The Baron is getting along with GEORGE MEREDITH's _One of Our
Conquerors_. Within the last three weeks he has already reached p.
94 of Vol. I, and here the weather, having suddenly become tropical,
the Baron felt that his mighty brain "whirled, swam to a giddiness,
and subsided." He has been stopped occasionally _en route_; he had
come into view of "_the diminutive marble cavalier of the infantile
cerebellum_." Then he retraced his steps, puzzled a bit, but after
a "modest quencher" Swivellerian libation, he hit upon a luminous
passage which warned him "_in plain speech_"--and whose is plainer
than GEORGE MEREDITH's?--"_that the Bacchus of auspicious birth
induces ever to the worship of the loftier Deities._" Excellent i'
faith! And then the Baron smole, as one who is interiorly enlightened
smileth as he read, "_Forbear to come hauling up examples of malarious
men_"--("'malarious men' is good," quoth the Baron)--"_in whom these
pourings of the golden rays of life breed fogs; and be moved, since
you are scarcely under an obligation to hunt the meaning_"--(here the
Baron wondered within himself. Was he under an obligation or not?
In _foro conscientiæ_ the case was set down for that immortal date.
"_To-morrow_")--"_in tolerance of some dithyrambic inebriety of
narration_ (_quiverings of the reverent pen_) _when we find ourselves
entering the circle of a most magnetic popularity._" Here the Baron
paused. Somehow, in his search after truth, he had fallen down some
seventy pages, and was on his back again at p. 33, Vol. I. Refreshment
was necessary. Iced. Also a Nicotinian sacrifice, as of primitive
days, when heifers, adorned, not altars, but weeds, vegetables, and
early produce only. _Smokeamus! Veni, vidi, visky!_ 'Fore GEORGE! Your
health and novel!