A joyous flutter of impatient anxiety was instantly excited through all the blue-stocking faction of the company, nor were the news totally indifferent to the rest of the community. The former belonged to that class, who, like the young Ascanius, are ever beating about in quest of a tawny lion, though they are much more successful in now and then starting a great bore;[13] and the others, having left all their own ordinary affairs and subjects of interest at home, were glad to make a matter of importance of the most trivial occurrence. A mighty poet, said the former class—who could it possibly be?—All names were recited—all Britain scrutinized, from Highland hills to the Lakes of Cumberland—from Sydenham Common to St. James's Place—even the Banks of the Bosphorus were explored for some name which might rank under this distinguished epithet.—And then, besides his illustrious poesy, to sketch so inimitably!—who could it be? And all the gapers, who had nothing of their own to suggest, answered with the antistrophe, “Who could it be?”
The Claret-Club, which comprised the choicest and firmest adherents of Squire Mowbray and the Baronet—men who scorned that the reversion of one bottle of wine should furnish forth the feast of to-morrow, though caring nought about either of the fine arts in question, found out an interest of their own, which centred in the same individual.
“I say, little Sir Bingo,” said the Squire, “this is the very fellow that we saw down at the Willow-slack on Saturday—he was tog'd gnostically enough, and cast twelve yards of line with one hand—the fly fell like a thistledown on the water.”
“Uich!” answered the party he addressed, in the accents of a dog choking in the collar.
“We saw him pull out the salmon yonder,” said Mowbray; “you remember—clean fish—the tide-ticks on his gills—weighed, I dare say, a matter of eighteen pounds.”
“Sixteen!” replied Sir Bingo, in the same tone of strangulation.
“None of your rigs, Bing!” said his companion, “—nearer eighteen than sixteen!”
“Nearer sixteen, by ——!”
“Will you go a dozen of blue on it to the company?” said the Squire.
“No, d—— me!” croaked the Baronet—“to our own set I will.”