They had been perhaps an hour in the house, when Brummell, in the very middle of “Il mio tesoro,” came to the end of a dissertation on pantaloons. The gentlemen with thin legs, and no calves to them, were great patrons of what had not hitherto been admitted into the category of “dress,”—namely, trousers. Conservatives and Irish gentlemen advocated pantaloons. Brummell had given his judgement with the sententious elaboration of Dr. Chalmers on a question of Erastianism; and to refresh himself after the fatigue of the process, he begged of Fox to furnish him with a “_prise de tabac!_” The request for a pinch of snuff reminded the then heir of Bramham Park of the fact, that it was his much-prized box which he had designed to leave in Albemarle-street. He proceeded however to perform the required act of hospitality; but on putting his hand to his pocket he found the latter empty, and the box gone. In two minutes he was in the passage below, recounting his loss to Leadbitter and Townsend, and asking from them what hope existed of his recovering the abstracted property. When they learned that an hour had elapsed since it had been stolen, Leadbitter gave the opinion of himself and brother that the loss was irreparable. “By this time,” said Townsend, “it’s in the melting-pot of Slack Sam, the Jew _Gonoff_.” “What’s a _Gonoff_?” asked Mr. Fox. “Oh!” said Townsend, with an air of learning and superiority, “_Gonoff_ is Hebrew for a ‘thief.’ Did you pass any suspicious character on going upstairs?” “I passed nobody but Lady Cork,” said Mr. Fox. “And Lady Cork, George,” said that vivacious lady, who was coming out, “does not pick gentlemen’s pockets of snuff-boxes.” “No,” replied the young Yorkshire squire, “Lady Cork is only a _voleuse de cœurs_. In the meantime, I have the satisfaction of knowing that my gold box is gone to a _Gonoff_.” “And that _Gonoff_,” said Townsend, with his familiar laugh, “is Hebrew for ‘thief.’” * * * * * Captain Jesse has limned Brummell at elaborate full length, and the gallant artist has done his spiriting very impartially, considering the Cruikshank sort of portraiture with which the beau once affected to represent the captain. “My dear Jesse,” said the dandy once to him,—“My dear Jesse, excuse me, but you look very much like a magpie!”