (276) with a plain calm face, and dressed in a russet cloak, first addressed my companion.

"Pray let us have the advantage of your opinion, Mr Walpole: there is, I am sure, no one better able to give a sound decision on a question of literary taste."

Walpole. "Nay, Sir Joshua; but you are paying me a compliment that I have done nothing to deserve."

Reynolds. "Ay, ay; Ay, ay; but we have long ago made up our minds on that point. Have we not, gentlemen?"

All expressed ready assent except one man of remarkable appearance (205). He was very stout, his brow and jaws were peculiarly heavy, and the flesh was rolled round his deep-set, twinkling eyes, so as almost to give him the look of blindness.

"Sir," he said, "I am always slow to make up my mind, and equally slow to change it."

Rey. "Well, the discussion arose thus: Mr Boswell (313) expressed admiration for the poetry of Allan Ramsay, in which Dr Johnson could not agree. Now Mr Boswell very happily quoted some lines which seemed to me greatly to the credit of the poet."

Johnson. "Yes, sir, because he was a Scotchman; but they would not do credit to any one else."

Boswell. "I am sure, sir, you would not so often speak harshly of my country if you could realise how much I love it."

Joh. "Sir, if your country is so worthy of your love, none of us will interfere to prevent you returning to it—and staying there."

Dr Johnson shook with immoderate laughter at his own joke, screwing up his rugged face and knocking the end of his cane on the floor.

Bos. (seeming to relish, rather than to resent, the rebuff). "Sir, we recognise in you such unerring

judgment and discrimination that it will be the happiest day of my life when I shall convince you that the Scots are a noble race."

Wal. "Pray, sir, is there any difference between judgment and discrimination?"

Bos. "Perhaps as much, sir, as between common-sense and wisdom."

Wal. "Then I take it there is not much, for common - sense seems to me to be but the retail quantity of the stock - in - trade wisdom."

Bos. "Possibly, sir; but we are rash to interpret terms in the presence of the great lexicographer. Pray, sir, what is your opinion?"

Joh. "Why, this, sir; that I have lost all idea equally of your judgment or discrimination, wisdom or common-sense, since you chose to publish one of my letters without my leave."

Bos. "Pray, sir, consider how strong was the temptation."

Joh. "Sir, some characters are so weak that they find every temptation too strong."

I felt quite sorry for poor Mr Boswell, who persevered with singular ill success to restore his learned friend to good humour, and cut a very sorry figure in the attempt. Yet he seemed actually to enjoy it, looking round for our approbation at each new sally of Johnson's, and I observed that from time to time he made pencil notes in a small book he carried.

Bos. "I am sorry we cannot conclude our discussion on Allan Ramsay's poetry, for here, I see, comes his son and namesake (260), the painter. Permit me to recall you to the subject of our conversation last night,—the advantage of country over town life."

Joh. "Sir, I will waste none of my time in discussing paradox. Let's have no more on't; it is

neither entertaining nor instructive."

Bos. "Relatively, perhaps, rural life is not so satisfying as life in the city; but abstractedly, I am convinced that it is preferable."

Joh. "Sir, I once knew a man who always wore a night-cap instead of a wig: abstractedly, the night-cap was the better head-gear, but relatively it was the worse; for when he would go abroad, the boys ran after him and hooted him."

Bos. "Well, sir, many a time I was in the humour to spend my life in the desert."

Joh. "Sir, none of your friends would have hindered your spending it in your native land, and there, an it pleased you, you might have laid aside both wig and night-cap and donned a fool's cap."

Rey. "I see you cannot forgive the Scotch, sir. At least they have one merit, they produce good gardeners."

Joh. "Yes, sir, because in that wretched climate nothing grows spontaneously. Even barley must be sown in a greenhouse. Come, sir [to Boswell], let us be gone; I see one coming in whose company I am in no mind to be, still less to be exhibited by him as a laughingstock on the stage."

I followed his glance and beheld one approaching dressed in a white coat and yellow waistcoat (235). Mr Walpole explained to me that this was Mr Foote, the actor, "the only man for whom that bear is terrified."

Nay, sir," remarked one who had hitherto been silent, whom I recognised as Mr Oliver Goldsmith (211), "you do him injustice; that man has nothing of the bear but his hide."

Rey. "Well said, old friend! I would rather leave my character

in your kindly keeping than with any one else of my acquaintance.' Wal. "I am not so amiable, gentlemen; I recognise the manners and the voice of the charming animal as well as the hide."

Goldsmith. " Surely, Mr Walpole, you cannot be blind to his excellent sense and charitable disposition."

Wal. "I admit them freely,

sir; but that is no reason that his brutalities should be hailed as bons mots, or that one who has all the bigotry of a washerwoman should be hailed as a philosopher." Gold. "It is a good sign of his nature that his friends are infinitely attached to him."

Wal. ""Tis to be regretted he does not make a better choice of them. That unhappy Scotchman fawns like a spaniel the more he is belaboured, and absolutely revels in the ill-nature of his patron."

"Ah," Horace, my boy! rang out a cheery voice behind us, 'you keep excellent company, I am happy to see."

Turning round, we saw a gentleman (33) in dark blue, with the ribbon and star of the Bath, with a pleasant jovial expression on his face, and leaning on the arm of one (32) wearing a grey wig and a crimson coat, with ribbon and star of the Garter.

66 'Sir, I am delighted to see you are in good health," said Mr Walpole, with a respectful bow to the first; then, with another bow to him in crimson, "my Lord Chesterfield, your most obedient servant."

Ha, Horace! I notice you cannot forget the conventionalities of our old world," replied he whom I recognised as Sir Robert Walpole, the father of my cicerone. "Health-egad! I am tempted

to wish sometimes for a twinge of gout, to delude me into the idea that I still possessed flesh and bones. Look you, you dog! there are half a score of fine ladies hunting for you in the other room; your niece, the Duchess of Gloucester, especially commands your presence.'

"I will wait upon her Royal Highness without delay, sir," replied Mr Walpole.

Lord Chesterfield turned his somewhat harsh face full upon the last speaker, with a kind of wistful look in his dark eyes, and, after gazing in silence for a moment, said

"Young sir, forgive what might be impertinence in one nearer your own age. You possess that charm of manner which, it seems to me, the new generation disdain to cultivate."

"I can only account for it," Mr Walpole answered, with a frank smile, "by the fact that I have studied to acquire the good breeding of my father and his friends.”

Lord Chesterfield sighed; Sir Robert gave us a careless nod, and as they moved on Mr Walpole led me swiftly towards the West Gallery, wherein the Royal personages were holding court. Was it possible, thought I to myself, that this rubicund, burly country gentleman was really the father of the sallow, dark-eyed, slightly limbed creature by my side.1 Never was there such a slight cast on the doctrine of heredity. Mr Walpole seemed to divine my thoughts, for, bending a penetrating glance upon me, he said

"My father's exterior and mine are not very similar, are they? We resemble each other in this, at least, that I have carried into

Liberty raised her drooping headbut I must beware of rhapsodising

"Who is that gentleman in blue coat and gold buttons, just entering the West Gallery?" I asked.

"What! you do not recognise him! My dear sir, he would be but ill pleased if he thought that possible. Fame (and port wine) are his daily-his only diet: that is Mr William Pitt (117). It would be folly to deny the ability of one who became Prime Minister at twenty-four; but, Lord! what a crop of discontent and disaster has been sown by his inexperience, vanity, and insolence. Saw you ever such a haughty countenance, such audacious disdain of his fellows?

'Pert without fire, without experience sage,

Young with more art than Shelburne

drew from age,

With studied dignity and solemn state This young Octavius rises to debate, Nor county members think his speech too long, While words, like treacle, trickle from his tongue.'

Ah! but look you, sir, who comes behind him. That gentleman, I mean, in the murrey coat, unpowdered hair, and with those dark strangely arched brows."

"Who is that?" I asked.

"The greatest that ever thumped the Treasury box; Charles James Fox (122), whose genius soars above the capacity of his rival as you may see the towers of Westminster Abbey overshadow the puny pile of St Margaret's Church. Look on him, my dear sir, for it is he that redeemed our Parliament from the humdrum of the Butes, the Norths, the Chathams, who, since my father's day, had grown round it as fungus collects on an aged oak. At his voice

"Indeed they do, sir," I answered warmly; "they must ever remain splendid specimens of style."

"In our days," said Mr Walpole, "half their piquancy lay in the fact that no one knew who wrote them. It was really vastly diverting-every one in the Opposition with a grain of literary ability was in turn suspected; indeed, when I left the earth, fiveand-twenty years after the appearance of the last of the letters, the controversy about their orthodoxy was still proceeding."

"It is not ended yet," I remarked.

"Not ended yet!" he exclaimed ; "you don't mean to tell me the secret has never come out? Oh ! this is an amazing piece of fun."

He was evidently very much tickled, rubbing his hands together, and chuckling gently.

"Then you know who was the real author?" I inquired eagerly.

"Know of course I know; I thought all the world had either forgotten the letters or knew all about them by this time. Really,

if you

feel any curiosity about it, I do not see why I should not gratify it, for I fancy you are the only person within these walls to whom it is still a secret. Pardon me one moment, sir; I will return immediately and tell you all about the hoax, but I see her Royal Highness, my niece, expecting me."

Leaving me on the rack of impatience, he went up to a tall lady in white, with a scarlet mantle (68), standing near the door of the Presence Chamber. They spoke together earnestly for some minutes, and then, even as I watched