a head, were stuck
over the chimney; and round the walls several paltry, unframed
pictures, which, he observed, were all his own drawing. "What do you
think, sir, of that head in a corner, done in the manner of Grisoni?
There's the true keeping in it; it's my own face, and though there
happens to be no likeness, a countess offered me an hundred for its
fellow. I refused her, for, hang it, that would be mechanical, you
know."

The wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and a
coquette; much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She
made twenty apologies for being seen in such odious dishabille, but
hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night at the gardens
with the countess, who was excessively fond of the horns. "And, indeed,
my dear," added she, turning to her husband, "his lordship drank your
health in a bumper." "Poor Jack," cries he, "a dear good-natured
creature, I know he loves me; but I hope, my dear, you have given
orders for dinner; you need make no great preparations neither, there
are but three of us, something elegant, and little will do; a turbot,
an ortolan, or a--" "Or what do you think, my dear," interrupts the
wife, "of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a
little of my own sauce."--"The very thing," replies he, "it will eat
best with some smart bottled beer: but be sure to let's have the sauce
his grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat, that is
country all over; extreme disgusting to those who are in the least
acquainted with high life."

By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appetite to increase;
the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last never
fails of rendering us melancholy; I therefore pretended to recollect a
prior engagement, and after having shown my respect to the house,
according to the fashion of the English, by giving the old servant a
piece of money at the door, I took my leave; Mr. Tibbs assuring me that
dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in less than two hours.

CHARLES CHURCHILL.

(1731-1764.)

XLIV. THE JOURNEY.

Churchill devoted himself principally to satirical attacks upon
actors and the stage as a whole. His _Rosciad_ created quite a
panic among the disciples of Thespis, even the mighty Garrick
courting this terrible _censor morum_. His own morals were but
indifferent.

Some of my friends (for friends I must suppose
All, w