_Pulito._ “Ha! ha! One would think from that long array of ‘instances,’ that you were really a ‘man of travel,’ and were perfectly at home in St. James’ Square or the Rue de St. Honorie.” _Nescio._ “I have heard of them, which is just as well.” _Apple._ “Do you know, friend Quod, that we do wrong in drinking coffee so transparent?” _Nescio._ “No! how, I pray? Instruct us.” _Apple._ “Why, we ought always to see the _grounds_ of what we imbibe.” _Pulito._ “Oh! spare us, incorrigible wretch. ‘Wilt never cease?’” _Nescio._ “How long were you loading that gun, Apple?” _Apple._ “Rest you content, _fair_ sir. ’Twas an _improvisation_--a direct inspiration from Mercury.” _Nescio._ “The _mercury_ must have been some degrees below zero, I should guess.” _Apple._ “Oh! most miserable! (Puff.) Physician, heal thyself. You are like the man that preached against dishonesty with a stolen shilling in his pocket.” _Pulito._ “Cease this ‘childish treble’--take another cup of coffee, and then tell me what you think of ‘Tristram Shandy,’ which I have found lying here on the sofa, ‘dejected and alone.’” _Apple._ “Think of it? (Puff.) What should I think of it, but that it’s the finest book in the world? I prefer it to both Swift and Smollett.” _Nescio._ “Well, now, in candor, I do not like it very much, nor did I ever. I have sometimes stared at his strange conceits, and laughed at his queer conjunctions, and been, in a few instances, actually ravished by his beauty and his _naturalness_. But, then, look at the astounding proofs of his thievish propensities--at his plagiarisms from Rabelais, which were traced out by his English bloodhound; and, whether original or borrowed, look at his tedious and fruitless wanderings, enlivened, it is true, by conceptions as beautiful as they are new, yet putting one out of patience and out of breath.” _Apple._ (Puff.) “‘Cease: no more. You smell this business with a sense as cold As is a dead man’s nose.’ I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Quod. You and I must part if you say any thing prejudicial to my beloved Laurence. Shakspeare, Fielding and Sterne are my favorites _par eminence_, and ‘let my tongue cleave,’ (puff)--‘let my right hand forget,’ (puff)--if I do not defend them till--my last cigar--that is, in a quiet way, by swearing to my belief, which is as firm as the laws of the Medes, or the determination of a pig. As for logic, hang your silly syllogisms--hem!--I would not _argue_ the point, if Sterne were my grandfather.” _Nescio._ “Well, if you will not defend him, perhaps Tristo will. What say you?” _Tristo._ “Oh! There are parts and passages of glorious beauty! The episodes of the Monk, Maria, and the dead Ass--I confess it--draw tears at the bare remembrance.” _Nescio._ “Yes--but those are in the Sentimental Journey.”