"Body of me, gentlemen," cried the ex-sexton, "I'll follow your advice."
"Do so, man, and never presume to look doleful again; leave dulness to your superiors."*
* See "Spectator," No. 14, for a letter from this unfortunate under-sexton.
And with this advice, and an additional compensation for his confidence, we left the innocent assistant of Mr. Powell, and marched into the puppet-show, by the sound of the very bells the perversion of which the good sexton had so pathetically lamented.
The first person I saw at the show, and indeed the express person I came to see, was the Lady Hasselton. Tarleton and myself separated for the present, and I repaired to the coquette. "Angels of grace!" said I, approaching; "and, by the by, before I proceed another word, observe, Lady Hasselton, how appropriate the exclamation is to /you/! Angels of /grace/! why, you have moved all your patches—one—two—three—six— eight—as I am a gentleman, from the left side of your cheek to the right! What is the reason of so sudden an emigration?"
"I have changed my politics, Count,* that is all, and have resolved to lose no time in proclaiming the change. But is it true that you are going to be married?"
* Whig ladies patched on one side of the cheek, Tories on the other.
"Married! Heaven forbid! which of my enemies spread so cruel a report?"
"Oh, the report is universal!" and the Lady Hasselton flirted her fan with the most flattering violence.
"It is false, nevertheless; I cannot afford to buy a wife at present, for, thanks to jointures and pin-money, these things are all matters of commerce; and (see how closely civilized life resembles the savage!) the English, like the Tartar gentleman, obtains his wife only by purchase! But who is the bride?"