I woke about two o’clock; dressed, sipped my chocolate, and was on the point of arranging my hat to the best advantage, when I received the following note: “My Dear Pelham, “Me tibi commendo. I heard this morning, at your hotel, that you were here; my heart was a house of joy at the intelligence. I called upon you two hours ago; but, like Antony, ‘you revel long o’ nights.’ Ah, that I could add with Shakspeare, that you were ‘notwithstanding up.’ I have just come from Paris, that umbilicus terrae, and my adventures since I saw you, for your private satisfaction, ‘because I love you, I will let you know;’ but you must satisfy me with a meeting. Till you do, ‘the mighty gods defend you!’ “Vincent.” The hotel from which Vincent dated this epistle, was in the same street as my own caravansera, and to this hotel I immediately set off. I found my friend sitting before a huge folio, which he in vain endeavoured to persuade me that he seriously intended to read. We greeted each other with the greatest cordiality. “But how,” said Vincent, after the first warmth of welcome had subsided, “how shall I congratulate you upon your new honours? I was not prepared to find you grown from a roue into a senator. “‘In gathering votes you were not slack, Now stand as tightly by your tack, Ne’er show your lug an’ fidge your back, An’ hum an’ haw; But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack Before them a’.’ “So saith Burns; advice which, being interpreted, meaneth, that you must astonish the rats of St. Stephen’s.” “Alas!” said I, “all one’s clap-traps in that house must be baited.” “Nay, but a rat bites at any cheese, from Gloucester to Parmasan, and you can easily scrape up a bit of some sort. Talking of the House, do you see, by the paper, that the civic senator, Alderman W--, is at Cheltenham?” “I was not aware of it. I suppose he’s cramming speeches and turtle for the next season.” “How wonderfully,” said Vincent, “your city dignities unloose the tongue: directly a man has been a mayor, he thinks himself qualified for a Tully at least. Faith, Venables asked me one day, what was the Latin for spouting? and I told him, ‘hippomanes, or a raging humour in mayors.’” After I had paid, through the medium of my risible muscles, due homage to this witticism of Vincent’s, he shut up his folio, called for his hat, and we sauntered down into the street. As we passed by one of the libraries, a whole mob of the dandies of the last night were lounging about the benches placed before the shop windows. “Pray, Vincent,” said I, “remark those worthies, and especially that tall meagre youth in the blue frock-coat, and the buff waistcoat; he is Mr. Ritson, the De Rous (viz. the finished gentleman) of the place.” “I see him,” answered Vincent: “he seems a most happy mixture of native coarseness and artificial decoration. He puts me in mind of the picture of the great ox set in a gilt frame.”