“It would be worse trifling to set up for originality in hats and coats, at least in sober England. I was born a gentleman, and I dress my outward frame like others of my order. Because I am a writer, why should I affect to be different from other men?” “I see that you are not above the weakness of your countryman Congreve,” said Cesarini, “who deemed it finer to be a gentleman than an author.” “I always thought that anecdote misconstrued. Congreve had a proper and manly pride, to my judgment, when he expressed a dislike to be visited merely as a raree-show.” “But is it policy to let the world see that an author is like other people? Would he not create a deeper personal interest if he showed that even in person alone he was unlike the herd? He ought to be seen seldom--not to stale his presence--and to resort to the arts that belong to the royalty of intellect as well as the royalty of birth.” “I dare say an author, by a little charlatanism of that nature, might be more talked of--might be more adored in the boarding-schools, and make a better picture in the exhibition. But I think, if his mind be manly, he would lose in self-respect at every quackery of the sort. And my philosophy is, that to respect oneself is worth all the fame in the world.” Cesarini sneered and shrugged his shoulders; it was quite evident that the two authors had no sympathy with each other. They arrived at last at the chapel, and with some difficulty procured seats. Presently the service began. The preacher was a man of unquestionable talent and fervid eloquence; but his theatrical arts, his affected dress, his artificial tones and gestures; and, above all, the fanatical mummeries which he introduced into the House of God, disgusted Maltravers, while they charmed, entranced, and awed Cesarini. The one saw a mountebank and impostor--the other recognised a profound artist and an inspired prophet.