"I do not know anything about that, I only allude to the folly of a strong young man like Charles Bentinck, sitting down to his muffins and eggs in a state of perfect health, and, with his mouth crammed full of both, calling for half a sheet of paper to write to Lady Abdy, that he was, at that present writing, about to die! and therefore took up his pen, to request her to be kind to his daughter Georgiana when he should be no more!" "I do not set up for a remarkably clever fellow," Fred Bentinck observed; "but if I had made such a fool of myself as Charles did in that business, I would blow my brains out!" "You are helping him out of it nicely," Brummell observed to Fred Bentinck. "I have no patience with people who expose themselves," continued Fred Bentinck; "because it is in everybody's power to be silent: and, as to love-letters, a man has no excuse for writing them." "There's no wisdom below the girdle, some philosopher said in old times," I remarked. "I wish I could break you of that dreadful habit of making such indecent allusions, Harriette!" said Fred Bentinck. "I never make them to any one but you." "I'll give you ten pounds if you will let me burn this book," said Bentinck, taking up Fanblas. "In the meantime," I continued, "you seem to be glancing your eye over it with something like satisfaction, for a man, such as the Duke of York describes, of unblemished reputation for chastity! But, to revert to your brother's dying, with the hot muffins in his mouth, for Lady Abdy. Would not a man, who really and seriously had made up his mind to die for love, have written a little note and, after sealing it with a death's head or something of that kind, have hidden it somewhere, to be delivered when he should be defunct--instead of talking of death, like Shakespeare's '----certain Lord, neat and trimly dress'd, Fresh as a bridegroom and his chin new reap'd.'" "Thank God," said Fred Bentinck, laughing, "I shall never be in love!" "Why you adore me, and have done so for the last twelvemonth," said I; "but I want you to transfer your love to a friend of mine." "Do Fred," said Brummell, taking up his hat, "moderate your passion if possible, and be sure to burn those leather breeches of yours." "I want you," continued I, after Brummell had left us, "I want you to fall in love with Julia Johnstone." "She is a fine woman," answered Fred Bentinck; "only I am so afraid she should love me in return; and if you, Julia, or any woman were to love me, I should be sick directly." "How do you know?" I asked; "who on earth ever tried you that way?" "Why, there was a woman six years ago," said Frederick, "who certainly did love me." "How very extraordinary!" I remarked. "At least," continued Bentinck, "she gave me such proofs as no man could doubt, and I assure you I was never so sick, or so disgusted, in my whole life; and so I am now whenever I happen to meet her."