When you dine with old Tom Hardy, he gives you little more than a joint of meat, a bottle of excellent port, and a hearty welcome; when Lord Urban “requests the honour” of your company, you are greeted with every delicacy the[Pg 61] season can afford; you are pampered with every wine, “from humble port to imperial tokay,” and you are put to the blush by every form of adulation that a wish to be civil can devise. Yet we had rather dine once with Tom Hardy than a hundred times with Lord Urban; for the mutton of the one is cooked by politeness, and the turtle of the other is dressed by politesse.
About a month ago, as we were shooting in the north of England with the son of a celebrated Tory baronet, we were encountered by Mr. Ayscott, a landed proprietor notorious for his Whig principles. We were somewhat surprised to see the latter divest himself of all prejudices in a moment; he came up to our companion with the greatest appearance of cordiality, shook him by the hand, reminded him that politics ought not to interfere among friends, knew he was fond of dancing, and hoped to see him frequently at Ayscott. Now this really looked like politeness; for politeness is that feeling which prompts us to make others happy and pleased with themselves, and which for this purpose puts off all dislike, all party spirit, all affectation of superiority. But when we were informed the next day that Mr. Ayscott had seven marriageable daughters, we decided that his behaviour was not politeness, but politesse.
We remember, shortly after Mrs. C. Nugent eloped with an officer in the dragoons, we were riding in Hyde Park with poor Charles, who endeavoured to bear his loss unconcernedly, and betrayed not, except to a close observer, the canker that preyed upon his heart. We were met in the Park by Sir Harry Soulis, an intimate acquaintance of our friend. He was riding at a brisk pace, but the moment he observed us he pulled up, and his flexible features immediately assumed the appearance of unfeigned sympathy. He came up to us, and began, “Ah Charles! How are you? How is this unfortunate business to end? I feel for you, Charles! Upon my soul, I feel for you! You know you may command me in anything”—and he rode on with the same air of nonchalance that he had first worn. Immediately afterwards we met Colonel Stanhope, who also halted, and entered into conversation. He inquired after our friend’s health, addressed a few indifferent remarks to us on the weather, bowed, and passed on. We are sure Nugent[Pg 62] felt, as we should have felt under such circumstances: Soulis had wounded his feelings—Stanhope had spared them. The officiousness of the former was politesse—the silence of the latter was politeness.
But their distinct shades were never so fully impressed upon our minds as upon a visit which we lately paid to two gentlemen, during a short tour. The first specimen of their dissimilarity is to be found in the letters by which we were invited to partake of their hospitality. They were as follows:—
“As Mr. P. Courtenay will in the course of his tour be within a few miles of Melville Lodge, Mr. Melville hopes that he will not turn southward without allowing him, for one day at least, the gratification of his company.
“Melville Lodge, August 1820.”
“Dear Peregrine,—You’ll pass within eyeshot of my windows on your way to Eastbourne. I am sure you’ll stop a moment to ask your old friend how he does, and we will try to detain you for the night.
“Yours, as sincerely as ever,
“Marmaduke Warren.
“P.S. The girls would send love if I’d let ’em.
“Hastings, August 1820.”