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I grew indignant with this old cynic."As a reasonable ghost, come out of the other world, you don't mean," I said, "to ask me a serious opinion of Mr.Jones? His books may be very good reading for maid-servants and school-boys, but you don't ask ME to read them? As a scholar yourself you must know that--""Well, then, Robinson?"

"Robinson, I am told, has merit.I dare say; I never have been able to read his books, and can't, therefore, form any opinion about Mr.

Robinson.At least you will allow that I am not speaking in a prejudiced manner about HIM.""Ah! I see you men of letters have your cabals and jealousies, as we had in my time.There was an Irish fellow by the name of Gouldsmith, who used to abuse me; but he went into no genteel company--and faith! it mattered little, his praise or abuse.Inever was more surprised than when I heard that Mr.Irving, an American gentleman of parts and elegance, had wrote the fellow's life.To make a hero of that man, my dear sir, 'twas ridiculous!

You followed in the fashion, I hear, and chose to lay a wreath before this queer little idol.Preposterous! A pretty writer, who has turned some neat couplets.Bah! I have no patience with Master Posterity, that has chosen to take up this fellow, and make a hero of him! And there was another gentleman of my time, Mr.Thiefcatcher Fielding, forsooth! a fellow with the strength, and the tastes, and the manners of a porter! What madness has possessed you all to bow before that Calvert Butt of a man?--a creature without elegance or sensibility! The dog had spirits, certainly.I remember my Lord Bathurst praising them: but as for reading his books--ma foi, Iwould as lief go and dive for tripe in a cellar.The man's vulgarity stifles me.He wafts me whiffs of gin.Tobacco and onions are in his great coarse laugh, which choke me, pardi; and I don't think much better of the other fellow--the Scots' gallipot purveyor--Peregrine Clinker, Humphrey Random--how did the fellow call his rubbish? Neither of these men had the bel air, the bon ton, the je ne scais quoy.Pah! If I meet them in my walks by our Stygian river, I give them a wide berth, as that hybrid apothecary fellow would say.An ounce of civet, good apothecary; horrible, horrible!

The mere thought of the coarseness of those men gives me the chair de poule.Mr.Fielding, especially, has no more sensibility than a butcher in Fleet Market.He takes his heroes out of ale-house kitchens, or worse places still.And this is the person whom Posterity has chosen to honor along with me--ME! Faith, Monsieur Posterity, you have put me in pretty company, and I see you are no wiser than we were in our time.Mr.Fielding, forsooth! Mr.Tripe and Onions! Mr.Cowheel and Gin! Thank you for nothing.Monsieur Posterity!""And so," thought I, "even among these Stygians this envy and quarrelsomeness (if you will permit me the word) survive? What a pitiful meanness! To be sure, I can understand 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.Tres 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? Ioffer 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 "Hotel Dessein," where the moon was shining, and a cold supper was laid out.I forget what we had--"vol-au-vent d'oeufs de Phenix--agneau aux pistaches a la Barmecide,"--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 dressing-gown that Ishould 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 comite.""Petit comite, sir," said Mr.Sterne.