Although Mr. William Sadler, whoever he might be, pronounced his name in the manner of one who is accustomed to have it greeted with flattering recognition, as this was the first time I had happened to hear of so exalted a personage, I was unable to pay it the homage I think he expected from me.
"You must really pardon me, sir," says I, "but who you are or what your name is does not particularly interest me. I do not remember to have heard it before, and certainly as you appear to entertain such strange views as to the manner in which friendship is to be conducted, I have no very burning desire to hear it again."
At last it seemed I had found in him a tender spot. The purple deepened in his cheeks, and there was a brightness of anger in his eyes. It was plain that to be ignorant of the name of Mr. William Sadler was to be guilty of a grave solecism. But his chagrin was only momentary, for he had an admirable command of himself, and at once resumed the control of his feelings.
"It strikes me as something of an affectation, sir," says he, "that one who practises a very similar calling should yet profess an ignorance of a name, which I may say, without making a boast of it, stands foremost in a kindred profession, and hath ever been reckoned an honour and an embellishment to it. The name of William Sadler, sir, is known and reverenced wherever gentlemen of the pad of all shades and degrees do congregate or hold their intercourse. It grieves me, sir, that such a fine example of our calling at its best, as is to be seen in the person of yourself, sir, and in that of your fair companion, should yet deny the smallest recognition to one who hath been allowed by the ablest practitioners of the time, and by publick opinion also, to be worthy of his meed of praise."
I confess I was getting out of my depth. My companion was wholly unintelligible to me. What he meant by his allusions to our kindred professions, his own celebrity, and my own skill in an art of which I did not even know the name, gravelled me completely. In his smooth, even tones, it was impossible not to find a genuine regret. But methought there was even more of irony in it too, a very delicate irony that seemed entirely to consist with his cultivated and polished character. Indeed the man was an enigma altogether. His manner, his appearance, his address were those of a gentleman. He was an elegant, well-informed, well-equipped man of the world, capable of exciting the admiration of a lady of quality, as many a time I have been fain to acquaint Mrs. Cynthia subsequently. But who he might be passed me altogether. He could not be a great author like Mr. Fielding. In that case I should have been more familiar with his name. He could not be a man of the first fashion, for the same reason. Neither was he foremost in Parliament, in the King's service, in the Queen's favour, nor was he a virtuoso in the arts. In what manner was he celebrated then? I could not forbear from putting the question to him. As it happened, our host was fussing about the supper-table at that moment with the pudding.
"I refer you, sir," says he, "to our worthy Boniface, our excellent Mr. Jim Grundy, for the panegyric of my character."
Upon this the innkeeper looked from one to the other of us with a great deal of unction, and involved his rosy countenance in such a number of nods and winks as conferred a great air of mystery on a simple question.
"Come, my good Grundy," says our companion, "inform the lady and gentleman who Mr. William Sadler is."
"They don't know who Mr. William Sadler is," says the landlord. "Who ever heard the like of it! He, he, he!"
Instead of giving us any precise information on this point, the landlord laughed and laughed again. Once or twice he seemed to brace himself to break the important news to us, yet on each occasion as he was about to open his mouth to do so, a fresh gust of mirth nearly choked him into a fit. Indeed, he was wholly incapable of getting farther than: