criticism can reach; he covers himself in a triple hide of vanity,
ostentation, and disdain; he hails himself continually as the unaided
Saviour of his country, and dies in the odour of braggadocio, without
a genuine friend to mourn his loss.

[Illustration]

Or, again, you select some common, smug-faced Clergyman, capable, no
doubt, if he were left alone, of guiding his flock quietly into the
strait paths of goodness and humility. You turn him into a loud-voiced
Clerical quack, vending his wretched patent medicines of salvation
in a style of offensive denunciation that would have ruined a host of
Dulcamaras, trained in the insinuating methods of the ordinary trade.
But on this the Clergyman thrives, and weak women fall prostrate
before his roaring insincerity.

Nor do you neglect the young. Heavens! I remember I was once favoured
with the confidences of WILLIAM JOSKINS BACON, an Undergraduate,
generally known to his intimates as "Side of Bacon." I shudder
to recollect how that amazing creature discoursed to me about his
popularity, his influence, his surprising deeds both of valour and of
discretion. With one nod--and, as he spoke, he gave me an illustration
of his Olympian method--he had awed his Head-master--a present
ornament of the Bench of Bishops--into a terrified silence, from which
he recovered only to bless the name of JOSKINS, and hold him up as a
pattern to his schoolfellows. At a single phrase of scorn from those
redoubtable lips, his College Tutor had withered into acquiescence,
and had never dared to refuse him an _exeat_ from that day forth. "I
can't help pitying the beggar," said JOSKINS--"but I had to do it.
You must make these fellows feel you're their master, or they'll never