“Well, then, Robinson?”

“Robinson, I am told, has merit.  I dare say; I never have been able to read his books, and can’t, therefore, form any opinion about Mr. Robinson.  At least you will allow that I am not speaking in a prejudiced manner about him.”

“Ah!  I see you men of letters have your cabals and jealousies, as we had in my time.  There was an Irish fellow by the name of Gouldsmith, who used to abuse me; but he went into no genteel company—­and faith! it mattered little, his praise or abuse.  I never was more surprised than when I heard that Mr. Irving, an American gentleman of parts and elegance, had wrote the fellow’s life.  To make a hero of that man, my dear sir, ’twas ridiculous!  You followed in the fashion, I hear, and chose to lay a wreath before this queer little idol.  Preposterous!  A pretty writer, who has turned some neat couplets.  Bah!  I have no patience with Master Posterity, that has chosen to take up this fellow, and make a hero of him!  And there was another gentleman of my time, Mr. Thiefcatcher Fielding, forsooth! a fellow with the strength, and the tastes, and the manners of a porter!  What madness has possessed you all to bow before that Calvert Butt of a man?—­a creature without elegance or sensibility!  The dog had spirits, certainly.  I remember my Lord Bathurst praising them:  but as for reading his books—­ma foi, I would as lief go and dive for tripe in a cellar.  The man’s vulgarity stifles me.  He wafts me whiffs of gin.  Tobacco and onions are in his great coarse laugh, which choke me, pardi; and I don’t think much better of the other fellow—­the Scots’ gallipot purveyor—­Peregrine Clinker, Humphrey Random—­how did the fellow call his rubbish?  Neither of these men had the bel air, the bon ton, the je ne scais quoy.  Pah!  If I meet them in my walks by our Stygian river, I give them a wide berth, as that hybrid apothecary fellow would say.  An ounce of civet, good apothecary; horrible, horrible!  The mere thought of the coarseness of those men gives me the chair de poule.  Mr. Fielding, especially, has no more sensibility than a butcher in Fleet Market.  He takes his heroes out of ale-house kitchens, or worse places still.  And this is the person whom Posterity has chosen to honor along with me—­me!  Faith, Monsieur Posterity, you have put me in pretty company, and I see you are no wiser than we were in our time.  Mr. Fielding, forsooth!  Mr. Tripe and Onions!  Mr. Cowheel and Gin!  Thank you for nothing.  Monsieur Posterity!”

“And so,” thought I, “even among these Stygians this envy and quarrelsomeness (if you will permit me the word) survive?  What a pitiful meanness!  To be sure, I can understand this feeling to a certain extent; a sense of justice will prompt it.  In my own case, I often feel myself forced to protest against the absurd praises lavished on contemporaries.  Yesterday, for instance, Lady Jones was good enough to praise one of my works.  Tres bien.  But