After I had arranged myself and my whiskers--two very distinct affairs--yawned three times, and drank two bottles of soda water, I strolled into the town. As I was sauntering along leisurely enough, I heard my name pronounced behind me. I turned, and saw Sir Willoughby Townshend, an old baronet of an antediluvian age--a fossil witness of the wonders of England, before the deluge of French manners swept away ancient customs, and created, out of the wrecks of what had been, a new order of things, and a new race of mankind. “Ah! my dear Mr. Pelham, how are you? and the worthy Lady Frances, your mother, and your excellent father, all well?--I’m delighted to hear it. Russelton,” continued Sir Willoughby, turning to a middle-aged man, whose arm he held, “you remember Pelham--true Whig--great friend of Sheridan’s?--let me introduce his son to you. Mr. Russelton, Mr. Pelham; Mr. Pelham, Mr. Russelton.” At the name of the person thus introduced to me, a thousand recollections crowded upon my mind; the contemporary and rival of Napoleon--the autocrat of the great world of fashion and cravats--the mighty genius before whom aristocracy had been humbled and ton abashed--at whose nod the haughtiest noblesse of Europe had quailed--who had introduced, by a single example, starch into neckcloths, and had fed the pampered appetite of his boot-tops on champagne--whose coat and whose friend were cut with an equal grace--and whose name was connected with every triumph that the world’s great virtue of audacity could achieve--the illustrious, the immortal Russelton, stood before me. I recognised in him a congenial, though a superior spirit, and I bowed with a profundity of veneration, with which no other human being has ever inspired me. Mr. Russelton seemed pleased with my evident respect, and returned my salutation with a mock dignity which enchanted me. He offered me his disengaged arm; I took it with transport, and we all three proceeded up the street. “So,” said Sir Willoughby--“so, Russelton, you like your quarters here; plenty of sport among the English, I should think: you have not forgot the art of quizzing; eh, old fellow?” “Even if I had,” said Mr. Russelton, speaking very slowly, “the sight of Sir Willoughby Townshend would be quite sufficient to refresh my memory. Yes,” continued the venerable wreck, after a short pause,--“yes, I like my residence pretty well; I enjoy a calm conscience, and a clean shirt: what more can man desire? I have made acquaintance with a tame parrot, and I have taught it to say, whenever an English fool with a stiff neck and a loose swagger passes him--‘True Briton--true Briton.’ I take care of my health, and reflect upon old age. I have read Gil Blas, and the Whole Duty of Man; and, in short, what with instructing my parrot, and improving myself, I think I pass my time as creditably and decorously as the Bishop of Winchester, or my Lord of A--v--ly himself. So you have just come from Paris, I presume, Mr. Pelham?”