Squire Headlong. Glorious, egad!

Mr Milestone. Here is a rugged mountainous road, leading through impervious shades:  the ass and the four goats characterise a wild uncultured scene.  Here, as you perceive, it is totally changed into a beautiful gravel-road, gracefully curving through a belt of limes:  and there is Lord Littlebrain driving four-in-hand.

Squire Headlong. Egregious, by Jupiter!

Mr Milestone. Here is Littlebrain Castle, a Gothic, moss-grown structure, half bosomed in trees.  Near the casement of that turret is an owl peeping from the ivy.

Squire Headlong. And devilish wise he looks.

Mr Milestone. Here is the new house, without a tree near it, standing in the midst of an undulating lawn:  a white, polished, angular building, reflected to a nicety in this waveless lake:  and there you see Lord Littlebrain looking out of the window.

Squire Headlong. And devilish wise he looks too.  You shall cut me a giant before you go.

Mr Milestone. Good.  I’ll order down my little corps of pioneers.

During this conversation, a hot dispute had arisen between Messieurs Gall and Nightshade; the latter pertinaciously insisting on having his new poem reviewed by Treacle, who he knew would extol it most loftily, and not by Gall, whose sarcastic commendation he held in superlative horror.  The remonstrances of Squire Headlong silenced the disputants, but did not mollify the inflexible Gall, nor appease the irritated Nightshade, who secretly resolved that, on his return to London, he would beat his drum in Grub Street, form a mastigophoric corps of his own, and hoist the standard of determined opposition against this critical Napoleon.

Sir Patrick O’Prism now entered, and, after some rapturous exclamations on the effect of the mountain-moonlight, entreated that one of the young ladies would favour him with a song.  Miss Tenorina and Miss Graziosa now enchanted the company with some very scientific compositions, which, as usual, excited admiration and astonishment in every one, without a single particle of genuine pleasure.  The beautiful Cephalis being then summoned to take her station at the harp, sang with feeling and simplicity the following air:—­

        LOVE AND OPPORTUNITY

    Oh! who art thou, so swiftly flying? 
      My name is Love, the child replied: 
    Swifter I pass than south-winds sighing,
      Or streams, through summer vales that glide. 
    And who art thou, his flight pursuing? 
      ’Tis cold Neglect whom now you see: 
    The little god you there are viewing,
      Will die, if once he’s touched by me.

    Oh! who art thou so fast proceeding,
      Ne’er glancing back thine eyes of flame? 
    Marked but by few, through earth I’m speeding,
      And Opportunity’s my name. 
    What form is that, which scowls beside thee? 
      Repentance is the form you see: 
    Learn then, the fate may yet betide thee: 
      She seizes them who seize not me.[6.2]