He was young, strikingly handsome, possessing a form of perfect symmetry, and moreover one of the finest horsemen of his time. What wonder then if, as he sought the crowded road of the Park, something like self-love had a share in the direction which he took, and the choice made of the spot where he might breathe the balmy air of such a day. As he joined some of his acquaintances in the Ride, and stopped to speak to others, passing from right to left and from north to south in the gay and splendid crowd, his recollections were naturally turned to similar parades in other countries, and he felt pride as an Englishman in considering how far our national display of beauty and of wealth outshone that of other capitals.
"Neither Vienna, nor Paris, nor St. Petersburgh, can rival this, Glenmore," he said, in the buoyancy of his gratification at the scene—"nothing that we ever beheld there is comparable with this—now is it?"
"You have chosen your day well," replied the latter, "because, if it had been one of those three hundred and sixty-five days of mistwhich we generally enjoy in this metropolis, I should be disposed to dispute the point with you, and set the sunshine of a Parisian Spring against the brilliancy of our ladies' eyes and the splendour of their retinues. And would you not agree with me?"
"Why, as a mere animal, I might, perhaps—climate does affect ourphysique, I will allow; but the national pride—"
"Oh, bah! my dear D'Esterre your national pride in this instance has nothing to do with the matter;—and if the belles of Paris, or Vienna, or the Calmuck beauties of St. Petersburgh, could rival ours, their horses and coach-makers surpass what you see before you, and their summers be eternal, youramour de la patrie, I fear, would not long continueto biasyour judgment. No, no, D'Esterre, that feeling does not live on food like this; but we have other and better sources for it, as you well know and feel."
Lord Albert's face shewed, in the generous glow which suffused it, a sense of his friend's appreciation of his sounder judgment; but headded, with a smile, "if you will not allow my present admiration to proceed from such a noble spring, at least do not accuse me of a reverse of sentiment, if I draw a comparison, in another respect, not at all favourable to my countrymen. Do you observe that line of men drawn up in battle array, and with impertinent nonchalance passing judgment on the women who drive before them? It must, or ought to be, at least, offensive to the pride and delicacy of the former; it would shock any European, and is a custom more suited to eastern despotism, and to the rules of an Asiatic slave mart, than to a civilized nation."
"But do you conclude, therefore, that the men are alone to blame in this?" asked Lord Glenmore; "and is it to be presumed that they would have forgotten the courtesies and respect due from them, if women in general had been more true to the delicacies and decencies of their own sex. Do justice to the men while you blame the practice of the day, and acknowledge, that if the nod, or motion of the hand, or impertinent glance of recognitionnow takes place of the bow and respectful salutation of other times, yet that there must have been a sufferance of the change, if not an encouragement of it, and an equal alteration of manners on the other hand, or it would never have been."
"I dare say you are right, Glenmore; and if so the more the pity. But although custom sanctions all change in reciprocal demeanour between men and women, yet because the stiff andmanièreaddress of the last century was laid aside with the silk coat, and bag-wig, and sword, I do not see why courtly manners should have been exiled at the same time. So long as society is to exist on a proper footing, there must be an outward shew of proper feelings; and when all deference in minor points ceases, it is quite certain that all consideration of respect in more serious matters will cease too."—"What is that I hear?" cried Leslie Winyard, riding up to Lord Glenmore's side, and nodding familiarly to his companion;—"what is that I hear about proper feelings, and all consideration of respect? You are not moralizing in Hyde Park I hope."
"D'Esterre says that you men do very wrong to sit on your horses, rank and file, and let the ladies parade before you; and I think what he says is true."
"Indeed!" replied Mr. Leslie Winyard, and looking round in Lord Albert D'Esterre's face with a sneer, "I believe if we were not to do so, you would have very few beauties to admire in your ride,—the women only come here to see us."—"And what doyoucome for?" asked Lord Glenmore smiling.—"Oh, to shew ourselves, certainly: tobeadmired." Before he could reply to the insufferable impertinence of this speech—if indeed he would have deemed it worthy any reply—an equipage caught the eye of Lord Glenmore as it entered the gate, and putting spurs to his horse he was at its side in a moment and speaking to the ladies in it. "Whose carriage is that?" asked Lord Albert of Leslie Winyard, who continued to saunter his horse in company with him.
"It's the Melcombe's," he replied, after a pause, and having put the handle of his whip, which contained a glass, to his eye—"it's theMelcombe's: Georgina is a d—d fine girl. Don't you know Georgina? they say Glenmore is smitten,—I'll go and see the fun;" and, with these words, this model of the gallantry of the nineteenth century rode off. "What can he mean," said Lord Albert to himself, "by calling any woman familiarly by her name in that manner, unless she be his sister or near relative; but to me, a stranger almost to himself, and to the party utterly unknown, what abominable vulgarity, what detestable insolence!"
There is no saying how far Lord Albert might have gone on in his animadversions on the manners of his sex, if he had been left quite to himself, for there was enough around him, and before his eyes, to provoke remark even in a mind less alive to the niceties and decorum of polished life. But his attention was called another way, and he in turn was to become a subject of flippant ridicule; to be set down as a personà prétension, by the young men whose manners he had very justly condemned, and who chose to attribute to coxcombry and to affectation, a demeanourand a bearing which they had not the power to imitate.
A graceful inclination of the head from some lady passing in the throng, and whose feathers waved in unison with the movement, as she bowed to Lord Albert, caught his eye. He gazed for a moment, not recognizing the party, but lifted his hat courteously from his head, and as he looked back to ascertain better who it was, perceived the carriage had stopped near the gate. Turning his horse, therefore, he rode in the direction, and discovered that it was Lady Hamlet Vernon who had saluted him. He approached the carriage, with all the air and gallantry of a really high bred person, thanked Lady Hamlet Vernon for the honour she had done him, in recognizing him in the crowd; apologized for his own blindness, and continued for some minutes in conversation with her on the beauty and gaiety of the scene, and on the current topics of the day. His back was turned at the time to the phalanx of horsemen, whose ranks, and avowed occupation, had given occasion to his remarks on the bad manners of theage; and who now, assembled in closer body by the gate, were ready to give their last glance of scrutiny or recognition to the departing carriages.
"That's a fine horse that man is upon," said Lord Tonnerre, pointing to Lord Albert; "who the devil is he?"
"Oh! its D'Esterre," said Leslie Winyard, "do you not know him a mile off, by all his bows and grimaces: for me, I could 'wind him i' the lobby, any where.'"
"Damn the fellow, what business has he with such a horse—can he ride?"
"I should think not," drawled out Lord Baskerville; "he is the most conceited animal London has boasted for some centuries. I heard him talk last night about that dear Sontag, till I was sick."—"And, my lords and gentlemen," said Leslie Winyard, in mock solemnity, "he talked not only most fancifully, as my Lord Baskerville avers, last night, but on this morning too: and upon what? Divine, O ye augurs! declare it, ye soothsayers!—Why he discovered, in the very age and body of thetime—its forms and its complexion, and pronounced our manners, rude; our bearing, unlike gentlemen; our noble array here, barbaric and uncivilized;—in short, [assuming his natural tone] he is a d—d puppy. I caught him, but now, preaching in this strain to Glenmore, who, like a fool, said he agreed with him!"—A general murmur burst from the circle which had listened to Leslie Winyard, and the words coxcomb, ass, puppy, poppinjay, and jackanapes, issued simultaneously from the lips of these polished ultras of ton.
Lord Tonnerre alone was silent, but his features shewed him to be as little in a mood for gentleness as any of them. When having grasped his rein, and put his horse on his haunches, he glanced a look of intelligence to those around him, and was off at full speed towards the spot where Lord Albert, leaning from his horse, was still conversing with Lady Hamlet Vernon. Regardless of courtesy, or the consequences of his impetuosity, he kept his violent course till within half a neck of the carriage, and then suddenly endeavoured to wheel round,and pass on the other side. Lord Albert's horse, startled at this close and sudden approach, plunged, and alarmed at the carriages and noise, became, for a moment, unmanageable, and broke away. His rider's admirable dexterity and coolness, however, soon enabled him to rein in this movement, and return towards the spot from which he had started, and where his preoccupation had prevented his observing that a crowd of horsemen had gathered, who partially stood round, or were dismounting, seemingly to assist in some accident. He moved at a quicker pace, and found that Lord Tonnerre's horse, on being so roughly checked, had reared, and fallen back on his rider.
Lord Albert was on his feet in an instant, and making his way through the throng was as eager in his inquiries, and prompt to render assistance to the sufferer, as if he had been personally interested in him. He found, however, no serious mischief had occurred. Lord Tonnerre, with the exception of having been stunned with the fall, and not yet able to rise, seemed perfectly himself, and careless of what had happened.
His first inquiries were for his horse; and having been assured by several of his friends that no injury had been sustained in that quarter, he swore loudly against the animal for a fault which had been entirely his own, gave way to the most violent gesticulations of angry passion against the curiosity (as he called it) of the by-standers, and so disgusted Lord Albert D'Esterre by his want of proper feeling under an accident that might have ended fatally, that the latter mounted his horse once more, rode round to the other side of Lady Hamlet Vernon's carriage to assure her that she need be under no apprehension for Lord Tonnerre's safety, and continuing by her side as she proceeded out of the Park, left the actors of this paltry scene to bear their discomfiture as they best could.
Itis not to be supposed that Lady Tilney should keep a determination formed fully one hundred and forty-four hours before the season of its fulfilment, or retain on the Saturday evening the same degree of passionate admiration of the Sontag's powers, which she had expressed on the previous Wednesday to Lord Albert D'Esterre, when announcing her intention of being present at the first scene of the Opera. She did, however, reach the house, on the evening in question, before the conclusion of the third act, and found the Comtesse Leinsengen already in her box.
"Eh bien, ma chere, à la fin vous voilà! have you been ever since at dat tiresome dinner?"
"Oh no; I drove home immediately after you went away; but I had a thousand things of consequence to do, and could not positively arrive sooner. Amongst other things there was agreat enormous card of invitation from the D'Hermantons. It is quite out of the questionmygoing: and I think the affair ought to be overturned as much as possible—our cause should be established without offence directly given, but decidedly; and if we are engaged elsewhere, you know, our excuse of 'exceedingly sorry' will always effect this, and save us, in the present instance, from the extensive and moral acquaintances of the Duchess, and from thefadeurof her evenings. I would myself send out cards did I not think it would be too marked; but some of us might do so. There is Lady de Chére, I see, in her box; would you arrange the business with her to-night in the room—Do you agree with me, my dear Comtesse?" Her friend nodded assent; and in her abrupt rough voice said, "N'ayez pas peur! I can always hold up my head and treaddown de plebe—we are used to dat; but for you, I fear in dis country, you do not understand de matter."—
"You know, my dear Comtesse, I have often explained to you, that our constitution—"
"Oh! trève de politiques I implore," said the Comtesse Leinsengen, turning her head away, and looking towards the stage: "trève de politiques je n'en puis plus; but fiez vous en à moi."—
"I am surely the last person you ought to suspect unequal to that task! It is quite unjust to me, dear Comtesse! Have you forgotten the woman whom Lady Ellersby and myself thought we could use? whom we actually paraded for a season, maintained she was a beauty, and a person 'qui feroit fureur;' and after all, when she failed, left her planté in the midst of the promised honours; actually ejected her from Almack's, and if we met, walked over her as a person whose face we had never seen!—Was not this carried with a proper spirit?"
"Yes, under my suggestion; but I could have told you from de first that hergrand nigaud de mariwould be alwaysà ses trousses, and prevent her being of the least service to us. It is quite a mistake to attempt such a measure,ça sent le roman, and I do hate all romance—Dat young milor, (vat you namehim?) dat was at your house de oder morning, Lor—Lor Albert D'Esterre; I don't think, upon my word, never I don't, dat he will do us any good, I have my doubts dat he is onlyun espion, and—" Whilst the Comtesse was speaking, the door of the box opened, and there entered, with an air of affected refinement, a person whose appearance ill suited with his outward show of courtliness—his face was red and large, with grey eyes, his hair inclining to flaxen, and his whole figure round and ill-formed.
This physiognomy, however, if Sir William Temple would have allowed himself to be natural, was an index to his disposition, for he wasau fondgood-natured; but an overweening vanity—a desire to be fine, and be considered one of the beau-monde, had spoilt the man, and he became insufferably pompous and conceited—in proportion as his exertions in good dinnersinthe season, a good country houseoutof it, and a vote in parliament, made him successful in obtaining the notice of people of rank, and of the minister.The first thought his cook good, his chateau, at an easy distance from London, convenient—and the last, remembering the old woman's adage, considered that every little helped, and that Sir William's vote, so long as it was on the right side, was as good as any other. He had made his way thus far with tolerable facility, but his ambition grew by feeding on, and was only to be satisfied by the attainment of the highest distinction of thetonof the day; such as in his estimate was conferred by the protecting smile of Lady Tilney, the Comtesse Leinsengen and others of thatélitebody.
No opportunity therefore was lost, no pains omitted to arrive at this desirable end, and to improve the recognition with which Sir William found himself at times honoured, into what should at leastappeara footing of intimacy. An opera box was an outwork more easy to be taken by acoup de main, than a lodgment effected in the citadel itself; and while unregistered on the favoured list of theentréat Lady Tilney's mansion, the access toher circle in the public theatre, which was not denied him, appeared a license of the utmost importance, and one which he was the last man to let grow obsolete by neglect of usage, or forget to turn to profit.
"Has not the Sontag outdone herself to-night, Lady Tilney?" asked Sir William as he entered the box.
"Yes, never was there such a singer—I have been listening till my very ears ache with intense attention."
"I am so glad, Lady Tilney, to hear you say so, for I have been disputing the point with Lord Albert D'Esterre, who maintains that the Sontag's singing is not in the first style, and a great deal more of the same sort; but he might as well endeavour to persuade me that Ude is inferior to Doveton's present man Mariné. I think Lord Albert D'Esterre wishes to be thought an oracle, and the superior judge of all judges, and that without his decree there can be no perfection."
"Vraiment," said the Comtesse with a shrug of her shoulders, "I think Milor mightsuspend his judgments till he heard if people cared for dem."
"Ah, how delighted I am Comtesse to hear you say so," cried Sir William, repeating the words he had first addressed to Lady Tilney, and which indeed he addressed to every one ofton, let what might be the subject, or the sense that fell from them.
"Vraiment!" again came drily from the lips of Comtesse Leinsengen, accompanied with a look at the speaker, which told him that the contempt conveyed in that expression, when speaking of Lord Albert, attached equally to himself. Fully understanding the intended meaning, and conscious that with the Comtesse Leinsengen he had made much less way than with Lady Tilney, he turned once more to the latter, and addressed her on a subject by which he knew well he should pay his court successfully.
"You were not at Lady Borrowdale's the other night. You never saw such a set as were assembled there; positively there was no stirring without coming in contact with peoplewhom one had never seen before—and then it is such bad taste to collect such a crowd—for my part, I got away after the first glance at the affair." Lady Tilney smiled, and Sir William, encouraged, continued, "Do you dine at Doveton's?"
"I believe so."
"I am delighted to hear you say so. Lord Osbalston asked me for the same day—but Mariné, you know, lives with Doveton now, and he could always turn the scale with me" (laughing affectedly); "Apropos, might I venture to ask the honour of your partaking of my rustic fare? I am living, you know, quiteen garçon; but it would be a variety, so different from all you meet elsewhere; so very plain, and so very humble; and you would of course do me the honour to name your own party. Might I hope that you too, Comtesse, would condescend so far?"
This was the boldest step Sir William Temple had yet taken; and he stood in proportionate anxiety, breathless and red, awaiting a reply which was to confirm or crush his hopes.May be, like a second Cæsar, he felt that he had crossed the limits of the empire, and saw that victory only could retrieve what he had hazarded, and that he must rise or fall by that. If victory did attend him, then, like another Alexander, he might weep for fresh worlds to conquer; but if he fell,—"oh! what a fall was there, my friends!" Such feelings, no doubt, did agitate his swelling breast when he saw the interchange of looks pass between Lady Tilney and her friend, as if they questioned each other.
"Shall we gratify this man?" (this fool he would have read, could he have interpreted the Countess Leinsengen's expression): "shall we countenance him?" and in the tremendous moment of suspense Sir William blest his stars that there were none by to mark him. But when the joyful sound of Lady Tilney's voice pronounced an acceptance of his petition, he would have given every thing, short of the promised honour itself, that the whole Opera house had been present to witness his triumph. "You will receive usen garçon, Sir William,dat will be very good," said the Comtesse Leinsengen: "all I bargain for is dat there should be no misses—dose unmarried women are always in de way."
Sir William was too much intoxicated with joy—too much absorbed with the prospect of his increasing consequence in the eyes of the fashionable world, when it should be announced that he had entertained the Comtesse Leinsengen, Lady Tilney, and a party of distinguished personages to dinner, at his house in May Fair, to pay attention to any thing not immediately connected with the results which that dinner would produce. He had heard not one word distinctly beyond the promised acceptance of his invitation; although he continued mechanically to reply, whenever he imagined himself addressed. "I am so glad to hear you say so!—I am delighted to hear that!" At last, on recovering a little, he perceived that Lady Tilney and her friend had entered into an argument on the subject of the unmarried ladies, to whom the Comtesse hadalluded, and in which his dinner seemed entirely forgotten, or likely to be so.
"Dey are always tinking of settlements, and jewels, and have nothing to do but take notice of what oders are doing," rejoined the Comtesse Leinsengen, in her most thrilling tone: "Our way is much de better dan yours; we marry our children at once, or put them in de convents: dat settles de matter, and make dem much happier too."
"I am not quite so sure of that point, my dear Comtesse," said Lady Tilney, "although I own ladies are bores; but we manage the thing inourway, and as well at least: we let themseemto please themselves, which is half the battle towards making them satisfied with the lot they draw, and we ourselves direct the entiremarche du jeu. You know I am for liberty in all things; liberty of choice as well as conscience; but very young people do not know what they wish and it is only when a little acquainted with the world that any body can be said to have achoice." Sir William Temple remained in torture during this discussion, and more than once wished all the unmarried ladies in London, who thus seemed to step in between himself and fortune, at the bottom of the sea. At length, tired, but not convinced, Lady Tilney left her opponent in the middle of a sentence, and turning to the unhappy Sir William, asked, "for what day shall I make our party at your house?"
"I am delighted to hear you say that!" was the prompt and very sincere answer of the person addressed. "Oh, any day you do me the honour to appoint."
"Dat dinner of yours, Sir William, oh vraiment je me fais fête d'y penser," cried the Comtesse Leinsengen, turning abruptly round to him, and determined that her rival in argument should not have even that subject entirely her own.
"I hate vaiting and puts off; we vill fix de day at once—vat say you to Sunday? to-morrow—de Sunday is always frightful dull inyour country; 'tis the only day, besides, in which I am disengaged."
"I'm so glad to hear you say so," replied Sir William, "let it be to-morrow," turning at the same time with a look of inquiry to Lady Tilney.
"Oh, after church there is no objection to diverting one's-se1f innocently; it is impossible to read and pray all day: besides I like to make the Sunday, on principle, a gay, chearful day."
At this moment Lord Albert D'Esterre entered. "Shall I ask him for to-morrow?" eagerly whispered Sir William into Lady Tilney's ear; afraid lest the subject nearest his heart should again be usurped by some other topic.
"Yes—no—yes, you may;" replied Lady Tilney; whose answer in the affirmative was decided by her wish to know more of Lord Albert in society, and a little also by Comtesse Leinsengen's having held cheap her penetration in regard to the qualifications of the formerfor theirsociété choisie. The invitation was quickly given, and no excuse would be admitted. While Lord Albert was endeavouring to extricate himself from this importunity, and Sir William to convince him of the impossibility of disobeying Lady Tilney's commands, which he advanced to strengthen his cause, the Comtesse Leinsengen caught the conversation:
"So, Milor, you will not be at de party to-morrow? an excuse vraiment! when de people makeme excuse, I know what dat means, and it is made up in my mind never to ask dem again."
"When you have once expressed that horrible sentence," answered Lord Albert, smiling, "it would surely be impossible to incur so great a danger; but as I am really not able to give my assent to the very obliging invitation, I shall not, I hope, be deemed deserving of the penalty."
"What!thenyou willnotaccept?" asked the Comtesse Leinsengen again, in her own abrupt tone of command.
"No; I lament I cannot." The Comtesse shrugged her shoulders, adding:
"What! you will not accept, I suppose, because it is Sunday; and you are engaged all de day long to de Church; is it not dat—are you what dey call a saint?" Lord Albert felt annoyed by the importunity with which he had been assailed; and conceiving, according to his own ideas of good breeding, that declining an invitation at first was sufficient, he continued to look more grave and annoyed. Still as the Comtesse repeated the question:
"Are you what dey call a saint?"
"No, a sinner certainly; but would I were indeed a saint."
"So den you condemn us all, I suppose, who do not keep de Sunday stupidlyà la façon Angloise? Vill you tell me now, Milor, vat you tink one may do on a Sunday? I suppose you would not hang your cat,par exemple, if she killed her mouse on Sunday, vould you?"
Lord Albert D'Esterre looked still morecold and grave, as he drew himself up and leant against the back of the box, saying, that "it was an unfitting time and place for such discussions, and that he begged to be excused from entering upon them." Then bending forward to Lady Tilney, who had remained silent, and saying a few words to her, he bowed and retired.
"Il est farouche et fanfaron au possible," cried the Comtesse Leinsengen, as he closed the door; "after to-night I have done vid him."
"He is only original; and it will be a great thing to soften his little prejudices, and teach him to enjoy existence under your tuition, if it were possible," said Sir William, making as low a bow as hisembonpointwould permit, "'to soften knotted oaks, and bend the rocks,' it would be done—"
Lady Tilney smiled at the mis-quotation, while the Comtesse Leinsengen added in a tone of impatience: "but Miladi, do vat she vill, cannot make a bore agreeable; but, ah!" turning round, "dere is Milor Baskerville,how glad I am to have something humanized to talk to! Milor, we have just had a saint in our box; do you not smell de odour of sanctity very strong?"
"I am at a loss to know your meaning, Comtesse—pray explain;" and when she did so, he replied; "Hem! from the first moment I saw him, I suspected that stiff unnatural sort of manner had something sinister, (hem!) I hope I am not worse than my neighbours, (hem!) but whenever I hear any thing approaching to cant (hem!) I fly from it, (hem!) as I would from all that I hold most detestable; (hem!) besides, since his conduct to Tonnerre, I have considered him (hem!) hardly in the light of a gentleman. (hem!) You heard, Comtesse, did you not, of that affair? (hem!)"
"No, vataffaireyou speak of?"
"Oh, you know he nearly caused Tonnerre a most serious accident, and (hem!) his favourite horse Chester, it is feared, is entirely ruined."
"No, I never heard one word of it, vat wasit for?"—"Why, Tonnerre (hem!) was riding up gently to speak (hem!) to Lady Hamlet Vernon in the Park, (hem!) my Lord Albert D'Esterre, who was by her carriage, (hem!) chose to turn his horse short round, and to shew his horsemanship, spurred the animal, who plunged and kicked, and (hem!) Tonnerre's horse was driven against the carriage and reared, and fell back—(hem!) and—"
"And what did de oder Milor do—did he tumble off?"
"Yes, (hem!) at least I believe he did, but I don't know—we were all so engaged, (hem!) in assisting Tonnerre—the last I saw of him was his horse going through the Park Gate like a shot, for he can't ride."
"Baskerville," interrupted Lord Glenmore, who had entered the box, and, while talking with Lady Tilney, had overheard the latter part of this veracious history,—"Baskerville, you must pardon me if I correct your statement a little.Youmay haveheardthe circumstances only related,I sawthem—and if ever a man deserved having hisneck broke, and losing a favourite horse, it was Tonnerre. I never witnessed any thing like the manner in which he rode, nottoLady Hamlet Vernon's carriage,but atD'Esterre, and if the latter had not been the excellent horseman he is, I think there might have been more serious results accruing to both than actually happened. However, Tonnerre and his horse are quite well, for I met both to-day." Lord Baskerville had a mode of dropping the corners of his mouth, raising his chin, and turning up his eyes, whenever he wished to shew signs of contempt; but too discreet to offend a person of Lord Glenmore's calibre, he managed to suppress them in some measure; and having heard out what Lord Glenmore had to say, turned without answering him to the Comtesse Leinsengen.
"Do not talk more about dat man, I pray you, I am tired to death of his name," said the latter; "but tell me, Milor, vill you and Miladi Baskerville meet me to-morrow at dinner? Miladi Tilney and myself are going todo Sir William dere de honour to dine vid him, and vid our own party."
Lord Baskerville looked amazed, and before he could recover his surprise, Sir William himself seemingly confirmed the strange announcement, by facing round and assuringBaskerville, as he called him, on the strength of many a good dinner before, that "he should be delighted to see him; and Lady Baskerville too, I hope will confer the same honour upon me as these ladies." Lord Baskerville, ere he answered, directed a look of inquiry to the Comtesse Leinsengen, to ascertain if the matter were really serious.—"Oh, you must come vid me," said the Comtesse, "I positively vill have no excuse."
"I am ever ready to obey your commands, Comtesse, you know, and—"
"I am delighted to hear you say so," cried Sir William. (Lord Baskerville drew up.) "And Lady Baskerville?" continued the former.
"Hem!Icannotanswer for LadyBaskerville, Sir William—but (hem! hem!) I willcertainly inform her of the invitation, and (hem!) should she have no other engagement, (hem!) doubtless she will be most happy, and (hem!) will wait upon you; (hem!) but dear me the Opera is ended," looking at his watch, and turning to Lady Tilney. "Oh those tiresome bishops—really I wish people would not meddle with what (hem!) they have nothing to do,—we are always now deprived of half our ballet on the Saturdays." (hem!)
"C'est vraiment ridicule," murmured the Comtesse Leinsengen: "dere is no country in de world where dis sort of foolish ting takes place but in England."
"It is rather an infringement upon our liberties, I will allow," observed Lady Tilney, "to turn us out of our Opera boxes at a particular hour."
"Liberty—liberty—dat liberty of the subject is all a farce, chere Miladi; it is all a make believe, as I often have de honour of telling you. Lord Baskerville, vill you be so obliging—my schall."
Lady Tilney, however, would not suffer theComtesse to go till she had spoken to her again on the subject of theirsoiréeat Lady de Chere's. "The Duchess of Hermanton's night will be a very good opportunity," she said; "to let the world know that we do not mingle in societies of the kind; all the regulars, as they consider themselves, look upon D'Hermanton House as head-quarters, and make a point of attending like subalterns gaping for promotion; and if we are there it will have the worst possible effect. Then again, such as we choose to invite to Lady de Chere's, will understand what is meant,sans nous compromettre, and hold off in future from engagements like the D'Hermanton's. You know it would be unwise and impolitic to impart our intentions to all indiscriminately who compose our circle; but we must at the same time afford some guide for conduct. If we do as I propose the affair will be very well understood, without our being unpleasantly involved, and the system will answer well, n'êtes vous pas de mon avis, chere Comtesse?"—"Peût-être qu'oui," was the Comtesse's answer, accompanied by the habitual shrug of theshoulders; "and," continued Lady Tilney, "I think there was every one at my house the other night who ought to be invited. Shall I send Lady de Chere my list?"
"I will see about dat; but first we must know if Miladi vil do as we wish. Laissez-moi faire, j'arrangerai tout ça," and taking Lord Baskerville's arm, she was leaving the box—
"But what shall we do about dat dinner to-morrow, chere Miladi?" she added in a lower tone to Lady Tilney.
"Oh go, by all means; he is well enough—will be so pleased that we may do henceforth as we like with him, and it allows others to hope for the same honour."
"Vell, den, I vill go—remember Milor you are engaged to me to-morrow." Lord Baskerville made one of his most refined bows. "And who else shall we have?" asked the Comtesse of Lady Tilney.
"Oh! I don't know; there are the Boileaus and Lord Gascoyne, and Prince Luttermanne, and Lord Tonnerre."
"Dose vill do very well; I vill tell dem ifI see dem in de room. Adieu, chere Miladi. Ve shall dine vid you to-morrow, Sir William," she added as she left the box.
"I am delighted to hear you say so!" replied the happy Sir William Temple.
"May this be true!—O may it—can it be;—Is it by any wonder possible?" whispered Spencer Newcombe, who had heard the Comtesse Leinsengen's last words, and now approached Sir William with affected surprise.
"Come, my master; if so, the great ones shall not have you all to themselves," he continued: "I too will dine with you to-morrow. Lady Tilney, are you of the party?"
"Yes."
"Why, where is the sign now? have ye e'er a calendar—where's the sign, trow you?" Spencer continued saying.
"The what?" asked Sir William.
"The sign—Believe me there's a most secret power in that! Court any woman in the right sign, Sir William, as you have done, and you shall not miss."
"I am delighted to hear you say so!" replied Sir William.
"I believe he thinks you allude to the sign-post of an inn," whispered Lord Boileau, who had joined the party, "and it suits well enough to a dinner-giving man like him." Lady Tilney now prepared to leave the box; and taking the arm of the Duke of Mercington, was followed by all the men who had paid their visit and their court to her.
Sir William seemed to look with pride on the world behind him, as he mingled in the crowd; conscious of the mark of fashion which would from the morrow be emblazoned on his brow; and in the hurry of the throng, and in the quiet of his pillow, the glory of his future success and progress alike presented itself to him that night in a thousand forms.
WhenLord Baskerville announced to Lady Baskerville the names of those who composed Sir William Temple's dinner party, she was sufficiently astonished; but felt there could be no compromise in being present, and at once accepted his invitation. The affair being considered rather in the light of a party to Richmond, or some similar gaiety, several of the guests went together. Prince Luttermanne attended Lady Tilney; the Boileaus joined Lady Hamlet Vernon; and Lord Baskerville engaged his friend Lord Tonnerre to accompany himself and Lady Baskerville.
As the carriage of the latter proceeded down ---- street, they passed the church at the moment when Lord Albert D'Esterre was leaving the door, after evening service. Lady Baskerville's quick eye immediately recognizedhim, although mingled in a crowd of those denominated the common people; and pointing him out to Lord Tonnerre, the latter asked, in his usual tone of command,
"What canhebe doing in that crowd?"
"Isn't it Sunday?" rejoined Lord Baskerville, yawning. "He has been, I suppose, (hem!) to some conventicle. (hem!)"
"Yes, he looks like one of those d—d Methodists, who would ring people to church from morning to night, by G—;" (Lord Tonnerre forgot that swearing was no longer a fashionable vice) "they ought to be scouted from society."
"True," replied Lord Baskerville, "I think (hem!) that it would do a great deal of good to society, if (hem!) they were all run up,à la lanterne."
"Ay, hang them—hang them as high as you can see," continued Lord Tonnerre; "rid the land of them any how. There's my father—I wishhehad them for once in his hands; there's not a stricter person on earth than my father; he'll suffer no immorality,he'll have no profligacy in the family; but if one of these canting rascals was ever known to cross his door, or to be found on his estates, he'd make short work with him—he'd send him away with marks which the fellow would carry to his grave,—by G— would he. All this comes, however, from the manner in which we pass our Sundays. I hate foreigners and all their d—d ways; but they act more sensibly than we do in regard to Sunday: they let the people amuse themselves after church. It's right to go to church, and all that,—that I'll allow; but I am sure the common people would be much better afterwards with what is fitting for them, quoits, or nine-holes, or cricket, or something to busy them with, instead of going to Methodist meetings, where they turn saints, merely because they have no better amusement; unless, indeed, it be the alehouse."
"And there get drunk," remarked Lady Baskerville; "that would be vastly better, vastly more moral. When you and Baskerville rule the state, things will be much bettermanaged, no doubt." This was said half sneeringly; for Lady Baskerville for some reason was not in very good humour.
"Hem!" rejoined Lord Baskerville; "I must beg your Ladyship would limit what you say to yourself. It is (hem!) a liberty Inevertakewith you, to say what youwouldor wouldnotdo (hem!)" Upon this a silence ensued in the trio; when a few minutes broke the awkwardness occasioned by it, and they found themselves arrived at Sir William Temple's door.
Lord Tonnerre offered his arm to Lady Baskerville as they alighted; while Lord Baskerville, to avoid the unfashionable appearance of entering the room with his wife, stopped, seemingly for the purpose of giving orders to his servants, till such time as he imagined he could walk in alone. There were arrived of the party only Lady Tilney and Prince Luttermanne. Lord Baskerville, having made his bow, retired to a sofa, discomposed at finding that the Comtesse Leinsengen, on whose appearance he had staked the whole of his consequence,and the excuse of his presence, was not yet come. Lord Tonnerre too, displeased that Sir William Temple continued to occupy Lady Baskerville with the profusion of his acknowledgments for the honour done him, and that Lady Tilney appeared too much engaged to notice any one, stood for some moments in gloomy silence, when at length Lord Somerton entered.
"How d'ye do, Somerton?—glad to see you," was Sir William's salutation to his guest, as he held out a finger to him, and continued talking to Lady Baskerville.
"Tonnerre," said Lord Somerton, turning away from this brief reception with a degree of contempt; "come aside, I have something to tell you;" when a deep discussion on matters interesting and intelligible to the former seemed to ensue, since it was productive of a partial relaxation of the scowl which generally characterized his face when he felt himself, as in the present instance, overlooked, or when subjects indifferent to him, or above his comprehension, were alluded to.
Lady Tilney, hitherto absorbed in her conversation with Prince Luttermanne, now looked up, and addressing Lady Baskerville with an air of protection, invited her to come and take the seat next to her. "What a vastly pretty cap you have on!—do tell me where you got it; and, my dear Lady Baskerville, if you have nothing better to do, pray don't forget to come to me to-morrow night. Have you seen any thing of Lord Albert D'Esterre to-day? What doyouthink of him?Ican hardly understand him yet; sometimes I think one thing, sometimes another. They say he is a Methodist—how extraordinary! if he was not young, or not handsome, or notd'une bonne tournure, one might suppose such a thing; but as it is I don't believe it—do you?"
"I have not seen enough of him to judge," was the cautious reply (for Lady Baskerville could be cautious where so deep a stake was at hazard as fashionable consideration); "but I think he rather affects singularity."
"Perhaps so; but then you know he will soon correct that fault when he has lived alittle longer amongst us. I have heard that he is engaged to be married;—do you know if it is true?"
"I did hear," said Lady Baskerville, "something about a Lady Adeline Seymour, a cousin of his who has been brought up in the shades, and is said to be a world's wonder of beauty, and purity, and perfection; but the engagement was an affair of the papa's and mamma's, and probably the parties themselves will hate each other in consequence."
At this moment the Comtesse Leinsengen was announced, and then followed Lord and Lady Boileau, Lady Hamlet Vernon, Mr. Spencer Newcombe, and Lord Gascoigne, each received with that portion and kind of welcome which marked a well-studied knowledge of Debrett on the part of Sir William Temple, who felt himself the deity of the day, and who, complimentary, facetious, pompous,affairé, and familiar by turns, according to thecalibreof the person he addressed, moved about the apartments like some presiding Joss or Amsterdam Cupid. The whole party were atlength assembled, the dinner announced, and the company withdrew to enjoy the very bestartiste'sbest efforts, put forth on an occasion so replete with honour and distinction to hisemployé. Lord Baskerville contrived to place himself next to the Comtesse Leinsengen, whose hand, in herqualité d'ambassadrice, the master of the feast had shewn his skill in precedence by soliciting, as he led the way to the dining-room; a circumstance, by the way, fortunate for him on hisdébut, for although Lord Baskerville's arm would have been far more agreeable, yet the Comtesse would never have pardoned such a neglect of her grade in favour of her dear friend Lady Tilney.
Of the other arrangements of the party it would be unnecessary to speak, and equally useless to catalogue the dinner itself. It is known to all that in London, after the first few weeks of the season, every one's table who gives a dinner is covered in exactly the same way—there may be degrees of excellence in the flavour and science of the dishes; but the things themselves are, as the Geneva traveller said oftravelling, "toujours la même chose, toutes les villes sont les mêmes, vous avez des maisons à droite et des maisons à gauche—et la rue au milieu—c'est toujours la même chose."
It is true there are certain critical periods in a spring season, in which nature's fruits, still immatured, are brought to perfection by the fostering hand of man; and on these the deep and skilful in gastronomy will seize as apt occasions for a display of superior taste and refinement; then, and then only is it, as is well known, that cucumbers are lawful, green peas to be suffered, and strawberries and peaches tolerated; but beyond this there is even yet another point—"a grace beyond the reach of art"—the very North Pole of elegance—the paradox, it may be called, of the gastronomic system—it is to display these productions when positively they are not to be got. Happy the man who so succeeds—thrice happy Sir William, that on this day the stars so ordered it, that while London was yet innocent of cucumbers or peas, you should be profuse of both;—that whenpeaches and strawberries had not so much as crossed the thoughts of the most refined, they too in abundance graced your board. Oh! happy consummation of those honours, which from the last evening seemed about to centre round your head, and raise you to the pinnacle of gastronomy and ofton. During the first moments of all dinners a very few monosyllables are uttered—a sort of murmuring conversation then ensues between the parties nearest each other,—till at last one individual more gifted or more hardy than the rest hazards a remark across the table, and the talking becomes general.
It was Lady Tilney who on the present occasion broke the monotony of those half-audible sounds that whispered round the table. "Lord Gascoigne," she said aloud, "I hope you are really going to put down that vile newspaper, The ——, it is a disgrace to London."
"I should have thought that you, Lady Tilney, would rather have upheld a paper ofits principles, and which affords such a proof of what you always profess to have so much at heart—the liberty of the press."
"You must pardon me, it has nothing to do with the liberty of the press,—but a great deal with its abuse,—besides, the liberty of the press applies only to politics—not to private affairs."
"C'est selon," replied Lord Gascoigne with provoking suavity of manner; "if we publish ourselves what we do, we court public remark."
"She cannot forget or forgive," whispered Spencer Newcombe to Lord Baskerville, "that she herself was once the target at which some of the severest shots of this paper were sent."
"How?" asked the latter.
"Why, when, for party's sake, she was once about to take a step.... I cannot tell you about it now—some other time," he added, as he turned to Lady Boileau, who had asked the same question of him thrice.
"Publish ourselves! my dear Lord," continued Lady Tilney to Lord Gascoigne, "why we never do that if our actions attract notice from our situation."
"They should be more looked to," was the reply of the latter, interrupting her; "if there is nothing to censure, the satirist's occupation is gone."
"Vraiment Milor treats de subject en moraliste, and as if himself vas a paragon of excellence dat could not err. Pray, Milor, do you always tink so wisely on vat you do, dat you never do nothing wrong yourself?"
"Oh, do wrong—yes a thousand times a day, Comtesse,—but when I do, I do not quarrel with the world because it will not think me right, nor if it call me a fool or a knave, am I angry—for perhaps it is a truth—at any rate, other and better men than I have been called the same."
"It is an execrable paper," said Lady Tilney; "and ought to be burnt by the hangman."
"It is an abominable ting," said the Comtesse Leinsengen, "and would not be suffered in any country but England."—Lady Tilney would have interrupted her, but the Comtesse was bent on proceeding: "I repeat, as I have often had de honor to tell you, dat de Englishare a people of contradictions; dey talk always of dere greatpurité,—derevirtue—and den suffer so quietly all dose vile tings to be said of dem in de public prints." Lord Gascoigne, who did not care one straw what was said either of himself or any one else, perceiving he had sufficiently fanned the growing indignation of Lady Tilney by his apparent callousness to public attack, for a moment remained silent, amused to hear the topic discussed in other hands. Lady Tilney loved argument, and for its sake often adopted opinions which at other times she would as strongly have opposed.
"If the things alluded toare done," she continued, addressing herself to the Comtesse Leinsengen, "they arebetter told—I always like every thing to be told."
"Vid de exception always, ma chere amie, of vat concerns one's-self," replied the Comtesse sharply.
"But I deny that there is any truth," rejoined Lady Tilney, not appearing to notice this last remark; "I deny that there is any truth in any thing that comes through suchan abominable channel as that paper; all its remarks are the offspring of impertinent malice or envious vulgarity, and all its facts, falsehoods."
"Hem!" said Lord Baskerville, in his slowest and most imposing tone, "these things have always been, Lady Tilney, and always will be. Some satirist or other, (hem!) has always lived since the Flood, from Lycophron down to our own day, to lash the vice and follies of the age, astheysay; but in fact to indulge that spleen which is common to the canaille at all periods. And after all, what does it signify? Nobody thinks about any thing that is said of any body—hem!—nine days after it is said—hem!"
"If I ever sawmyname in that d—d paper," exclaimed Lord Tonnerre, while his brow was knit in tremendous frowns, "if ever allusion were made to me—the writer should eat his words."
"My dear Tonnerre," rejoined Lord Gascoigne, once more taking up the conversation, "you would find he has an ostrich's stomach. But why should such a toy trouble you?"
"By G——, the writer shall suffer," replied Lord Tonnerre, furiously, "he shall suffer—he shall pay—"
"Who," asked Lady Boileau quietly, "who shall pay?"
"The scoundrel—the —— who has dared to use my name," answered Lord Tonnerre, after several efforts at utterance, which his passion for some moments impeded.
"But you must discoverwhois thewho," replied Lord Gascoigne, with provoking calmness of manner.—"Junius himself was never hid so successfully as is this writer. You will find it fencing in the dark, Tonnerre, if you meddle with him.—But I see you are angry; now take my advice, when you are so use this antidote—it is an excellent rule I learned from my grandfather—repeat your alphabet; and that being done, your anger will be over too." Lord Tonnerre's face moved convulsively in every muscle, and his whole frame seemed to writhe under the words of Lord Gascoigne.
"He boils like a pot," whispered Spencer Newcombe.
"Oh, do not vex him, pray," said Lady Baskerville; "he isonly nervous."
"Mad, mad!" rejoined Lord Gascoigne, "pray take heed." With many hems and ha's, Sir William Temple remarked, that for his part he thought it cruel to delight in mischief; that to him it always appeared a most uncharitable practice to wound another's feelings—and somewhat rude too; fit only for the vulgar.
"The pleasure or amusement," he continued, "of saying ill-natured things is quite beyond my comprehension—quite inconceivable. I remember, when I used to live a good deal at D—— House, there was a rule established that no one should notice, remark, or seem to observe what was passing;—it was considered so very vulgar to interfere with other people's affairs—all were left at large without account or question—and the consequence was, there never was any thing so enchantingsince the world began as that society—sosuave, so equal, so gentle, so serene;—not a voice ever heard louder than a whisper—every one so well amused, every one so well employed, thatennuiwas unknown. There never was any thing to compare to that society."
"De graces!" exclaimed the Comtesse Leinsengen, as Sir William concluded this effusion of his reminiscences, "de graces!do not tell us, Sir Villiam, ofvatVAS: to talk oftingsgone being delightful is like telling a woman who ispassée, 'I remember when you were so admired.' De ting to talk of isto-day."
"Oh, of course," rejoined Sir William, taking the Comtesse's last wordsau pied de la lettre, "of course the society of to-day—the societyhere—ispar excellence, the most delightful in the world." A nod here passed between Spencer Newcombe and Lord Gascoigne, indicative of Sir William having escaped from his blunders with more adroitness than they had given him credit for; and at the same moment the ladies rose to depart.
"Vraiment," exclaimed the ComtesseLeinsengen, as she entered the drawing-rooms, "I do tink, as we are de deities of dis fête, ces messieurs might for once have broken through dere abominable customs, and accompanied us; but dat terrible Lord Somerton and dat young milor Tonnerre would tink, I suppose, de constitution in danger, if dey did not remain at de table after de ladies.—I vonder, Miladi Baskerville, comme Milor est votre éléve, dat you do not teach him better."
"Dear Comtesse, not I, I assure you—it is quite enough to take care of one's-self; I never interfere with other people's affairs—nothing would induce me to undertake any body's education."
"I believe you are very wise," said Lady Boileau; "thelaissez faireand thelaissez alleris the best rule."
"I do not quite agree with you in that," said Lady Tilney; "how could we have a pleasant or a distinguished society if that system was allowed to prevail? how could we—"
"La! what sinifies dat?" said the ComtesseLeinsengen, as she arranged herbérinat the glass; "Vos milliners ne valent rien—I have just sent to Paris, and then I shall have acoiffurethat will not be so hideous."
"Did you observe the Duchesse D'Hermanton's last dress?" asked Lady Baskerville; "she did think it was perfection; one feather on the top of another, flower upon flower, flounce upon flounce, jewel upon jewel, till she was one mass of moving millinery—I never saw such a figure since the days of Lady Aveling's ambassadress' glory."
"Vat sinifie vat dose women do? D'ailleurs les Angloises ont toujours singé les modes." In this, and similar conversation, passed the hour of separation in the drawing-rooms, while at the dinner-table the subject of discussion possessed as little interest as is generally found in society so constituted.
"Baskerville, Boileau, Gascoigne," said Sir William Temple, as he resumed his chair after the departure of the ladies, "will you not come up, and in the short absence we are doomed to suffer from our fair companions,let us find comfort in this poor earthly Nectar?" (Sir William believed his wines to be the best in creation.) "Baskerville, what wine do you take?"
"Claret," was the reply of the latter, accompanied by a look of surprise which seemed to say, "of course."—"Did you ever hear such a question!" he added in an under-tone to Lord Boileau.
"Never—he might as well have asked if one would try Chambertin afterTruites à l'Aurore, orClos de VoguetafterBécasses à la Luculle!" rejoined Lord Baskerville.
"Fools were made for jests to men of sense," whispered Spencer Newcomb, "and I know of no one who affords more amusement than my friend there, Sir William."
"How officious andaffairéhe was in contriving this party," said Lord Gascoigne.
"And how puzzled, lame, and lost in prosecuting it!" rejoined the other.
"He is a most substantial ass," said Lord Baskerville.
"Tonnerre," asked Sir William at themoment, and affecting to vary the theme, according to the taste of the person, "Do you know which is the favourite for the Derby?"
"Gad, he turns his words as many ways as a lathe," whispered Lord Gascoigne again—"understands all subjects alike, and is as learned as the occult philosopher of Hudibras."
"And as much renowned for profound and solid stupidity," rejoined the latter. A laugh escaped at these words; and as their "ha! ha! ha!" passed round, Sir William laughed louder.
"Very good that, Spencer, I just caught the end of it—the point is always in the tail you know."
"He caught it," said Lord Gascoigne, repeating the words, and looking at Spencer Newcomb; "do you think he did?"
"If it was with his mouth, he might certainly—for it is large enough to catch any thing—and he is welcome; I give him my jest for his dinner, it is the only return I ever make."
"And you thrive on your bargain generally, Spencer, I should suppose."
"How long do you think I took from Penzance to town?" said Lord Tonnerre aloud; and without waiting for any reply added,—"Eighteen hours by ——, in hack chaises too, changing every stage."
"Ido not conceive it much to do," rejoined Lord Baskerville. "I remember, (hem!) once leaving town seven hours after the mail; and though I had rips of horses, I arrived, (hem!) at twenty minutes before his Majesty's stage coach, (hem!)"
"Well," said Lord Gascoigne, "well, Basky, that is excellent,—ha! ha! ha! that is excellent,—ha! ha! ha!" The abbreviation of his patronymic was always distasteful to Lord Baskerville, and on this occasion he not only felt his dignity compromised by the license of Lord Gascoigne's address, but was himself offended by the covert suspicion conveyed of the substantiality of the fact he had related; turning therefore away with an air of contempt, he addressed himself to another of the party. Lord Gascoigne, however, was not so easily to be silenced, and exchanginglooks with those who had watched the scene, added, with very provoking calmness,
"Basky, you were not offended, I hope, with any thing I said, I meant only—"
"Not at all," replied Lord Baskerville, the corners of his mouth dropping in the exact angle of scorn by which, as a mathematical man ofton, he would have described his contempt of the speaker,—"not at all, Gascoigne; I beg you won't think of it;"—and he turned again to the party with whom he was conversing.
"Beat—beat, Gascoigne," exclaimed Spencer Newcomb.—Lord Baskerville looked around with a dignified air, and for a moment silence ensued, not however without a wink passing from Spencer Newcomb, implying that they had gone as far as was advisable. But Lord Gascoigne was not to be stopped without a farewell shot, as he added, "Well, Baskerville, we start at eight, and breakfast at nine, is it not so?" The latter again tried to look grave, but obliged at length in self-defence to join in the laughwhich followed these words, he let fall for an instant the mask that too often covered his most trivial actions, and appeared the good-hearted good-humoured creature nature had made him.
"Somerton," said Sir William Temple, breaking the subject of conversation, "do you remember when you were at my chateau in the north?"
"Yes," was the dry reply he received from one who, though he eat his dinners, held him in the most sovereign disdain, and this "yes" sounded harshly on the ears of Sir William, living as he did in the praises bestowed on his establishments, and never losing an opportunity of referring to the subject of them; nor was he less annoyed, as he observed a whisper pass between his northern guest and Lord Tonnerre, to whom Lord Somerton had turned after his very short and laconic reply, and added,
"The fellow had one covey of partridges, two dozen of Burgundy, and a mistress; I made love to the one, drank the other, killed the third, and then quitted."
"Good," said Spencer Newcomb, who had overheard what passed; "he would have pardoned you, however, the first, if you had praised the others."
"No doubt he would," replied Lord Somerton, "but on my conscience I could not do it, and I presume he feels this as well as myself, for I shall make him give me a dinner the first day in the week I am disengaged." Thus fared Sir William Temple in the hands of those for whom he had lavished, andincessantlylavished, an expense which, if properly directed, would have rendered him an amiable, respectable, and happy individual. As it was, he spent his money on objects despicable in themselves, and for persons absolutely turning him into ridicule while enjoying his bounty.
The party from the dining-table soon after arose, some having attained the object for which alone they came, the enjoyment of a dinner; others who had yet a further motive, ascended to the drawing-rooms, and after passing there sufficient time to complete arrangements, arrange departures, and fix dry pointsthat needed discussion for the morrow's amusement or occupation, took their departure also, leaving Sir William Temple to feed on the empty honour which remained to him, of having entertained in his house in May-fair so distinguished a party; none of whom, however, beyond the dinner-living Lord Somerton, Spencer Newcomb, and one or two lordlings, ever intended to think more of him for the future.