air
play and have been not a little proud of the society he kept; yet, I
promise you, that, exalted as it was, there was no set of men in Europe
who knew how to rob more genteelly, to bubble a stranger, to bribe
a jockey, to doctor a horse, or to arrange a betting-book. Even _I_
couldn't stand against these accomplished gamesters of the highest
families in Europe. Was it my own want of style, or my want of fortune?
I know not. But now I was arrived at the height of my ambition, both
my skill and my luck seemed to be deserting me. Everything I touched
crumbled in my hand; every speculation I had failed, every agent I
trusted deceived me. I am, indeed, one of those born to make, and not to
keep fortunes; for the qualities and energy which lead a man to effect
the first are often the very causes of his ruin in the latter case:
indeed, I know of no other reason for the misfortunes which finally
befell me. [Footnote: The Memoirs seem to have been written about the
year 1814, in that calm retreat which Fortune had selected for the
author at the close of his life.]

I had always a taste for men of letters, and perhaps, if the truth must
be told, have no objection to playing the fine gentleman and patron
among the wits. Such people are usually needy, and of low birth, and
have an instinctive awe and love of a gentleman and a laced coat; as all
must have remarked who have frequented their society. Mr. Reynolds, who
was afterwards knighted, and certainly the most elegant painter of
his day, was a pretty dexterous courtier of the wit tribe; and it was
through this gentleman, who painted a piece of me, Lady Lyndon, and
our little Bryan, which was greatly admired at the Exhibition (I
was represented as quitting my wife, in the costume of the Tippleton
Yeomanry, of which I was major; the child starting back from my helmet
like what-d'ye-call'im--Hector's son, as described by Mr. Pope in his
'Iliad'); it was through Mr. Reynolds that I was introduced to a score
of these gentlemen, and their great chief, Mr. Johnson. I always thought
their great chief a great bear. He drank tea twice or thrice at my
house, misbehaving himself most grossly; treating my opinions with no
more respect than those of a schoolboy, and telling me to mind my
horses and tailors, and not trouble myself about letters. His Scotch
bear-leader, Mr. Boswell, was a butt of the first quality. I never saw
such a figure as the fellow cut in what he called a Corsican habit