“My fellow-passengers were three gentlemen, one, to whom I was well known, the others perfect strangers. One of the latter, a very well-dressed but rather foppish, conceited young man, talked much upon literary matters, and from his conversation gave you to understand that he was on the most intimate terms with all the celebrated authors of the day. After giving us a very frank, and by no means just critique upon the works of Scott and Byron, whom he familiarly called, ‘my friend, Sir Walter,’ ‘my companion, Lord Byron,’ he suddenly turned to me, and asked me, ‘if I ever read the S. Chronicle?’ This was one of the county papers, I told him; that I saw it every week.
“‘If that be the case,’ said he, ‘will you tell me what you think of the Rev. Mr. B.’s poems, which have from time to time appeared in its columns?’
“This reverend gentleman was a man with a very heavy purse and a very empty head, whose contributions to the county papers were never read but to be laughed at. Not having the slightest personal knowledge of the author, I answered innocently enough, ‘Oh, he’s a stupid, conceited fellow. It is a pity he has not some friend to tell him what a fool he makes of himself, whenever he appears in print. His poetry is such dull trash, that I am certain he must pay the Editor of the paper for allowing him to put it in.’
“Mr. C. was stuffing his handkerchief into his mouth, to avoid laughing out right; while the poor gentleman (for it was the author himself), drew back with a face alternately red and pale, with suppressed indignation. His feelings must have been dreadful, for, during the rest of his journey, he sat and regarded me with an air of such offended dignity, that I must have appeared to him like some wicked ogress, ready to devour, at one mouthful, him and his literary fame. He never opened his mouth to speak to any of us after I had made this unfortunate blunder, and I sat upon thorns, until a handsome plain carriage drove up to the coach about a mile from T., and relieved us of his company.
“This circumstance made me feel so uncomfortable, that I never ventured upon giving an opinion of the works of any living author to a stranger, without having a previous knowledge of the person of the writer.”
“He deserved what he got, for his egregious vanity,” said Lyndsay. “For my part, I do not pity him at all; and it afforded you a good lesson of prudence for the future.”
At this moment a young negro lad, fantastically dressed, and evidently very much in love with himself, strutted past. As he swaggered along the deck, rolling his jet black eyes from side to side, and showing his white teeth to the spectators, an indolent-looking young man, dressed in the extreme of fashion, called languidly after him—
“Hollo, Blacky! What colour’s the Devil?”
“White,” responded the negro, “and sports red whiskers, like you!”
Every one laughed; the dandy shrunk back, utterly confounded; while the negro snapped his fingers, and crowed with delight.