the domination of this passion, he remembers
many a talk he had with his intimates, who used to rally Our Knight of
the Rueful Countenance at his devotion, whereof he made no disguise, to
Beatrix; and it was with replies such as the above he met his friends'
satire. "Granted, I am a fool," says he, "and no better than you; but
you are no better than I. You have your folly you labor for; give me the
charity of mine. What flatteries do you, Mr. St. John, stoop to whisper
in the ears of a queen's favorite? What nights of labor doth not the
laziest man in the world endure, foregoing his bottle, and his boon
companions, foregoing Lais, in whose lap he would like to be yawning,
that he may prepare a speech full of lies, to cajole three hundred
stupid country-gentlemen in the House of Commons, and get the hiccupping
cheers of the October Club! What days will you spend in your jolting
chariot." (Mr. Esmond often rode to Windsor, and especially, of later
days, with the secretary.) "What hours will you pass on your gouty
feet--and how humbly will you kneel down to present a despatch--you, the
proudest man in the world, that has not knelt to God since you were a
boy, and in that posture whisper, flatter, adore almost, a stupid woman,
that's often boozy with too much meat and drink, when Mr. Secretary goes
for his audience! If my pursuit is vanity, sure yours is too." And then
the Secretary, would fly out in such a rich flow of eloquence, as this
pen cannot pretend to recall; advocating his scheme of ambition, showing
the great good he would do for his country when he was the undisputed
chief of it; backing his opinion with a score of pat sentences from
Greek and Roman authorities (of which kind of learning he made rather
an ostentatious display), and scornfully vaunting the very arts and
meannesses by which fools were to be made to follow him, opponents to be
bribed or silenced, doubters converted, and enemies overawed.

"I am Diogenes," says Esmond, laughing, "that is taken up for a ride
in Alexander's chariot. I have no desire to vanquish Darius or to tame
Bucephalus. I do not want what you want, a great name or a high place:
to have them would bring me no pleasure. But my moderation is taste, not
virtue; and I know that what I do want is as vain as that which you long
after. Do not grudge me my vanity, if I allow yours; or rather, let us
laugh at both indifferently, and at ourselves, and at each other."

"If your charmer holds