CHAPTER XX.
Reddere person ae scit convenientia cuique .-- Horace: Ars Poetica.
I was loitering over my breakfast the next morning, and thinking of the last night's scene, when Lord Vincent was announced.
"How fares the gallant Pelham ?" said he, as he entered the room.
"Why, to say the truth," I replied, "I am rather under the influence of blue devils this morning, and your visit is like a sun-beam in November." "A bright thought," said Vincent, "and I shall make you a very pretty little poet soon; publish you in a neat octavo, and dedicate you to Lady D--e.

Pray, by the by, have you ever read her plays?
You know they were only privately printed ?" "No," said I, (for in good truth, had his lordship interrogated me touching any other literary production, I should have esteemed it a part of my present character to return the same answer.) "No!" repeated Vincent; "permit me to tell you, that you must never seem ignorant of any work not published.

To be recherche, one must always know what other people don't--and then one has full liberty to sneer at the value of what other people do know.

Renounce the threshold of knowledge.

There every new proselyte can meet you.