n, constitutes the scientific perfection of
modern music), and could warble a fashionable love-ditty with
considerable affectation of feeling: besides this, he was always
extremely well dressed, and was heir-apparent to an estate of ten
thousand a-year. The influence which the latter consideration might
have on the minds of the majority of his female acquaintance, whose
morals had been formed by the novels of such writers as Miss Philomela
Poppyseed, did not once enter into his calculation of his own personal
attractions. Relying, therefore, on past success, he determined _to
appeal to his fortune_, and already, in imagination, considered
himself sole lord and master of the affections of the beautiful
Cephalis.

Mr Escot and Mr Foster were the only two of the party who had entered
the library (to which the ladies had retired, and which was interior
to the music-room) in a state of perfect sobriety. Mr Escot had placed
himself next to the beautiful Cephalis: Mr Cranium had laid aside much
of the terror of his frown; the short craniological conversation,
which had passed between him and Mr Escot, had softened his heart in
his favour; and the copious libations of Burgundy in which he had
indulged had smoothed his brow into unusual serenity.

Mr Foster placed himself near the lovely Caprioletta, whose artless
and innocent conversation had already made an impression on his
susceptible spirit.

The Reverend Doctor Gaster seated himself in the corner of a sofa near
Miss Philomela Poppyseed. Miss Philomela detailed to him the plan of a
very moral and aristocratical novel she was preparing for the press,
and continued holding forth, with her eyes half shut, till a
long-drawn nasal tone from the reverend divine compelled her suddenly
to open them in all the indignation of surprise. The cessation of the
hum of her voice awakened the reverend gentleman, who, lifting up
first one eyelid, then the other, articulated, or rather murmured,
"Admirably planned, indeed!"

"I have not quite finished, sir," said Miss Philomela, bridling. "Will
you have the goodness to inform me where I left off?"

The doctor hummed a while, and at length answered: "I think you had
just laid it down as a position, that a thousand a-year is an
indispensable ingredient in the passion of love, and that no man, who
is not so far gifted by _nature_, can reasonably presume to feel that
passion himself, or be correctly the object of it with a well-educated
fe