“Willingly,” said I; and we sauntered
forth into the streets.
“Wills’s is not what it was,” said
Tarleton; “’tis a pitiful ghost of its
former self, and if they had not introduced cards,
one would die of the vapours there.”
“I know nothing so insipid,” said I, “as
that mock literary air which it is so much the fashion
to assume. ’Tis but a wearisome relief to
conversation to have interludes of songs about Strephon
and Sylvia, recited with a lisp by a gentleman with
fringed gloves and a languishing look.”
“Fie on it,” cried Tarleton, “let
us seek for a fresher topic. Are you asked to
Abigail Masham’s to-night, or will you come to
Dame de la Riviere Manley’s?”
“Dame de la what?—in the name of
long words who is she?”
“Oh! Learning made libidinous: one
who reads Catullus and profits by it.”
“Bah, no, we will not leave the gentle Abigail
for her. I have promised to meet St. John, too,
at the Mashams’.”
“As you like. We shall get some wine at
Abigail’s, which we should never do at the house
of her cousin of Marlborough.”
And, comforting himself with this belief, Tarleton
peaceably accompanied me to that celebrated woman,
who did the Tories such notable service, at the expense
of being termed by the Whigs one great want divided
into two parts; namely, a great want of every shilling
belonging to other people, and a great want of every
virtue that should have belonged to herself.
As we mounted the staircase, a door to the left (a
private apartment) was opened, and I saw the favourite
dismiss, with the most flattering air of respect,
my old preceptor, the Abbe Montreuil. He received
her attentions as his due, and, descending the stairs,
came full upon me. He drew back, changed neither
hue nor muscle, bowed civilly enough, and disappeared.
I had not much opportunity to muse over this circumstance,
for St. John and Mr. Domville—excellent
companions both—joined us; and the party
being small, we had the unwonted felicity of talking,
as well as bowing, to each other. It was impossible
to think of any one else when St. John chose to exert
himself; and so even the Abbe Montreuil glided out
of my brain as St. John’s wit glided into it.
We were all of the same way of thinking on politics,
and therefore were witty without being quarrelsome,—a
rare thing. The trusty Abigail told us stories
of the good Queen, and we added bons mots by
way of corollary. Wine, too, wine that even Tarleton
approved, lit up our intellects, and we spent altogether
an evening such as gentlemen and Tories very seldom
have the sense to enjoy.
O Apollo! I wonder whether Tories of the next
century will be such clever, charming, well-informed
fellows as we were!
AN INTELLECTUAL ADVENTURE.
A LITTLE affected by the vinous potations which had
been so much an object of anticipation with my companion,
Tarleton and I were strolling homeward when we perceived
a remarkably tall man engaged in a contest with a
couple of watchmen. Watchmen were in all cases
the especial and natural enemies of the gallants in
my young days; and no sooner did we see the unequal
contest than, drawing our swords with that true English
valour which makes all the quarrels of other people
its own, we hastened to the relief of the weaker party.
