was cherishing--the peacock's tail wherein my absurd vanity had clad
itself--and says, "Away with this boasting! I am the cause of your
virtue, my lad. You are pleased that yesterday at dinner you refrained
from the dry champagne? My name is Worldly Prudence, not Self-denial, and
I caused you to refrain. You are pleased because you gave a guinea to
Diddler? I am Laziness, not Generosity, which inspired you. You hug
yourself because you resisted other temptation? Coward! it was because
you dared not run the risk of the wrong. Out with your peacock's plumage!
walk off in the feathers which Nature gave you, and thank Heaven they are
not altogether black." In a word, Aunt Honeyman was a kind soul, and such
was the splendour of Clive's father, of his gifts, his generosity, his
military services, and companionship of the battles, that the lad did
really appear a young duke to her. And Mrs. Newcome was not unkind: and
if Clive had been really a young duke, I am sure he would have had the
best bedroom at Marble Hill, and not one of the far-off little rooms in
the boys' wing; I am sure he would have had jellies and Charlottes
Russes, instead of mere broth, chicken, and batter-pudding, as fell to
his lot; and when he was gone (in the carriage, mind you, not in the gig
driven by a groom), I am sure Mrs. Newcome would have written a letter
that night to Her Grace the Duchess Dowager his mamma, full of praise of
the dear child, his graciousness, his beauty, and his wit, and declaring
that she must love him henceforth and for ever after as a son of her own.
You toss down the page with scorn, and say, "It is not true. Human nature
is not so bad as this cynic would have it to be. You would make no
difference between the rich and the poor." Be it so. You would not. But
own that your next-door neighbour would. Nor is this, dear madam,
addressed to you; no, no, we are not so rude as to talk about you to your
face; but if we may not speak of the lady who has just left the room,
what is to become of conversation and society?