You blame Marcius for being proud.--Coriolanus. Here is
another fellow, a marvellous pretty hand at fashioning a
compliment.-The Tanner of Tyburn.
There was a brilliant ball at Lady T----‘s, a personage who, every
one knows, did in the year 17-- give the best balls, and have the
best-dressed people at them, in London. It was about half-past
twelve, when Clarence, released from his three friends, arrived at the
countess’s. When he entered, the first thing which struck him was Lord
Borodaile in close conversation with Lady Flora.
Clarence paused for a few moments, and then, sauntering towards them,
caught Flora’s eye,--coloured, and advanced. Now, if there was a haughty
man in Europe, it was Lord Borodaile. He was not proud of his birth, nor
fortune, but he was proud of himself; and, next to that pride, he was
proud of being a gentleman. He had an exceeding horror of all common
people; a Claverhouse sort of supreme contempt to “puddle blood;”
his lip seemed to wear scorn as a garment; a lofty and stern
self-admiration, rather than self-love, sat upon his forehead as on a
throne. He had, as it were, an awe of himself; his thoughts were so many
mirrors of Viscount Borodaile dressed en dieu. His mind was a little
Versailles, in which self sat like Louis XIV., and saw nothing but
pictures of its self, sometimes as Jupiter and sometimes as Apollo. What
marvel then, that Lord Borodaile was a very unpleasant companion? for
every human being he had “something of contempt.” His eye was always
eloquent in disdaining; to the plebeian it said, “You are not a
gentleman;” to the prince, “You are not Lord Borodaile.”
Yet, with all this, he had his good points. He was brave as a lion;
strictly honourable; and though very ignorant, and very self-sufficient,
had that sort of dogged good sense which one very often finds in men of
stern hearts, who, if they have many prejudices, have little feeling, to
overcome.
Very stiffly and very haughtily did Lord Borodaile draw up, when
Clarence approached and addressed Lady Flora; much more stiffly and much
more haughtily did he return, though with old-fashioned precision of
courtesy, Clarence’s bow, when Lady Westborough introduced them to each
other. Not that this hauteur was intended as a particular affront: it
was only the agreeability of his lordship’s general manner.
“Are you engaged?” said Clarence to Flora.
“I am, at present, to Lord Borodaile.”
“After him, may I hope?”
Lady Flora nodded assent, and disappeared with Lord Borodaile.
His Royal Highness the Duke of ---- came up to Lady Westborough; and
Clarence, with a smiling countenance and an absent heart, plunged into
the crowd. There he met Lord Aspeden, in conversation with the Earl of
Holdenworth, one of the administration.
“Ah, Linden,” said the diplomatist, “let me introduce you to Lord
Holdenworth,--a clever young man, my dear lord, and plays the flute
beautifully.” With this eulogium, Lord Aspeden glided away; and Lord
Holdenworth, after some conversation with Linden, honoured him by an
invitation to dinner the next day.