"In general, weak minds think only of others, and yet seem only occupied with themselves; you, on the contrary, must appear wholly engrossed with those about you, and yet never have a single idea which does not terminate in yourself: a fool, my dear Henry, flatters himself—a wise man flatters the fool.
"God bless you, my dear child, take care of your health—don't forget
Coulon; and believe me your most affectionate mother,
"F. P."
By the time I had read this letter and dressed myself for the evening, Vincent's carriage was at the porte cocher. I hate the affection of keeping people waiting, and went down so quickly, that I met his facetious lordship upon the stairs. "Devilish windy," said I, as we were getting into the carriage.
"Yes," said Vincent; "but the moral Horace reminds us of our remedies as
well as our misfortune—
"'Jam galeam Pallas, et aegida,
Currusque parat,'—
that is, 'Providence that prepares the gale, gives us also a great coat and a carriage.'"
We were not long driving to the Palais Royal. Very's was crowded to excess—"A very low set!" said Lord Vincent, (who, being half a liberal, is of course a thorough aristocrat) looking round at the various English who occupied the apartment.
There was, indeed, a motley congregation; country esquires; extracts from the Universities; half-pay officers; city clerks in frogged coats and mustachios; two or three of a better looking description, but in reality half swindlers half gentlemen. All, in short, fit specimens of that wandering tribe, which spread over the continent the renown and the ridicule of good old England. I know not why it is that we should look and act so very disgracefully abroad; but I never meet in any spot out of this happy island, a single Englishman, without instinctively blushing for my native country.
"Garcon, garcon," cried a stout gentleman, who made one of three at the table next to us. "Donnez-nous une sole frite pour un, et des pommes de terre pour trois!"
"Humph!" said Lord Vincent; "fine ideas of English taste these garcons must entertain; men who prefer fried soles and potatoes to the various delicacies they can command here, might, by the same perversion of taste, prefer Bloomfield's poems to Byron's. Delicate taste depends solely upon the physical construction; and a man who has it not in cookery, must want it in literature. Fried sole and potatoes!! If I had written a volume, whose merit was in elegance, I would not show it to such a man!—but he might be an admirable critic upon 'Cobbett's Register,' or 'Every Man his own Brewer.'"