ned as it was, in a most pernicious
sauce. I had one hour's sleep, and the nightmare, in consequence.
The next day, I imagined no mistake could be made: sauce was strictly
prohibited; all extra ingredients laid under a most special veto, and
a natural gravy gently recommended: the cover was removed, and lo! a
breast of mutton, all bone and gristle, like the dying gladiator! This
time my heart was too full for wrath; I sat down and wept! To-day will
be the third time I shall make the experiment, if French cooks will
consent to let one starve upon nature. For my part, I have no stomach
left now for art: I wore out my digestion in youth, swallowing Jack St.
Leger's suppers, and Sheridan's promises to pay. Pray, Mr. Pelham, did
you try Staub when you were at Paris?"

"Yes; and thought him one degree better than Stultz, whom, indeed, I
have long condemned, as fit only for minors at Oxford, and majors in the
infantry."

"True," said Russelton, with a very faint smile at a pun, somewhat in
his own way, and levelled at a tradesman, of whom he was, perhaps, a
little jealous--"True; Stultz aims at making gentlemen, not coats; there
is a degree of aristocratic pretension in his stitches, which is vulgar
to an appalling degree. You can tell a Stultz coat any where, which is
quite enough to damn it: the moment a man's known by an invariable cut,
and that not original, it ought to be all over with him. Give me the man
who makes the tailor, not the tailor who makes the man."

"Right, by G--!" cried Sir Willoughby, who was as badly dressed as one
of Sir E--'s dinners. "Right; just my opinion. I have always told my
Schneiders to make my clothes neither in the fashion nor out of it; to
copy no other man's coat, and to cut their cloth according to my natural
body, not according to an isosceles triangle. Look at this coat, for
instance," and Sir Willoughby Townshend made a dead halt, that we might
admire his garment the more accurately.

"Coat!" said Russelton, with an appearance of the most naive surprise,
and taking hold of the collar, suspiciously, by the finger and thumb;
"coat, Sir Willoughby! do you call this thing a coat?"

CHAPTER XXXIII.

J'ai toujours cru que le bon n'etait que le beau mis en action.
--Rousseau.

Shortly after Russelton's answer to Sir Willoughby's eulogistic
observations on his own attire, I left those two worthies till I was
to join them at dinner; it wanted three hours yet to that time, and I
re