'
'I wish I could get him to write some lines in my book, said the lady;
'Charles Fox has written some; he was staying with us in the autumn,
and he has written an ode to my little dog.'
'How amiable!' said Mr. Pole; 'I dare say they are as good as his
elegy on Mrs. Crewe's cat. But you must not talk of cats and dogs to
Cadurcis. He is too exalted to commemorate any animal less sublime
than a tiger or a barb.'
'You forget his beautiful lines on his Newfoundland,' said the lady.
'Very complimentary to us all,' said Mr. Horace Pole. 'The interesting
misanthrope!'
'He looks unhappy.'
'Very,' said Mr. Pole. 'Evidently something on his conscience.'
'They do whisper very odd things,' said the lady, with great
curiosity. 'Do you think there is anything in them?'
'Oh! no doubt,' said Mr. Pole; 'look at him; you can detect crime in
every glance.'
'Dear me, how shocking! I think he must be the most interesting person
that ever lived. I should so like to know him! They say he is so very
odd.'
'Very,' said Mr. Pole. 'He must be a man of genius; he is so unlike
everybody; the very tie of his cravat proves it. And his hair, so
savage and dishevelled; none but a man of genius would not wear
powder. Watch him to-day, and you will observe that he will not
condescend to perform the slightest act like an ordinary mortal.
Pages:
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337