To our subject. It has probably been observed that Lord Vincent had indulged less of late in that peculiar strain of learned humour formerly his wont. The fact is, that he had been playing another part; he wished to remove from his character that appearance of literary coxcombry with which he was accused. He knew well how necessary, in the game of politics, it is to appear no less a man of the world than of books; and though he was not averse to display his clerkship and scholastic information, yet he endeavoured to make them seem rather valuable for their weight, than curious for their fashion. How few there are in the world who retain, after a certain age, the character originally natural to them! We all get, as it were, a second skin; the little foibles, propensities, eccentricities, we first indulged through affectation, conglomerate and encrust till the artificiality grows into nature.
“Pelham,” said Vincent, with a cold smile, “the day will be your’s; the battle is not to the strong—the whigs will triumph. ‘Fugere Pudor, verumque, fidesque; in quorum subiere locum fraudesque dolique insidioeque et vis et amor sceleratus habendi.’”
“A pretty modest quotation,” said I. “You must allow at least, that the amor sceleratus habendi was also, in some moderate degree, shared by the Pudor and Fides which characterize your party; otherwise, I am at a loss how to account for the tough struggle against us we have lately had the honour of resisting.”
“Never mind,” replied Vincent, “I will not refute you,
“‘La richesse permet une juste fierte, Mais il faut etre souple avec la pauvrete.’ It is not for us, the defeated, to argue with you the victors. But pray, (continued Vincent, with a sneer which pleased me not), pray, among this windfall of the Hesperian fruit, what nice little apple will fall to your share?”
“My good Vincent, don’t let us anticipate; if any such apple should come into my lap, let it not be that of discord between us.”
“Who talks of discord?” asked Lady Roseville, joining us.
“Lord Vincent,” said I, “fancies himself the celebrated fruit, on which was written, detur pulcerrimoe, to be given to the fairest. Suffer me therefore, to make him a present to your ladyship.”
Vincent muttered something which, as I really liked and esteemed him, I was resolved not to hear; accordingly I turned to another part of the room: there I found Lady Dawton—she was a tall, handsome woman, as proud as a liberal’s wife ought to be. She received me with unusual graciousness, and I sat myself beside her. Three dowagers, and an old beau of the old school, were already sharing the conversation with the haughty countess. I found that the topic was society.
“No,” said the old beau, who was entitled Mr. Clarendon, “society is very different from what it was in my younger days. You remember, Lady Paulet, those delightful parties at D—House? where shall we ever find any thing like them? Such ease, such company—even the mixture was so piquant, if one chanced to sit next a bourgeois, he was sure to be distinguished for his wit or talent. People were not tolerated, as now, merely for their riches.”