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The old Welshman, an original himself, had an odd following of friends and poor retainers. There was the crazy rhymester known as “Dr. Jones;” tradition darkly related that a dose of cantharides administered by waggish boys of a former generation had robbed him of his wits. “The most celebrated improvisatore was never half so vain of his talent as this queer creature, whose little figure of some five-feet-two I can perfectly call to mind, with his suit of rusty black, his more rusty wig, and his old cocked hat. Whenever he entered the schoolroom he was greeted with a shout of welcome.” There was also Pullen, the breeches-maker—a glorious fellow, brimful of vulgarity, prosperity, and boisterous good-nature; above all, an excellent hand at demanding a half-holiday. A more graceful presence, but a more fleeting, was that of Mrs. Estan, the actress, who came to learn from the dancing-master her minuet de la cour in The Belle’s Stratagem. Southey himself had to submit to lessons in dancing. Tom Madge, his constant partner, had limbs that went every way; Southey’s limbs would go no way: the spectacle presented by their joint endeavours was one designed for the pencil of Cruikshank. In the art of reading aloud Miss Tyler had herself instructed her nephew, probably after the manner of the most approved tragedy queens. The grand style did not please honest Williams. “Who taught you to read?” he asked, scornfully. “My aunt,” answered Southey. “Then give my compliments to your aunt, and tell her that my old horse, that has been dead these twenty years, could have taught you as well”—a message which her nephew, with the appalling frankness of youth, delivered, and which was never forgotten.