--Mirglip the Persian, in the "Tales of the Genii."

I woke the next morning with an aching head and feverish frame. Ah, those
midnight carousals, how glorious they would be if there was no next
morning! I took my sauterne and sodawater in my dressing-room; and, as
indisposition always makes me meditative, I thought over all I had done
since my arrival at Paris. I had become (that, God knows, I soon manage
to do) rather a talked of and noted character. It is true that I was
every where abused--one found fault with my neckcloth--another with my
mind--the lank Mr. Aberton declared that I put my hair in papers, and the
stuffed Sir Henry Millington said I was a thread-paper myself. One blamed
my riding--a second my dancing--a third wondered how any woman could like
me, and a fourth said that no woman ever could.

On one point, however, all--friends and foes--were alike agreed; viz.
that I was a consummate puppy, and excessively well satisfied with
myself. A la verite, they were not much mistaken there. Why is it, by the
by, that to be pleased with one's-self is the surest way of offending
every body else? If any one, male or female, an evident admirer of his or
her own perfections, enter a room, how perturbed, restless, and unhappy
every individual of the offender's sex instantly becomes: for them not
only enjoyment but tranquillity is over, and if they could annihilate the
unconscious victim of their spleen, I fully believe no Christian
toleration would come in the way of that last extreme of animosity. For a
coxcomb there is no mercy--for a coquet no pardon. They are, as it were,
the dissenters of society--no crime is too bad to be imputed to them;
they do not believe the religion of others--they set up a deity of their
own vanity--all the orthodox vanities of others are offended. Then comes
the bigotry--the stake--the auto-da-fe of scandal. What, alas! is so
implacable as the rage of vanity? What so restless as its persecution?