“No,” was the reply, “nor is it likely: the wits of London are seldom idle upon subjects of importance: take for instance the following lines:—
“When first I met thee, FAT and fair, With forty charms about thee, A widow brisk and debonair, How could I live without thee. Thy rogueish eye I quickly spied, It made me still the fonder, I swore though false to all beside, From thee I'd never wander. But old Fitzy now, Thou'rt only fit to tease me, And C—————M I vow, Has learn't the art to please me.”
By this time they were passing Grosvenor gate, when the Hon. Tom Dashall directed the attention of his Cousin to a person on the opposite side of the street, pacing along with a stiff and formal air.
“That,” said he, “is a new species of character, if it may properly be so termed, of which I have never yet given you any account. Sir Edward Knowell stands, however, at the head of a numerous and respectable class of persons, who may be entitled Philosophic Coxcombs. He proceeds with geometrical exactness in all his transactions. You can perceive finery of dress is no mark of his character; on the contrary, he at all times wears a plain coat; and as if in ridicule of the common fop, takes care to decorate his menials in the most gorgeous liveries.
“The stiffness and formality of his appearance is partly occasioned by the braces which he very judiciously purchased of Martin Van Butchell, and partly by the pride of wealth and rank.
“There is a pensiveness in his aspect, which would induce any one to imagine Sir Edward to be a man of feeling; but those who have depended upon outward appearances alone, have found themselves miserably deceived; for as hypocrisy assumes a look of sanctity, so your philosophic coxcomb's apparent melancholy serves only as a mask to cover his stupidity.
“Sir Edward is amorously inclined; but he consults his reason, or pretends to do so, and by that means renders his pleasures subservient to his health. It cannot be denied he sometimes manifests contortions of aspect not exactly in unison with happiness; but his feelings are ever selfish, and his apparent pain is occasioned by the nausea of a debauch, or perhaps by the pressure of a new pair of boots. If you are in distress, Sir Edward hears your tale with the most stoical indifference, and he contemplates your happiness with an equal degree of apathy—a sort of Epictetus, who can witness the miseries of a brother without agony or sympathy, and mark the elevation of a friend without one sentiment of congratulation: wrapt up in self, he banishes all feeling for others.
“This philosopher has a great number of imitators—perhaps not less than one thousand philosophic coxcombs visit London annually; and if Sir Edward were to die, they might all with great propriety lay claim to a participation in the property he might leave behind him, as near relations to the family of the Knowells. These gentlemen violate all the moral duties of life with impunity: they are shameless, irreligious, and so insignificant, that they seem to consider themselves born for no useful purpose whatever. Indeed they are such perfect blanks in the creation, that were they transported to some other place, the community would never miss them, except by the diminution of follies and vices. Like poisonous plants, they merely vegetate, diffuse their contagious effluvia around, then sink into corruption, and are forgotten for ever.”
“Whip me such fellows through the world,” exclaimed Sparkle, “I have no relish for them.”
On calling in at Long's Hotel, they were informed that Sparkle's servant had been in pursuit of his master, in consequence of letters having arrived from the country; and as Dashall knew that he had two excellent reasons why he should immediately acquaint himself with their contents, the party immediately returned to Piccadilly.