“I was saying, sir,” said the Laureate, “that a fabulous monarch, like him above, fittingly adorns the portal to pretence.”
“Meaning——?” said the old gentleman, pointing forward with his stick.
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Cibber—“meaning the vast but ineffective fane towards which we are now directing our steps.”
“Ah!” said the old gentleman. “It will have its faults, no doubt.”
“We will consider them,” said the poet loftily. “Is this possibly your first visit, sir? Well, better late than never, as old Heywood has it. You will find much to surprise and more to disapprove, or I am mistaken in myself. I am doing showman at the moment, sir, to a party of country cousins”—he whispered, “plain, unsophisticated folk, but respectable—and if you care to join us——”
“With pleasure, Mr. Cibber,” said the old fellow. “It is a most happy chance for me—and not less for the support of your arm than of your opinion. I thought I should like to approach the Cathedral on foot—to have its dimensions gradually revealed to me; but I find in good truth the hill trying to my old bones. I am eighty-nine, Mr. Cibber. Would you believe it?”
“It is a creditable venture, sir,” said the poet. “Ulysses himself in his old age never made a bolder.”
They approached, as he spoke, the extended space on which the building stood, and divers exclamations of wonder broke from the lips of the little party—“My stars!” “Prodigious fine, on my word!” “’Tis mighty likeable!” “Why—why, the sweetest regale!” “Are you not properly struck, Barney, my boy?” “Mum, mum,” and so on. Mr. Cibber, with the air of one magnificently responsible for the show, stood leaning familiarly against one of the posts which encompassed the paved area before the west door, and remained silent pending the recovery of his company. But he took snuff, and laughed patronisingly from time to time over the fervour of its ejaculations.
“Rat me, my dears,” he said by and by, when the volume of enthusiasm had spent itself; “but your artlessness refreshes me—upon my soul and honour, it refreshes me. This is the very respectable work of a journeyman builder, and as full of holes as poor Tom’s coat.”
“La, Mr. Cibber!” said the sweet Corinna, with a giggle, “I always thought the gentleman was at the top of his trade.”