“O! but in politics?”
“Hang politics—are you turned politician?”
“At my age, what else is there left to do?”
“I thought so, by your hat; all politicians sport odd-looking hats: it is very remarkable, but that is the great symptom of the disease.”
“My hat!—is it odd?” said Ferrers, taking off the commodity in question, and seriously regarding it.
“Why, who ever saw such a brim?”
“Glad you think so.”
“Why, Ferrers?”
“Because it is a prudent policy in this country to surrender something trifling up to ridicule. If people can abuse your hat or your carriage, or the shape of your nose, or a wart on your chin, they let slip a thousand more important matters. ‘Tis the wisdom of the camel-driver, who gives up his gown for the camel to trample on, that he may escape himself.”
“How droll you are, Ferrers! Well, I shall turn in, and read the papers; and you—”