He is as fond of quotations as my poor Lady Smatter,(112) and, like her, knows little beyond a song, and always blunders about the author of that.  His whole conversation consists in little French phrases, picked up during his residence abroad, and in anecdotes and story-telling, which are sure to be retold daily and daily in the same words.

Speaking of the ball in the evening, to which we were all going, “Ah, madam!” said he to Mrs. Thrale, “there was a time when—­ fol-de-rol, fol-de-rol [rising, and dancing and Singing], fol-de-rol!—­I could dance with the best of them; but now a man, forty and upwards, as my Lord Ligonier used to say—­but--fol-de-rol!—­there was a time!”

“Ay, so there was, Mr. B—­y,” said Mrs. Thrale, “and I think you and I together made a very venerable appearance!”

“Ah! madam, I remember once, at Bath, I was called out to dance with one of the finest young ladies I ever saw.  I was just preparing to do my best, when a gentleman of my acquaintance was so cruel as to whisper me—­ ’B—­y! the eyes of all Europe are upon you!’ for that was the phrase of the times.  ‘B—­y!’ says he, ’the eyes of all Europe are upon you!’—­ I vow, ma’am, enough to make a man tremble!-fol-de-rol, fol-de-rol! [dancing]—­the eyes of all Europe are upon you!—­I declare, ma’am, enough to put a man out of countenance.”

I am absolutely almost ill with laughing.  This Mr. B—­y half convulses me ; yet I cannot make you laugh by writing his speeches, because it is the manner which accompanies them, that, more than the matter, renders them so peculiarly ridiculous.  His extreme pomposity, the solemn stiffness of his person, the conceited twinkling of his little old eyes, and the quaint importance of his delivery, are so much more like some pragmatical old coxcomb represented on the stage, than like anything in real and common life, that I think, were I a man, I should sometimes be betrayed into clapping him for acting so Well.  As it is, I am sure no character in any comedy I ever saw has made me laugh more extravagantly.

He dines and spends the evening here constantly, to my great satisfaction.

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At dinner, when Mrs. Thrale offers him a seat next her, he regularly says,

“But where are les charmantes?” meaning Miss T. and me.  “I can do nothing till they are accommodated!”

And, whenever he drinks a glass of Wine, he never fails to touch either Mrs. Thrale’s, or my glass, with “est-il permis?”

But at the same time that he is so courteous, he is proud to a most sublime excess, and thinks every person to whom he speaks honoured beyond measure by his notice, nay, he does not even look at anybody without evidently displaying that such notice is more the effect of his benign condescension, than of any pretension on their part to deserve such a mark of his perceiving their existence.  But you will think me mad about this man.

Nov. 3-Last Monday we went again to the ball.  Mr. B—­y, who was there, and seated himself next to Lady Pembroke, at the top of the room, looked most sublimely happy!  He continues still to afford me the highest diversion.