s engaged in a great work,
which, though written in his taking prose, was to be really the epogee
of social life in this country. Dining out every day, and ever arriving,
however late, at those "small and earlies," which he once despised;
he gave to his friends frequent intimations that he was not there for
pleasure, but rather following his profession; he was in his studio,
observing and reflecting on all the passions and manners of mankind, and
gathering materials for the great work which was eventually to enchant
and instruct society, and immortalise his name.

"The fact is, I wrote too early," he would say. "I blush when I read my
own books, though compared with those of the brethren, they might still
be looked on as classics. They say no artist can draw a camel, and I say
no author ever drew a gentleman. How can they, with no opportunity of
ever seeing one? And so with a little caricature of manners, which
they catch second-hand, they are obliged to have recourse to outrageous
nonsense, as if polished life consisted only of bigamists, and that
ladies of fashion were in the habit of paying black mail to returned
convicts. However, I shall put an end to all this. I have now got the
materials, or am accumulating them daily. You hint that I give myself up
too much to society. You are talking of things you do not understand. A
dinner party is a chapter. I catch the Cynthia of the minute, sir, at
a _soiree_. If I only served a grateful country, I should be in the
proudest position of any of its sons; if I had been born in any country
but this, I should have been decorated, and perhaps made secretary of
state like Addison, who did not write as well as I do, though his style
somewhat resembles mine."

Notwithstanding these great plans, it came in time to Endymion's ear,
that poor St. Barbe was in terrible straits. Endymion delicately helped
him and then obtained for him a pension, and not an inconsiderable one.
Relieved from anxiety, St. Barbe resumed his ancient and natural vein.
He passed his days in decrying his friend and patron, and comparing his
miserable pension with the salary of a secretary of state, who, so
far as his experience went, was generally a second-rate man. Endymion,
though he knew St. Barbe was always decrying him, only smiled, and
looked upon it all as the necessary consequence of his organisation,
which involved a singular combination of vanity and envy in the
highest degree. St. Barbe was not less