with the shining black head, as polished as his boots, audibly proclaiming Warren's best,—soon exhausted the stock of similes, if not of sneers; besides, the attention was attracted to individuals.
"Who is that?" said Emily, as a gentleman, with one of the most sparkling and keen glances in the world—which she was quite pretty enough to attract for a moment—passed by.
"One of our first poets," replied Lorraine. "I must tell you a very happy compliment paid him the other day by one who was speaking of his powers of sentiment and sarcasm: 'When one reads your lyrics, the exclamation is amour! (ah, Moore!); but after your satires, it is Timour (T. Moore) the Tartar.' As for himself, he is the Venus thrown in society; his conversation carries you along with the ease and grace of skaiting; he tells a story as if M. Caillaud had left him his mantle, or as if in him were realised the classic tale of the bees that settled round the mouth of Sophocles, leaving their honey behind them. In listening to him I perfectly understand the feeling which made Napoleon interrupt some unhappy elongator of narrative with 'Allons! Denon, contez nous cela.' He is our English Denon."
