"What do you think," said I, "of the Baron de--, the minister of--?"

"Of him!" replied Vincent--

"'His soul
Still sits at squat, and peeps not from its hole.'"

"It is dark and bewildered--full of dim visions of the ancient regime;--it
is a bat hovering about the chambers of an old ruin. Poor, antique little
soul! but I will say nothing more about it,--

"'For who would be satirical
Upon a thing so very small'"
as the soul of the Baron de--?"


Finding Lord Vincent so disposed to the biting mood, I immediately
directed his rabies towards Mr. Aberton, for whom I had a most
inexpressible contempt.

"Aberton," said Vincent, in answer to my question, if he knew that
aimable attache--"Yes! a sort of man who, speaking of the English
embassy, says we--who sticks his best cards on his chimney-piece, and
writes himself billets-doux from duchesses. A duodecimo of 'precious
conceits,' bound in calf-skin--I know the man well; does he not dress
decently, Pelham?"

"His clothes are well made," said I; "but no man can dress well with
those hands and feet!" "Ah!" said Vincent, "I should think he went to the