others, having left all their own
ordinary affairs and subjects of interest at home, were glad to make a
matter of importance of the most trivial occurrence. A mighty poet, said
the former class--who could it possibly be?--All names were recited--all
Britain scrutinized, from Highland hills to the Lakes of
Cumberland--from Sydenham Common to St. James's Place--even the Banks of
the Bosphorus were explored for some name which might rank under this
distinguished epithet.--And then, besides his illustrious poesy, to
sketch so inimitably!--who _could_ it be? And all the gapers, who had
nothing of their own to suggest, answered with the antistrophe, "Who
could it be?"

The Claret-Club, which comprised the choicest and firmest adherents of
Squire Mowbray and the Baronet--men who scorned that the reversion of
one bottle of wine should furnish forth the feast of to-morrow, though
caring nought about either of the fine arts in question, found out an
interest of their own, which centred in the same individual.

"I say, little Sir Bingo," said the Squire, "this is the very fellow
that we saw down at the Willow-slack on Saturday--he was tog'd
gnostically enough, and cast twelve yards of line with one hand--the fly
fell like a thistledown on the water."

"Uich!" answered the party he addressed, in the accents of a dog choking
in the collar.

"We saw him pull out the salmon yonder," said Mowbray; "you
remember--clean fish--the tide-ticks on his gills--weighed, I dare say,
a matter of eighteen pounds."

"Sixteen!" replied Sir Bingo, in the same tone of strangulation.

"None of your rigs, Bing!" said his companion, "--nearer eighteen than
sixteen!"

"Nearer sixteen, by ----!"

"Will you go a dozen of blue on it to the company?" said the Squire.

"No, d---- me!" croaked the Baronet--"to our own set I will."

"Then, I say done!" quoth the Squire.

And "Done!" responded the Knight; and out came their red pocketbooks.

"But who shall decide the bet?" said the Squire, "The genius himself, I
suppose; they talk of asking him here, but I suppose he will scarce mind
quizzes like them."

"Write myself--John Mowbray," said the Baronet.

"You, Baronet!--you write!" answered the Squire, "d---- me, that cock
won't fight--you won't."

"I will," growled Sir Bingo, more articulately than usual.

"Why, you can't!" said Mowbray. "You never wrote a line in your life,
save those you were whipped for at school."

"I can write--I will