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There were seven female hearts in that assemblage bursting with spite, and one with triumph. Mr Pitskiver had never been known to whisper it any body's ear before. In the mean time Mr Bristles, as literary master of the ceremonies, had made a call on Mr Sidsby to proceed with his reading of the first act of his play.
"Oh! you shouldn't talk that way of Miss Hendy who knows but she may be my mamma soon?" "He can never be such a confounded jackass!" said Mr Sidsby, without giving a local habitation or a name to the personal pronoun he.
"Well, all I can say is this that if I don't get on by shamming cleverness, I'll try what open honesty will do, and follow Bill Whalley's advice." "Bill Whalley! who is he?" asked Bristles with a sneer. "Son of the old Tom Noddy you make such a precious fool of." "Mr Whalley of the Boro' is our friend, Mr Sidsby a man of the profoundest judgment and most capacious understanding.
"Go on, my good sir; you will gain courage as you proceed." All was then silent. Mr Pitskiver at Miss Hendy's side, near the door; Mr Whalley straining his long neck to catch the faintest echo of their conversation; the others casting from time to time enquiring glances towards the illustrious pair; but all endeavouring to appear intensely interested in the drama. Mr Sidsby began:
"What success, Sidsby?" enquired Bristles with a vast appearance of interest. "None at all," replied the successful dramatist, or, in other words, the long-backed Ticket to whom we were introduced at the commencement of the story. "I have no invitation to dinner yet, and Sophy thinks he has forgotten me."
Mr Whalley started up, as did Mr Sidsby, in no small alarm. "I wouldn't be found here for half-a-crown," said the former gentleman: "old father would shake his head into a reg'lar palsy if he knew I was philandering here, when the Riga brig is unloading at the wharf."
It was a play of the passions. A black lady fell in love with a white general. Her language was fit for a dragon. She breathed nothing but fire. It seemed, by a strange coincidence of ideas between Sidsby and Shakspeare, to bear no small resemblance to Othello, with the distinction already stated of the colour of the Desdemona.
I doubt whether a greater judge of merit ever existed than Mr Whalley of the Boro'." "Hear hear!" again resounded; and Mr Sidsby, shaking his head, said no more, but looked as sulky as his naturally good-tempered features would let him. "And now, Stickleback," said Mr Bristles "I am happy to tell you your fortune is made; your fame will rise higher and higher."
But no painting, chiseling, writing, or sonneteering blackguard, shall ever catch a girl of mine. What the deuce brings you here, sir?" he added, fiercely turning to Mr Sidsby. "You're the impostor that read the first act of a play" "I read it, sir," said the youth, "but didn't write a word of it, I assure you. Bristles is the author, and I gave him six dozen of sherry."
"Ah," said Sidsby, "but what's the use of all this to me? I am a wine-merchant, not a poet; my uncle will soon take me into partnership, and when they find out that I know no more about literature than a pig, what an impostor they'll think me!" "Not more of an impostor than half the other literary men of the day, who have got praised into fame as you have, by judicious and disinterested friends.
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