“A wise man by conversation, or fools by satiety.” “Well, I dare say that is witty enough, but I never admire fine things of a morning. I like letting my faculties live till night in a deshabille; let us talk easily and sillily of the affairs of the day. _Imprimis_, will you stroll to the New Exchange? There is a black eye there that measures out ribbons, and my green ones long to flirt with it.” “With all my heart--and in return you shall accompany me to Master Powell’s puppet-show.” “You speak as wisely as Solomon himself in the puppet-show. I own that I love that sight: ‘tis a pleasure to the littleness of human nature to see great things abased by mimicry; kings moved by bobbins, and the pomps of the earth personated by Punch.” “But how do you like sharing the mirth of the groundlings, the filthy plebeians, and letting them see how petty are those distinctions which you value so highly, by showing them how heartily you can laugh at such distinctions yourself? Allow, my superb Coriolanus, that one purchases pride by the loss of consistency.” “Ah, Devereux, you poison my enjoyment by the mere word ‘plebeian’! 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.”