Indeed I have lost myself in conjectures on this
point. But I now know that BULMER has fallen under your sway, and that
you, my dear POMPOSITY, direct his every movement, and inspire his
every thought. Now, the other night, when, as I say, I was dining at
his table, BULMER was in one of his most glorious and vain-glorious
moods. Patronage radiated from him upon my humble self and the rest
of the tribe of undoubted inferiors whom he permitted to bask in his
shining presence.
"My dear boy," said BULMER to me, while he inserted his thumbs in the
arm-openings of his waistcoats, and drummed an approving tattoo upon
his shining shirt-front, "my dear boy, I have always been your friend,
and nobody knows it better than you. Many a time have I proved it
to you, and I can honestly assure you that nothing gives me greater
pleasure than to welcome you in person to my humble home."
I thanked the great man deferentially, and assured him I was deeply
sensible of his many kindnesses. But after he had turned away, some
malicious spirit prompted me, in spite of myself, to reflect upon
the favours that BULMER has conferred upon me. Were they, after all,
so numerous and so great? Was I, on the whole, so poor a worm as he
imagined me to be? Had he in fact made me what I am? These ungrateful
thoughts chased one another through my perplexed brain, and I was
forced to acknowledge to myself that at the various crises of my
career the fairy form of BULMER had been absent.
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