ness, about which there occurred a good deal of difficulty. 'What
fine {p.262} swans you have in your pond there!' said the Londoner,
by way of parenthesis.--'Swans!' cried Constable; 'they are only
geese, man. There are just five of them, if you please to observe, and
their names are Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown.' This skit cost
The Crafty a good bargain."

It always appeared to me that James Ballantyne felt his genius rebuked
in the presence of Constable: his manner was constrained, his smile
servile, his hilarity elaborate. Not so with Johnny: the little fellow
never seemed more airily frolicsome than when he capered for the
amusement of the Czar.[111] I never, however, saw those two together,
where, I am told, the humors of them both were exhibited to the
richest advantage--I mean at the dinners with which Constable regaled,
among others, his own circle of literary serfs, and when "Jocund
Johnny" was very commonly his croupier. There are stories enough of
practical jokes upon such occasions, some of them near akin to those
which the author of Humphrey Clinker has thought fit to record of his
own suburban villa, in the most diverting of young Melford's letters
to Sir Watkin Philips. I have heard, for example, a luculent
description of poor _Allister Campbell_, and another drudge of the
same class, running a race after dinner for a new pair of breeches,
which Mr. David Bridges, tailor in ordinary to this northern
potentate,--himself a wit, a virtuoso, and the croupier on that day in
lieu of Rigdum,--had been instructed to bring with him, and display
before the threadbare rivals. But I had these pictures from John
Ballantyne, and I dare say they might be overcharged. That Constable
was a most bountiful and generous patron to the ragged tenants of Grub
Street, there can, however, be no doubt: and as {p.263} little that
John himself acted on all occasions by them in the same spirit, and
this to an extent greatly beyond what prudence (if he had ever
consulted that guide in anything) would have dictated.

[Footnote 111: "Now, John," cried Constable, one evening
after he had told one of his best stories, "now, John,
is that true?" His object evidently was, in Iago's
phrase, _to let down the pegs_; but Rigdum answered
gayly, "True, indeed! Not one word of it!--any blockhead
may stick to truth, my hearty--but 't is a sad hamperer