“But how,” said Vincent, after the first warmth of welcome had subsided, “how shall I congratulate you upon your new honours? I was not prepared to find you grown from a roue into a senator.
“‘In gathering votes you were not slack, Now stand as tightly by your tack, Ne’er show your lug an’ fidge your back, An’ hum an’ haw; But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack Before them a’.’
“So saith Burns; advice which, being interpreted, meaneth, that you must astonish the rats of St. Stephen’s.”
“Alas!” said I, “all one’s clap-traps in that house must be baited.”
“Nay, but a rat bites at any cheese, from Gloucester to Parmasan, and you can easily scrape up a bit of some sort. Talking of the House, do you see, by the paper, that the civic senator, Alderman W—, is at Cheltenham?”
“I was not aware of it. I suppose he’s cramming speeches and turtle for the next season.”
“How wonderfully,” said Vincent, “your city dignities unloose the tongue: directly a man has been a mayor, he thinks himself qualified for a Tully at least. Faith, Venables asked me one day, what was the Latin for spouting? and I told him, ‘hippomanes, or a raging humour in mayors.’”
After I had paid, through the medium of my risible muscles, due homage to this witticism of Vincent’s, he shut up his folio, called for his hat, and we sauntered down into the street. As we passed by one of the libraries, a whole mob of the dandies of the last night were lounging about the benches placed before the shop windows.
“Pray, Vincent,” said I, “remark those worthies, and especially that tall meagre youth in the blue frock-coat, and the buff waistcoat; he is Mr. Ritson, the De Rous (viz. the finished gentleman) of the place.”
“I see him,” answered Vincent: “he seems a most happy mixture of native coarseness and artificial decoration. He puts me in mind of the picture of the great ox set in a gilt frame.”