Whenever we cannot abuse their measures, we always fall foul on their health. Does the king pass any popular law, – we immediately insinuate that his constitution is on its last legs. Does the minister act like a man of sense, – we instantly observe, with great regret, that his complexion is remarkably pale. There is one manifest advantage in diseasing people, instead of absolutely destroying them. The public may flatly contradict us in one case, but it never can in the other: – it is easy to prove that a man is alive: but utterly impossible to prove that he is in health. What if some opposing newspaper take up the cudgels in his behalf, and assert that the victim of all Pandora’s complaints, whom we send tottering to the grave, passes one half the day in knocking up a “distinguished company” at a shooting-party, and the other half in outdoing the same “distinguished company” after dinner? What if the afflicted individual himself write us word that he never was better in his life? – We have only mysteriously to shake our heads and observe, that to contradict is not to prove, – that it is little likely that our authority should have been mistaken, and (we are very fond of an historical comparison) beg our readers to remember, that when Cardinal Richelieu was dying, nothing enraged him so much as hinting that he was ill. In short, if Horace is right, we are the very princes of poets; for I dare say, Mr Mac Grawler, that you, – and you, too, my little gentleman, perfectly remember the words of the wise old Roman, –

           Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur

           Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit,

           Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet.’*

Having uttered this quotation with considerable self-complacency, and thereby entirely completed his conquest over Paul, Mr Augustus Tomlinson, turning to Mac Grawler, concluded his business with that gentleman, which was of a literary nature, namely a joint composition against a man who, being under five-and-twenty, and too poor to give dinners, had had the impudence to write a sacred poem. The critics were exceedingly bitter at this; and having very little to say against the poem, the Court journals called the author a ‘coxcomb,’ and the liberal ones ‘the son of a pantaloon!’

There was an ease, – a spirit, – a life about Mr Augustus Tomlinson, which captivated the senses of our young hero: then, too, he was exceedingly smartly attired; wore red heels and a bag; had what seemed to Paul quite the air of a ‘man of fashion;’ and, above all, he spouted the Latin with a remarkable grace!

Some days afterwards, Mac Grawler sent our hero to Mr Tomlinson’s lodgings, with his share of the joint abuse upon the poet.

Doubly was Paul’s reverence for Mr Augustus Tomlinson increased by a sight of his abode. He found him settled in a polite part of the town, in a very spruce parlour, the contents of which manifested the universal genius of the inhabitant. It hath been objected unto us by a most discerning critic, that we are addicted to the drawing of ‘universal geniuses.’ We pleaded Not Guilty in former instances; we allow the soft impeachment in the instance of Mr Augustus Tomlinson. Over his fireplace were arranged boxing gloves and fencing foils. On his table lay a cremona and a flageolet. On one side of the wall were shelves containing the Covent Garden Magazine, Burn’s Justice, a pocket Horace, a Prayer-book, Excerpta ex Tacito, a volume of plays, Philosophy made Easy, and a Key to all Knowledge. Furthermore, there were on another table a riding-whip, and a driving-whip, and a pair of spurs, and three guineas, with a little mountain of loose silver. Mr Augustus was a tall, fair young man, with a freckled complexion; green eyes and red eyelids; a smiling mouth, rather under-jawed; a sharp nose; and a prodigiously large pair of ears. He was robed in a green damask dressing-gown; and he received the tender Paul most graciously.

There was something very engaging about our hero. He was not only good-looking, and frank in aspect, but he had that appearance of briskness and intellect which belongs to an embryo rogue. Mr Augustus Tomlinson professed the greatest regard for him, – asked him if he could box – made him put on a pair of gloves – and, very condescendingly, knocked him down three times successively. Next he played him, both upon his flageolet and his cremona, some of the most modish airs. Moreover, he sang him a little song of his own composing. He then, taking up the driving-whip, flanked a fly from the opposite wall, and throwing himself (naturally fatigued with his numerous exertions) on his sofa, he observed, in a careless tone, that he and his friend Lord Dunshunner were universally esteemed the best whips in the metropolis. ‘I,’ quoth Mr Augustus, ‘am the best on the road, but my lord is a devil at turning a corner.’

Paul, who had hitherto lived too unsophisticated a life to be aware of the importance of which a lord would naturally be in the eyes of Mr Augustus Tomlinson, was not so much struck with the grandeur of the connexion as the murderer of the journals had expected. He merely observed, by way of compliment, that Mr Augustus and his companion seemed to be ‘rolling kiddies.’

A little displeased with this metaphorical remark – for it may be observed that ‘rolling kiddy’ is, among the learned in such lore, the customary expression for ‘a smart thief’ – the universal Augustus took that liberty to which, by his age and station, so much superior to those of Paul, he imagined himself entitled, and gently reproved our hero for his indiscriminate use of flash phrases.

‘A lad of your parts,’ said he, – ‘for I see you are clever by your eye, – ought to be ashamed of using such vulgar expressions. Have a nobler spirit – a loftier emulation, Paul, than that which distinguishes the little ragamuffins of the street. Know that, in this country, genius and learning carry every thing before them; and if you behave yourself properly, you may, one day or another, be as high in the world as myself.’

At this speech Paul looked wistfully round the spruce parlour, and thought what a fine thing it would be to be lord of such a domain, together with the appliances of flageolet and cremona, boxing gloves, books, fly-flanking flagellum, three guineas, with the little mountain of silver, and the reputation – shared only with Lord Dunshunner – of being the best whip in London.

‘Yes!’ continued Tomlinson, with conscious pride, ‘I owe my rise to myself. Learning is better than house and land. “Doctrina sed vim,” &c. You know what old Horace says? Why, sir, you would not believe it; but I was the man who killed his majesty the King of Sardinia in our yesterday’s paper. Nothing is too arduous for genius. Fag hard, my boy, and you may rival – for the thing, though difficult, may not be impossible – Augustus Tomlinson!’

At the conclusion of this harangue, a knock at the door being heard, Paul took his departure, and met in the hall a fine-looking person dressed in the height of the fashion, and wearing a pair of prodigiously large buckles in his shoes. Paul looked, and his heart swelled. ‘I may rival,’ thought he – those were his very words – ‘I may rival – for the thing, though difficult, is not impossible – Augustus Tomlinson!’ Absorbed in meditation, he went silently home.