"My lud!" said young Law, popping up his little powdered head again, in a high fever of desperate impatience—"My lud! shall I order candles?"
Good-bye, judge snuffy. Heaven knows how soon you and I may meet again, thanks to the great Wellington. It is a nervous subject to me, yet I cannot help reverting to it. However, let us change it and proceed with my Memoirs.
There is surely something harsh and unmanly in threatening a woman with any kind of law or prosecution, unless she were to do something much worse than telling the truth: and there is a double want of gallantry in threatening a fair lady, whose favours have been earnestly courted! N'est-ce pas?
The man who lays his hand on a woman, save in the way of kindness, is a monster, whom it were gross flattery to call coward.
Now what would this excellent author say to Mr. Jack Ketch's hand being laid on one, and that not quite in the way of kindness either? Yet, if all the lords and law-givers are like Wellington, in the habit of threatening poor devils of authors and book-sellers with prosecution, hanging, and destruction, as often as they are about to publish any facts, which do not altogether redound to their honour and glory, while they modestly swallow all the outré applause which may be bestowed on their luck or their talents for killing men and winning battles, I can no longer be surprised that even Beaufort has maintained his good character up to this present writing, since publishers will quake when heroes bully.
There's no spirit nowadays.
[CHAPTER XLI]
London, 20th January.