Jones was ready to sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers, and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby squire when he is at first introduced into a polite assembly. He began, however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who, he saw, did not intend openly to claim any close acquaintance with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the stranger on his part. Accordingly, he leaned over to Sophia, who was staring hard at the stage, and asked her if she enjoyed the performance. “Pray, don’t tease Miss Western with your civilities,” interrupted Lady Bellaston, “for you must know the child hath lost her heart this night to that ravishing fellow Ainley, though I tell her to my certain knowledge he is a husband already, and, what is more, a father. These country girls have nothing but sweethearts in their heads.” “Upon my honour, madam,” cried Sophia, “your ladyship injures me.” “Not I, miss, indeed,” replied her ladyship tartly, “and if you want a sweetheart, have you not one of the most gallant young fellows about town ready to your hand in Lord Fellamar? You must be an arrant mad woman to refuse him.” Sophia was visibly too much confounded to make any observations, and again turned towards the stage, Lady Bellaston taking the opportunity to dart languishing glances at Jones behind her back and to squeeze his hand; in short, to practise the behaviour customary with women of fashion who desire to signify their sentiments for a gentleman without expressing them in actual speech; when Jones, who saw the agitation of Sophia’s mind, resolved to take the only method of relieving her, which was by retiring. This he did, as Brutus was rushing upon his own sword; and poor Jones almost wished the sword might spit him, too, in his rage and despair at what her ladyship had maliciously insinuated about Sophia and Mr. Ainley. DR. JOHNSON AT THE STADIUM I am now to record a curious incident in Dr. Johnson’s life, which fell under my own observation; of which _pars magna fui_, and which I am persuaded will, with the liberal-minded, be in no way to his discredit. When I was a boy in the year 1745 I wore a white cockade and prayed for King James, till one of my uncles gave me a shilling on condition that I should pray for King George, which I accordingly did. This uncle was General Cochran; and it was with natural gratification that I received from another member of that family, Mr. Charles Cochran, a more valuable present than a shilling, that is to say, an invitation to witness the Great Fight at the Stadium and to bring with me a friend. “Pray,” said I, “let us have Dr. Johnson.” Mr. Cochran, who is much more modest than our other great theatre-manager, Mr. Garrick, feared that Dr. Johnson could hardly be prevailed upon to condescend. “Come,” said I, “if you’ll let me negotiate for you, I will be answerable that all shall go well.”