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stand this feeling to a certain extent; a sense of justice will prompt it.

In my own case, I often feel myself forced to protest against the absurd praises lavished on contemporaries. Yesterday, for instance, Lady Jones was good enough to praise one of my works. Très bien. But in the very next minute she began, with quite as great enthusiasm, to praise Miss Hobson's last romance. My good creature, what is that woman's praise worth who absolutely admires the writings of Miss Hobson? I offer a friend a bottle of '44 claret, fit for a pontifical supper. • This is capital wine,' says he ; and now we have finished the bottle, will you give me a bottle of that ordinaire we drank the other day?' Very well, my good man. You are a good judge - of ordinaire, I dare say. Nothing so provokes my anger, and rouses my sense of justice, as to hear other men undeservedly praised. In a word, if you wish to remain friends with me, don't praise anybody. You tell me that the Venus de’ Medici is beautiful, or Jacob Omnium is tall. Que diable ! Can't I judge for myself? Haven't I eyes and a foot-rule? I don't think the Venus is so handsome, since you press me. She is pretty, but she has no expression. And as for Mr. Omnium, I can see much taller men in a fair for twopence.” “ And so," I said, turning round to Mr. Sterne,

you are actually jealous of Mr. Fielding? O you men of letters, you men of letters! Is not the world (your world, I mean) big enough for all of you?”

I often travel in my sleep. I often of a night find myself walking in my night-gown about the gray streets. It is awkward at first, but somehow nobody makes any remark. I glide along over the ground with my naked feet. The mud does not wet them. The passers-by do not tread on them. I am wafted over the ground, down the stairs, through the doors. This sort of travelling, dear friends, I am sure you have all of you indulged.

Well, on the night in question (and, if you wish to know the precise date, it was the 31st of September last), after having some little conversation with Mr. Sterne in our bedroom, I must have got up, though I protest I don't know how, and come down stairs with him into the coffee-room of the “ Hôtel Dessein,” where the moon was shining, and a cold supper was laid out. I forget what we had “ vol-au-vent d'æufs de Phénix

-agneau aux pistaches à la Barmécide,” — what matters what we had ?

“ As regards supper this is certain, the less you have of it the better.”

That is what one of the guests remarked, - a shabby old man, in a wig, and such a dirty, ragged, disreputable dressinggown that I should have been quite surprised at him, only one never is surprised in dr— under certain circumstances.

“I can't eat 'em now,” said the greasy man (with his false old teeth, I wonder he could eat anything). “I remember Alvanley eating three suppers once at Carlton House - one night de petite comité."

Petit comité, sir," said Mr. Sterne.

“Dammy, sir, let me tell any own story my own way. I say, one night at Carlton House, playing at blind hookey with York, Wales, Tom Raikes, Prince Boothby, and Dutch Sam the boxer, Alvanley ate three suppers, and won three and twenty hundred pounds in ponies. Never saw a fellow with such an appetite, except Wales in his good time. But he destroyed the finest digestion a man ever had with maraschino, by Jove - always at it."

• Try mine," said Mr. Sterne.
"What a doosid queer box,” says Mr. Brummell.

" I had it from a Capuchin friar in this town. The box is but a horn one; but to the nose of sensibility Araby's perfume is not more delicate.”

"I call it doosid stale old rappee,” says Mr. Brummell (as for me I declare I could not smell anything at all in either of the boxes.) “Old boy in smock-frock, take a pinch ?”

The old boy in the smock-frock, as Mr. Brummell called him, was a very old man, with long white beard, wearing, not a smock-frock, but a shirt; and he had actually nothing else save a rope round his neck, which hung behind his chair in the queerest way.

* Fair sir," he said, turning to Mr. Brummell, 6 when the Prince of Wales and his father laid siege to our town

"What nonsense are you talking, old cock?” says Mr. Brummell; “ Wales was never here. His late Majesty George IV. passed through on his way to Hanover. My good man, you don't seem to know what's up at all. What is he talkin' about the siege of Calais ? I lived here fifteen years! Ought to know. What's his old name?"

"I am Master Eustace of Saint Peter's,” said the old gentleman in the shirt. “When my Lord King Edward laid siege to this city — ”

“ Laid siege to Jericho!” cries Mr. Brummell. " The old man is cracked - cracked, sir!” “ – Laid siege to this city," continued the old man,

"I and


five more promised Messire Gautier de Mauny that we would give ourselves up as ransom for the place.

And we before our Lord King Edward, attired as you see, and the fair queen begged our lives out of her gramercy.'

Queen, nonsense! you mean the Princess of Wales pretty woman, petit nez retroussé, grew monstrous stout !” suggested Mr. Brummell, whose reading was evidently not extensive. " Sir Sidney Smith was a fine fellow, great talker, hook nose, so has Lord Cochrane, so has Lord Wellington. She was very sweet on Sir Sidney.”

“ Your acquaintance with the history of Calais does not seem to be considerable,” said Mr. Sterne to Mr. Brummell, with a shrug.

" Don't it, bishop? for I conclude you are a bishop by your wig. I know Calais as well as any man. I lived here for years before I took that confounded consulate at Caen. Lived in this hotel, then at Leleux's. People ed to stop bere. Good fellows used to ask for poor George Brummell ; Hertford did, so did the Duchess of Devonshire. Not know Calais indeed! That is a good joke. Had many a good dinner here: sorry I ever left it."

My Lord King Edward,” chirped the queer old gentleman in the shirt, “ colonized the place with his English, after we had yielded it up to him. I have heard tell they kept it for nigh three hundred years, till my Lord de Guise took it from a fair Queen, Mary of blessed memory, a holy woman. Eh, but Sire Gautier of Mauny was a good knight, a valiant captain, gentle and courteous withal! Do you remember his ransoming the —?”

" What is the old fellow twaddlin' about?” cries Brummell. “ He is talking about some knight? – I never spoke to a knight, and very seldom to a baronet. Firkins, my butterman, was a knight- - a knight and alderman. Wales knighted him once on going into the City.”

“ I am not surprised that the gentleman should not understand Messire Eustace of St. Peter's," said the ghostly individual addressed as Mr. Sterne. "Your reading doubtless has not been very extensive?”

“Dammy, sir, speak for yourself !” cries Mr. Brummell, testily. “I never professed to be a reading man, but I was as good as my neighbors. Wales wasn't a reading man ; York wasn't a reading man ; Clarence wasn't a reading man; Sussex was, but he wasn't a man in society. I remember reading your • Sentimental Journey,' old boy : read it to the Duchess at Beauvoir, I recollect, and she cried over it. Doosid clever amusing, book, and does you great credit. Birron wrote doosid clever books, too; so did Monk Lewis. George Spencer was an elegant poet, and my dear Duchess of Devonshire, if she had not been a grande dame, would have beat 'em all, by George. Wales couldn't write: he could sing, but he couldn't spell.”

Ah, you know the great world? so did I in my time, Mr. Brummell. I have had the visiting tickets of half the nobility at my lodgings in Bond Street. But they left me there no more cared for than last year's calendar,” sighed Mr. Sterne. “I wonder who is the mode in London now? One of our late arrivals, my Lord Macaulay, has prodigious merit and learning, and, faith, his histories are more amusing than any novels, my own included.”

“Don't know, I'm sure ; not in my line. Pick this bone of chicken,” says Mr. Brummell, trifling with a skeleton bird before him.

"I remember in this city of Calais worse fare than yon bird,” said old Mr. Eustace of Saint Peter's. “Marry, sirs, when my Lord King Edward laid siege to us, lucky was he who could get a slice of horse for his breakfast, and a rat was sold at the price of a hare.”

* Hare is coarse food, never tasted rat,” remarked the Beau. " Table-d’hôte poor fare enough for a man like me, who has been accustomed to the best of cookery. But rat – stifle me! I couldn't swallow that: never could bear hardship at all.”

“We had to bear enough when my Lord of England pressed us. 'Twas pitiful to see the faces of our women as the siege went on, and hear the little ones asking for dinner.”

"Always a bore, children. At dessert, they are bad enough, but at dinner they're the deuce and all,” remarked Mr. Brummell.

Messire Eustace of St. Peter's did not seem to pay much attention to the Beau's remarks, but continued his own train of thought as old men will do.

" I hear,” said he, “ that there has actually been no war between us of France and you men of England for wellnigh fifty Tear. Ours has ever been a nation of warriors. And besides her regular found men-at-arms, 'tis said the English of the present time have more than a hundred thousand of archers with weapons that will carry for half a mile. And a multitude have come amongst us of late from a great Western country, never so much as heard of in my time — valiant men and great drawers of the long bow, and they say they have ships in armor that no shot can penetrate. Is it so? Wonderful; wonderful! The best armor, gossips, is a stout heart.”

“And if ever manly heart beat under shirt-frill, thine is that heart, Sir Eustace!” cried Mr. Sterne, enthusiastically.

• We, of France, were never accused of lack of courage, sir, in so far as I know,” said Messire Eustace. · We have shown as much in a thousand wars with you English by sea and land; and sometimes we conquered, and sometimes, as is the fortune of war, we were discomfited. And notably in a great sea-fight which befell off Ushant on the first of June Our Amiral, Messire Villaret de Joyeuse, on board his galleon named the • Vengeur,' being sore pressed by an English bombard, rather than yield the crew of his ship to mercy, determined to go down with all on board of her: and to the cry of Vive la Répub- or, I would say, of Notre Dame à la Rescousse, he and his crew all sank to an imunortal grave

“Sir,” said I, looking with amazement at the old gentleman, “ surely, surely, there is some mistake in your statement. Permit me to observe that the action of the first of June took place five hundred years after your time, and

“ Perhaps I am confusing my dates," said the old gentleman, with a faint blush. “You say I am mixing up the transactions of my time on earth with the story of my successors? It may be so. We take no count of a few centuries more or less in our dwelling by the darkling Stygian river. Of late, there came amongst us a good knight, Messire de Cambronne, who fought against you English in the country of Flanders, being captain of the guard of my Lord the King of France, in a famous battle where you English would have been utterly routed but for the succor of the Prussian heathen. This Mes. sire de Cambronne, when bidden to yield by you of England, answered this, “The guard dies but never surrenders ; ' and fought a long time afterwards, as became a good knight. In our wars with you of England it may have pleased the Fates to give you the greater success, but on our side, also, there has been no lack of brave deeds performed by brave men.”

“ King Edward may have been the victor, sir, as being the strongest, but you are the hero of the siege of Calais !” cried Mr. Sterne. “Your story is sacred, and your name has been blessed for five hundred years.

Wherever men speak of patriotism and sacrifice, Eustace of Saint Pierre shall be beloved and remembered. I prostrate myself before the bare feet which stood before King Edward. What collar of chivalry is to be

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