“I do!” was my reply.
“Join with us; I will place you in the House of Commons immediately: if we succeed, you shall have the first and the best post I can give you. Now—‘under which king, Bezonian, speak or die!’”
“I answer you in the words of the same worthy you quote,” said I—“‘A foutra for thine office.’—Do you know, Vincent, that I have, strange as it may seem to you, such a thing as a conscience? It is true I forget it now and then; but in a public capacity, the recollection of others would put me very soon in mind of it. I know your party well. I cannot imagine—forgive me—one more injurious to the country, nor one more revolting to myself; and I do positively affirm, that I would sooner feed my poodle on paunch and liver, instead of cream and fricassee, than be an instrument in the hands of men like Lincoln and Lesborough; who talk much, who perform nothing—who join ignorance of every principle of legislation to indifference for every benefit to the people:—who are full of ‘wise saws,’ but empty of ‘modern instances’—who level upwards, and trample downwards—and would only value the ability you are pleased to impute to me, in the exact proportion that a sportsman values the ferret, that burrows for his pleasure, and destroys for his interest. Your party sha’n’t stand!”
Vincent turned pale—“And how long,” said he, “have you learnt ‘the principles of legislation,’ and this mighty affection for the ‘benefit of the people?’”
“Ever since,” said I, coldly, “I learnt any thing! The first piece of real knowledge I ever gained was, that my interest was incorporated with that of the beings with whom I had the chance of being cast: if I injure them, I injure myself: if I can do them any good, I receive the benefit in common with the rest. Now, as I have a great love for that personage who has now the honour of addressing you, I resolved to be honest for his sake. So much for my affection for the benefit of the people. As to the little knowledge of the principles of legislation, on which you are kind enough to compliment me, look over the books on this table, or the writings in this desk, and know, that ever since I had the misfortune of parting from you at Cheltenham, there has not been a day in which I have spent less than six hours reading and writing on that sole subject. But enough of this—will you ride to-day?”
Vincent rose slowly—
“‘Gli arditi (said he) tuoi voti Gia noti mi sono; Ma inveno a quel trono, Tu aspiri con me Trema per te!’”
“‘Io trema’ (I replied out of the same opera)—‘Io trema—di te!’”
“Well,” answered Vincent, and his fine high nature overcame his momentary resentment and chagrin at my reception of his offer—“Well, I honour your for your sentiments, though they are opposed to my own. I may depend on your secrecy?”
“You may,” said I.