“No, no, indeed!” cried he; “to abstract myself from all, is all that enables me to get on.” And then, with his native candour, he cast aside prejudice, and very liberally praised several points in this poor persecuted great man.
“I had seen,” I said, “an initiation from Horace, which had manifested, I presumed, his scholarship.”
“O, ay,” cried he, “an Ode to Mr. Shore, who is one of the next witnesses. Burke was going to allude to it, but I begged him not. I do not like to make their lordships smile in this grave business.”
“That is so right!” cried I: “Ah, you know it is you and your attack I have feared most all along!”
“This flattery”—cried he.
“Do not use that word any more, Mr. Windham,” interrupted I; “if you do, I shall be tempted to make a very shocking speech to you—the very reverse of flattery, I assure you.” He stared,—and I went on. “I shall say,—that those who think themselves flattered—flatter themselves!”
“What?—hey?—How?” cried he.
“Nay, they cannot conclude themselves flattered, without concluding they have de quoi to make it worth while!”
“Why, there—there may be something In that but not here!—no, here it must flow simply front general benevolence,—from a wish to give comfort or pleasure.”
I disclaimed all and turned his attention again to Mr. Hastings. “See!” I cried, “see but how thin—how ill—looks that poor little uncle of yours!”[332] Again I upbraided him with being unnatural; and lamented Mr. Hastings’s change since I had known him in former days. “And shall I tell you,” I added, “something in which you had nearly been involved with him?”