from the mortifying condition of an humble valet to the important charge of a private tutor, let us discard all distance between us. See me ready to slake my thirst at your fountain of knowledge, my Magnus Apollo.

Pap. Here, then, disclose my Helicon to my poetical pupil.

Young W. Hey, Papillion?

Pap. Sir?

Young W. What is this?-why you speak English?
Pap. Without doubt.

Young W. But like a native?

Pap, To be sure.

Young W. And what am I to conclude from this?

Pap. But to be better understood, I believe it will be necessary to give you a short sketch of the principal incidents of my life.

Young W. Pr'ythee do.

Pap. Why, then, you are to know, sir, that my former situation has been rather above my present condition ; having once sustained the dignity of sub-preceptor to one of those cheap rural academies in which our county of Yorkshire is so plentifully stocked.

Young W. Why this disguise? - Why renounce your country?

Pap. There, sir, you make a little mistake; it was my country that renounced me.

Young W. Explain.

Pap. In an instant. Upon quitting the school and coming to town, I got recommended to the compiler of the Monthly Review.

Young W. What an author too?

Pap. Oh, a voluminous one; a whole region of the belles lettres fell under my inspection; physics, divinity, mathematics, my mistress managed herself. There, sir, like another Aristarch, I dealt out fame and ruin at pleasure. In obedience to the caprice and command of my master, I have condemned books I never read, and applauded the fidelity of a translation without understanding a syllable of the original. But it would not answer. Notwithstanding what we say, people will judge for themselves; our work hung upon hand, and all I could get from

the publisher was four shillings a week and my small beer. Poor pittance!

Young W. Poor indeed! What was your next change? Pap. I was mightily puzzled to choose, when chance threw an old friend in my way, which quite retrieved my affairs.

Young W. Pray who might he be?

Pap. A little bit of a Swiss genius, who had been French Usher with me at the same school in the country. I opened my melancholy story to him over three pennyworth of à-la-mode beef, in a cellar in St. Ann's. My little foreign friend, pursed up his lanthorn jaws, and with a shrug of contempt, said, "Ah! Maitre Jean,-vous n'avez pas la politique ;—you have no finesse :-to thrive here, you must study the folly of your own country." 'How, monsieur ?" "Taisez vous;—keep a your tongue. Autrefois I teach you speak French, now I teach you to forget English. vid me to my logement, I vil give you proper dress ;—den go present yourself to de same hotels,-de very same house,-you vil find all de doors dat was shut in your face as footman Anglais, vil fly open demselves to a French valet-de-chambre!"

Young W. Well, Papillion.

Go

Pap. Gad, sir, I thought it was but an honest artifice, so I determined to follow my friend's advice.

Young W. Did it succeed?

Pap. Better than expectation. My tawny face, long queue, and broken English, was a passe-partout. Besides, when I am out of place, this disguise procures me many

resources.

Young W. How?

But

Pap. Why, at a pinch, sir, I am either a teacher of tongues, a friseur, -a dentist,— ‚—or a dancing master :these, sir, are hereditary professions to Frenchmen. now, sir, to the point-as you were pleased to be so candid with me, I was determined to have no reserve with you. You have studied books,—I have studied men ;—you want advice, and I have some at your service.

Young W. Proceed.

Pap. You will pardon my presumption, but you have, my good master, one little foible that I could wish you to

correct.

Young W. What is it?

Pap. You have, sir, a lively imagination, -with a most happy turn for invention.

Young W. Well?

Pap. But now and then in your narratives you are hurried by a flow of spirits to border upon the improbablea little given to the marvellous.

Young V. I understand you;-that I am somewhat given to lying.

Pap. Oh! pardon me, sir, I don't say that. No! no! only a little apt to embellish, that's all:-and yet this talent of yours is the very soul and spirit of poetry; and why it should not be the same in prose I can't, for my life, determine.

Young W. You would advise me, then, not to be quite so poetical in prose.

Pap. Why, sir, if you would descend a little to the grovelling comprehension of the million, I think it would be as well.

Young W. I believe you are right. But we shall be late, d'ye hear, Papillion? If at any time you find me too poetical, give me a hint, your advice shall not be thrown away. FOOTE.

THE POOR GENTLEMAN.

SIR CHARLES CROPLAND and WARNER.

I am

War. Your honour is right welcome into Kent. proud to see Sir Charles Cropland on his estate again. I hope you mean to stay on the spot for some time, Sir Charles?

Sir Cha. A very tedious time. Three days, Mr. Warner. War. Ah, good sir! things would prosper better if you honoured us with your presence a little more. I wish you lived entirely upon the estate, Sir Charles.

Sir Cha. Thank you, good Warner; but men of fashion

find it very hard to live upon their estates.

War. The country about you so charming!

Sir Cha. Look ye, Warner, I must hunt in Leicestershire; for that's the thing. In the frosts and the spring months I must be in town at the clubs; for that's the thing. In summer I must be at the watering-places; for that's the thing. Now, Warner, under these circumstances, how is it possible for me to reside upon my estate ? For my estate being in Kent

War. The most beautiful part of the country.

Sir Cha. Hang beauty! we don't mind that in Leicestershire. My estate, I say, being in Kent

War. A land of milk and honey!

Sir Cha. I hate milk and honey.

War. A land of fat!

Sir Cha. Hang your fat! listen to me—my estate being in Kent

War. So woody?

Sir Cha. Hang the wood! No-that's wrong. it's convenient; I am come on purpose to cut it.

For

War. Ah! I was afraid so! Dice on the table, and then the axe to the root! Money lost at play; and then, good lack the forest groans for it.

Sir Ch. But you are not the forest, and why the deuce do you groan for it?

War. I heartily wish, Sir Charles, you may not encumber the goodly estate. Your worthy ancestors had views for

their posterity.

Sir Cha. And I shall have views for my posterity; I shall take 'special care the trees shan't intercept their prospect.

Enter SERVANT.

Serv. Mr. Ollapod, the Charles, to enquire after

apothecary, is in the hall, Sir your health.

He

Sir Cha. Show him in. [Exit SERVANT.] The fellow's a character, and treats time as he does his patients. shall kill a quarter of an hour for me, this morning. In short, Mr. Warner, I must have three thousand pounds in three days. Fell timber to that amount, immediately. 'Tis my peremptory order, sir.

War. I shall obey you, Sir Charles; but with a heavy

heart! Forgive an old servant of the family, if he grieves to see you forget some of the duties for which society has a claim upon you.

Sir Cha. What do you mean by duties?

War. Duties, Sir Charles, which the extravagant man of fashion can never fulfil. Such as to support the dignity of an English landholder, for the honour of old England; to promote the welfare of his honest tenants; and to succour the industrious poor, who naturally look up to him for assistance. But I shall obey you, Sir Charles. [Exit. Sir Cha. A tiresome old blockhead! But where is this Ollapod His jumble of physic and shooting may enliven Ha! Ollapod!

me.

Enter OLLAPOD.

Olla. Sir Charles, I have the honour to be your slave. Hope your health is good. Been a hard winter here. Sore throats were plenty; so were woodcocks. Flushed four couple, in a half-mile walk from our town, to cure Mrs. Quarles of a quinsey. May coming on soon, Sir Charles -season of delight, love, and campaigning! Hope you come to sojourn Sir Charles. Should n't be always on the wing - that's being too flighty. He he he! take, good sir?. Do you take?

Do you

Sir Cha. O yes, I take. But, by the cockade in your hat, Ollapod, you have added lately, it seems, to your avocations.

Olla. He! he! yes, Sir Charles, I have now the honour to be cornet in the volunteer association corps of our town. It fell out unexpected-pop on a sudden-like the going off of a field-piece, or an alderman in an apoplexy!

Sir Cha. Explain.

Olla. Happening to be at home-rainy day—no going out to sport, blister, shoot, nor bleed-was busy behind the counter-you know my shop, Sir Charles-Galen's head over the door-new gilt him last week, by-the-bye-looks as fresh as a pill.

Sir Cha. Well, no more on that head now-proceed. Olla. On that head! he he he! That's very well, very well, indeed! Thank you, good sir, I owe you one.