n I wanted
to be well with; who supplanted me in the good graces of my patron.
I don't say anything about the matter: but, my poor old enemy, in my
secret mind I have movements of as tender charity towards you, you
old scoundrel, as ever I had when we were boys together at school. You
ruffian! do you fancy I forget that we were fond of each other? We are
still. We share our toffy; go halves at the tuck-shop; do each other's
exercises; prompt each other with the word in construing or repetition;
and tell the most frightful fibs to prevent each other from being found
out. We meet each other in public. Ware a fight! Get them into different
parts of the room! Our friends hustle round us. Capulet and Montague are
not more at odds than the houses of Roundabout and Wrightabout, let us
say. It is, "My dear Mrs. Buffer, do kindly put yourself in the chair
between those two men!" Or, "My dear Wrightabout, will you take that
charming Lady Blancmange down to supper? She adores your poems, and gave
five shillings for your autograph at the fancy fair." In like manner
the peacemakers gather round Roundabout on his part; he is carried to a
distant corner, and coaxed out of the way of the enemy with whom he is
at feud.

When we meet in the Square at Verona, out flash rapiers, and we fall to.
But in his private mind Tybalt owns that Mercutio has a rare wit, and
Mercutio is sure that his adversary is a gallant gentleman. Look at the
amphitheatre yonder. You do not suppose those gladiators who fought
and perished, as hundreds of spectators in that grim Circus held thumbs
down, and cried, "Kill, kill!"--you do not suppose the combatants of
necessity hated each other? No more than the celebrated trained bands
of literary sword-and-buckler men hate the adversaries whom they meet
in the arena. They engage at the given signal; feint and parry; slash,
poke, rip each other open, dismember limbs, and hew off noses: but
in the way of business, and, I trust, with mutual private esteem. For
instance, I salute the warriors of the Superfine Company with the
honors due among warriors. Here's at you, Spartacus, my lad. A hit, I
acknowledge. A palpable hit! Ha! how do you like that poke in the eye
in return? When the trumpets sing truce, or the spectators are tired, we
bow to the noble company: withdraw; and get a cool glass of wine in our
rendezvous des braves gladiateurs.

By the way, I saw that amphitheatre of Verona under the strange light
of a luri