s declension,
that he died in London. But Mr. Coates (for of that Romeo I write) must
be claimed by none of these places. Bath saw the laughable disaster of
his debut, and so, in a manner, his whole life seems to belong to her,
and the story of it to be a part of her annals.

The Antiguan was already on the brink of middle-age when he first trod
the English shore. But, for all his thirty-seven years, he had the heart
of a youth, and his purse being yet as heavy as his heart was light,
the English sun seemed to shine gloriously about his path and gild the
letters of introduction that he scattered everywhere. Also, he was a
gentleman of amiable, nearly elegant mien, and something of a scholar.
His father had been the most respectable resident Antigua could show,
so that little Robert, the future Romeo, had often sat at dessert with
distinguished travellers through the Indies. But in the year 1807 old
Mr. Coates had died. As we may read in vol. lxxviii. of The Gentleman's
Magazine, 'the Almighty, whom he alone feared, was pleased to take him
from this life, after having sustained an untarnished reputation for
seventy-three years,' a passage which, though objectionable in its
theology, gives the true story of Romeo's antecedents and disposes of
the later calumnies that declared him the son of a tailor. Realising
that he was now an orphan, an orphan with not a few grey hairs, our hero
had set sail in quest of amusing adventure.

For three months he took the waters of Bath, unobtrusively, like other
well-bred visitors. His attendance was solicited for all the most
fashionable routs, and at assemblies he sat always in the shade of some
titled turban. In fact, Mr. Coates was a great success. There was an air
of most romantic mystery that endeared his presence to all the damsels
fluttering fans in the Pump Room. It set them vying for his conduct
through the mazes of the Quadrille or of the Triumph, and blushing at
the sound of his name. Alas! their tremulous rivalry lasted not long.
Soon they saw that Emma, sole daughter of Sir James Tylney Long, that
wealthy baronet, had cast a magic net about the warm Antiguan heart. In
the wake of her chair, by night and day, Mr. Coates was obsequious. When
she cried that she would not drink the water without some delicacy
to banish the iron taste, it was he who stood by with a box of
vanilla-rusks. When he shaved his great moustachio, it was at her
caprice. And his devotion to Miss Emma was