"I know nothing so insipid," said I, "as that mock literary air which it
is so much the fashion to assume. 'Tis but a wearisome relief to
conversation to have interludes of songs about Strephon and Sylvia,
recited with a lisp by a gentleman with fringed gloves and a languishing
look."

"Fie on it," cried Tarleton, "let us seek for a fresher topic. Are you
asked to Abigail Masham's to-night, or will you come to Dame de la
Riviere Manley's?"

"Dame de la what?--in the name of long words who is she?"

"Oh! Learning made libidinous: one who reads Catullus and profits by
it."

"Bah, no, we will not leave the gentle Abigail for her. I have promised
to meet St. John, too, at the Mashams'."

"As you like. We shall get some wine at Abigail's, which we should
never do at the house of her cousin of Marlborough."

And, comforting himself with this belief, Tarleton peaceably accompanied
me to that celebrated woman, who did the Tories such notable service, at
the expense of being termed by the Whigs one great want divided into two
parts; namely, a great want of every shilling belonging to other people,
and a great want of every virtue that should have belonged to herself.
As we mounted the staircase, a door to the left (a private apartment)
was opened, and I saw the favourite dismiss, with the most flattering
air of respect, my old preceptor, the Abbe Montreuil. He received her