Among the many visiters of Lambert, the celebrated Polish dwarf, count Borulawski, was not the least interesting. The count, having made a fortune by exhibiting his person, has retired to Durham to enjoy the fruit of his economy. Though now in his seventy-fourth year, he still possesses all the gracefulness and vivacity by which he was formerly characterized. Lambert, during his apprenticeship at Birmingham, went several times to see Borulawski, and such was the strength of the count’s memory, that he had scarcely fixed his eyes upon him in Piccadilly before he recollected his face. After reflecting a moment, he exclaimed that he had seen the same face twenty years ago, in Birmingham, but it was not surely the same body. This unexpected meeting of the largest and smallest man, seemed to realize the fabled history of the inhabitants of Lilliput and Brobdinag, particularly when Lambert rose for the purpose of affording the diminutive count a full view of his prodigious dimensions. In the course of conversation, Lambert asked what quantity of cloth the count required for a coat, and how many he thought his would make him.--“Not many,” answered Borulawski. “I take goot large piece cloth myself--almost tree quarters of a yard.” At this rate, one of Lambert’s sleeves would be abundantly sufficient for the purpose. The count felt one of Lambert’s legs: “Ah,” he exclaimed, “pure flesh and blood. I feel de warm. No deception! I am pleased: for I did hear it was deception.” Lambert asked if his lady was alive, on which he replied, “No, she is dead, and (putting his finger significantly to his nose) I am not very sorry, for when I affronted her, she put me on the mantle-shelf for punishment.” The many characters that introduced themselves to Lambert’s observation in the metropolis, furnished him with a great number of anecdotes, which a retentive memory enabled him to relate with good effect. One day the room being rather crowded with company, a young man in the front, almost close to Lambert, made incessant use of one of those indispensable appendages of a modern beau, called a quizzing-glass. The conversation turned on the changes of the weather, and in what manner Lambert felt himself affected by them--“What do you dislike most?” asked the beau. “To be bored with a quizzing-glass,” was the reply. A person asking him in a very rude way the cost of one of his coats, he returned him no answer. The man repeated the question, with the observation that he thought he had a right to demand any information, having contributed his shilling, which would help to pay for Lambert’s coat as well as the rest. “Sir,” rejoined Lambert, “if I knew what part of my next coat your shilling would pay for, I can assure you I would cut out the piece.”