paternal direction, and had encouraged her child to sigh for every
thing short of impossibility for his gratification.

In consequence, Lisardo was placed at College upon the most
respectable footing. He wore the velvet cap, and enjoyed the rustling
of the tassels upon his silk gown, as he paraded the High street of
Oxford. But although he could translate Tacitus and Theocritus with
creditable facility, he thought it more advantageous to gratify the
cravings of his body than of his mind. He rode high-mettled horses; he
shot with a gun which would have delighted an Indian prince; he drank
freely out of cut-glasses, which were manufactured according to his
own particular taste; and wines of all colours and qualities sparkled
upon his table; he would occasionally stroll into the Bodleian Library
and Picture Gallery, in order to know whether any acquisitions had
been recently made to them; and attended the Concerts when any
performer came down from London. Yet, in the midst of all his gaiety,
Lisardo passed more sombrous than joyous hours: for when he looked
into a book, he would sometimes meet with an electrical sentence from
Cicero, Seneca, or Johnson, from which he properly inferred that life
was uncertain, and that time was given us to prepare for eternity.

He grew dissatisfied and melancholy. He scrambled through his terms;
took his degree; celebrated his anniversary of twenty-one, by
drenching his native village in ale which had been brewed at his
birth; added two wings to his father's house; launched out into coin
and picture collecting; bought fine books with fine bindings; then
sold all his coins and pictures; and, at the age of twenty-five, began
to read, and think, and act for himself.

At this crisis, he became acquainted with the circle which has already
been introduced to the reader's attention; and to which circle the
same reader may think it high time now to return.

Upon breaking up for THE DRAWING ROOM, it was amusing to behold the
vivacity of Lisardo; who, leaping about Lysander, and expressing his
high gratification at the discourse he had already heard, and his
pleasure at what he hoped yet to hear, reminded us of what Boswell has
said of Garrick, who used to flutter about Dr. Johnson, and try to
soften his severity by a thousand winning gestures.

The doors were opened; and we walked into Lorenzo's Drawing Room. The
reader is not to figure to himself a hundred fantastical and fugitive
pieces of