in aspect, but he had that appearance of briskness and intellect which belong 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
