It took me some time, to discover what this meant. And my mother was not very anxious to explain. But at last I found out, that the sign-post pointed to my possession of the Twentifold estates, if Sir Roland were prohibited from having any heirs! That one of the best and simplest of her sex should have strayed into the snare of covetousness, (set by all measures, that dabble with property) determined me at once, to fight that measure to the utmost.
Bill Chumps was come back from his wedding tour (having been called to the bar, and the altar, one day after each other) but not as yet called into Parliament, by the voice of Sir Roland Twentifold. His father gave a dinner at "The Best End of the Scrag," because his own house was not large enough; and no man, who was there, ever tastes a fine joint, without saying—"Ah, but you should have had a cut from the baron, and the saddle of old Chumps, that day. I have often tasted fine meat; but by George, sir, I never knew what velvet was till then!" There was not a foreign kickshaw handed round; but any man, who wanted unintelligible compounds, might go and fill his spoon, at the sideboard.
Sir Roland was there, and made the speech of the evening, a great deal better than Bill's—for Bill got his at the back of his tongue beforehand, and then forgot every word of it; and his heart (being meant to play second fiddle) refused to come up, and take first one. But Roly did really roll it out, in a style which gave me great hopes, that he might upset most of the seven Bills of the enemy, without calling upon my poor resources. And we had a jolly evening, I can assure you; though there is no time to say any more about it now.
In return, I invited (with mother's good leave) a snug little party of loyal, enlightened, and truly large-hearted Conservatives to dinner, at our humble "Placid Bower," on the Monday evening, with the Session beginning on the following day. Mr. Windsor was there, and my old friend Jack (now growing very partial to Belinda Chumps), as well as Mr. Peelings, the great potato-dealer, Mr. Blewitt of the Indigo factory, and of course Mr. Chumps, and his son William, and several other gentlemen, one of whom was the owner of "The Pratt Street Express," a sound and influential journal. The object of the dinner was in the foremost place to dine; and then to deliver, for my comfort and direction, the safest, most practical, and constitutional counsels, ever yet vouchsafed to any youthful representative.
Of all these gentlemen, Jack included, there was not one but regarded me as sent into Parliament for his own use and benefit, as well as for a high example of wisdom, after following his advice. But the worst of it was, that no two of them gave me the same advice, beyond general precepts—to look sharp, to be cautious, to keep my pluck up. As soon as I wanted to thread my needle, and make my coat with their furnishing—behold, it was not even yarn, or I might say wool, grown long enough for combing. They had thought out none of the things they talked of; and the round-hand lessons in a copy-book would serve me as good a turn as theirs.
However, they all agreed in condemning all the seven great measures of the Government; although upon widely diverse grounds, disagreeing very warmly, as to what their badness was. And this made me doubt, when I came to dwell upon it, whether after all they could be so very bad. When a dog is tail-piped, sympathy arises in every bosom that has tails behind it; as soon as he is pelted, his merits grow on every one, who cannot find a stone to throw at him; but let him have sticks, bottles, tiles, flints, brickbats, each expressive of a different stand point, yet all promiscuously hurled at him,—and to every candid mind, that cannot get the window open, what is he, before he turns the corner? Why, a hero, a martyr, a saint of a dog.
CHAPTER XLI. THE RIGHT WAY TO SURRENDER.
It is not in my power, to describe to you all the mixture, or the magnitude, of my feelings, when I entered what our noble journalists—who choose words, like oysters, by their fatness—call the "Portals of St. Stephen."