“He answered me solemnly,” said Steele, “in the following words,—
“‘Graeci carent ablativo, Itali dativo, ego nominativo.’”*
* “The Greek wants an ablative, the Italians a dative, I a nominative.”
“Famous—capital!” cried the gentleman in spectacles; and then, touching Colonel Cleland, added, “what does it exactly mean?”
“Ignoramus!” said Cleland, disdainfully, “every schoolboy knows Virgil!”
“Devereux,” said Tarleton, yawning, “what a d——d delightful thing it is to hear so much wit: pity that the atmosphere is so fine that no lungs unaccustomed to it can endure it long, Let us recover ourselves by a walk.”
“Willingly,” said I; and we sauntered forth into the streets.
“Wills’s is not what it was,” said Tarleton; “‘tis a pitiful ghost of its former self, and if they had not introduced cards, one would die of the vapours there.”
“I know nothing so insipid,” said I, “as that mock literary air which it is so much the fashion to assume. ‘Tis but a wearisome relief to conversation to have interludes of songs about Strephon and Sylvia, recited with a lisp by a gentleman with fringed gloves and a languishing look.”
“Fie on it,” cried Tarleton, “let us seek for a fresher topic. Are you asked to Abigail Masham’s to-night, or will you come to Dame de la Riviere Manley’s?”