He is an exquisite in personal appearance and mental conformation. What ‘Poor Yorick’ said of Dr. Slop and his pony, ‘that he never saw a better fit in his life,’ might with equal propriety be predicated of this gentleman’s mind and body. ‘Il Pulito’--for such is his appellative, drawn from his own favorite Italian--possesses all the accomplishments of person and intellect, which are essential to the perfection of a fine gentleman in this most fastidious age. He has a _very general_ knowledge of ancient literature, and can _talk_ fluently about French, Spanish, Italian, and what not; but should one descend to _particulars_, he is most wofully ignorant, or, as he calls it, _forgetful_. Dante, and Tasso, and Schiller, and Richter, are names ever on his lips; but of any just conception of their character, and their works, he is totally innocent. In truth, his high pretensions will hardly bear a strict examination, except in one particular. His knowledge of English literature is thorough and extensive. He has drunk deep of those well-springs of beauty and truth, the ‘Old English prose writers,’ lingered long about the haunts of our vernacular Castalia, and plunged over head and ears in the muddy pool of ‘transient literature.’ He is at no loss for an opinion--most commonly a correct one, too, upon Lord Bolingbroke, or Captain Marryatt--gentle Philip Sydney, or Porcupine Cobbett--the cacophonous Chaucer, or the sweetly sentimental ‘L. E. L.’ With such attainments, and a certain seductive grace in language and manners, Il Pulito is a most agreeable _collaborateur_ in our nocturnal toils. Were we to omit altogether a passing notice of his _external_ recommendations, and a sly hint at some of his ‘labors of love,’ he would never forgive us! for on these he prides himself incontinently. I would not hint that all his self-complacency is absorbed in dress--yet he certainly _peacocks himself_, as the Italians say, when he throws back the collar of his coat, displaying thereby a fair round chest, from the middle of whose glossy, _dipectoral_ envelope glitters the golden symbol of _craniossal_ love. Dancing, music, drawing, and all the other _equivocal_ graces of ‘the gentleman,’ are as ‘familiar things’ to him. He can give you a masterly criticism on a pretty foot, or a well turned arm, and has caused alarming symptoms of a disease of the heart in more than one of ‘Nature’s fair defects.’ I have often known the fellow fling his dark locks around his brow in clustering beauty, and saunter with _unstudied_ carelessness among some half dozen of his fair acquaintance, while the graceful dignity of his carriage, the significance of his tone, and the eloquence of his eye, sent to the innocent young heart a disturbing thrill, and called to the cheek a warm flush of unconscious pleasure. Then, too, how perfect he is at turning a sonnet. Il Pulito is a fine tasteful fellow, with a slight touch of the dandy. In our coterie, however, he keeps his coxcombry,