With this elevation alone, too, he was not content: he united the philosopher with the politician; and the ingenious rascal was pleased especially to pique himself upon being ‘a moderate Whig!’ ‘Paul,’ he was wont to observe, ‘believe me, moderate Whiggism is a most excellent creed. It adapts itself to every possible change, – to every conceivable variety of circumstance. It is the only politics for us who are the aristocrats of that free body who rebel against tyrannical laws! For, hang it, I am none of your democrats. Let there be dungeons and turnkeys for the low rascals who whip clothes from the hedge where they hang to dry, or steal down an area in quest of a silver spoon; but houses of correction are not made for men who have received an enlightened education – who abhor your petty thefts as much as a justice of peace can do, – who ought never to be termed dishonest in their dealings, but, if they are found out, “unlucky in their speculations!”* A pretty thing, indeed, that there should be distinctions of rank among other members of the community, and none among us! Where’s your boasted British constitution, I should like to know – where are your privileges of aristocracy, if I, who am a gentleman born, know Latin, and have lived in the best society, should be thrust into this abominable place with a dirty fellow, who was born in a cellar, and could never earn more at a time than would purchase a sausage? – No, no! None of your levelling principles for me! I am liberal, Paul, and love liberty; but, thank Heaven, I despise your democracies!’

Thus, half in earnest, half veiling a natural turn to sarcasm, would this moderate Whig run on for the hour together, during those long nights, commencing at half-past four, in which he and Paul bore each other company.

One evening, when Tomlinson was so bitterly disposed to be prolix that Paul felt himself somewhat wearied by his eloquence, our hero, desirous of a change in the conversation, reminded Augustus of his promise to communicate his history; and the philosophical Whig, nothing loath to speak of himself, cleared his throat, and began: –

HISTORY OF AUGUSTUS TOMLINSON

‘Never mind who was my father, nor what was my native place! My first ancestor was Tommy Linn – (his heir became Tom Linn’s son) – you have heard the ballad made in his praise: –

           “Tommy Linn is a Scotchman born,

           His head is bald, and his beard is shorn;

           He had a cap made of a hare skin, –

           An elder man is Tommy Linn!”*

‘There was a sort of prophecy respecting my ancestor’s descendants darkly insinuated in the concluding stanza of this ballad: –

           “Tommy Linn, and his wife, and his wife’s mother,

           They all fell into the fire together;

           They that lay undermost got a hot skin, –

           ‘We are not enough!’ said Tommy Linn.”†

‘You see the prophecy; it is applicable both to gentlemen rogues and to moderate Whigs; for both are undermost in the world, and both are perpetually bawling out, “We are not enough!”

‘I shall begin my own history by saying, I went to a North Country school; where I was noted for my aptness in learning, and my skill at “prisoner’s base:” – upon my word I purposed no pun! I was intended for the church: wishing, betimes, to instruct myself in its ceremonies, I persuaded my schoolmaster’s maid-servant to assist me towards promoting a christening. My father did not like this premature love for the sacred rites. He took me home; and, wishing to give my clerical ardour a different turn, prepared me for writing sermons, by reading me a dozen a-day. I grew tired of this, strange as it may seem to you. “Father,” said I, one morning, “it is no use talking, I will not go into the church – that’s positive. Give me your blessing, and a hundred pounds, and I’ll go up to London, and get a living instead of a curacy.” My father stormed, but I got the better at last. I talked of becoming a private tutor; swore I had heard nothing was so easy, – the only things wanted were pupils; and the only way to get them was to go to London, and let my learning be known. My poor father, – well, he’s gone, and I am glad of it now!’ – the speaker’s voice faltered – ‘I got the better, I say, and I came to town, where I had a relation a bookseller. Through his interest, I wrote a book of Travels in Æthiopia for an earl’s son, who wanted to become a lion; and a Treatise on the Greek Particle, dedicated to the prime minister, for a dean, who wanted to become a bishop, – Greek being, next to interest, the best road to the mitre. These two achievements were liberally paid; so I took a lodging in a first floor, and resolved to make a bold stroke for a wife. What do you think I did? – Nay, never guess, it would be hopeless. First, I went to the best tailor, and had my clothes sewn on my back; secondly, I got the peerage and its genealogies by heart; thirdly, I marched one night, with the coollest deliberation possible, into the house of a duchess, who was giving an immense rout! The newspapers had inspired me with this idea. I had read of the vast crowds which a lady “at home” sought to win to her house. I had read of staircases impassable, and ladies carried out in a fit; and common sense told me how impossible it was that the fair receiver should be acquainted with the legality of every importation. I therefore resolved to try my chance, and – entered the body of Augustus Tomlinson, as a piece of stolen goods. Faith! The first night I was shy, – I stuck to the staircase, and ogled an old maid of quality, whom I had heard announced as Lady Margaret Sinclair. Doubtless, she had never been ogled before; and she was evidently enraptured with my glances. The next night I read of a ball at the Countess of —. My heart beat as if I were going to be whipped; but I plucked up courage, and repaired to her ladyship’s. There I again beheld the divine Lady Margaret; and, observing that she turned yellow, by way of a blush, when she saw me, I profited by the port I had drunk as an encouragement to my entrée, and lounging up in the most modish way possible, I reminded her ladyship of an introduction with which I said I had once been honoured at the Duke of Dashwell’s, and requested her hand for the next cotillon. Oh, Paul! fancy my triumph! The old damsel said with a sigh, “She remembered me very well.” Ha! Ha! Ha! And I carried her off to the cotillon like another Theseus bearing away a second Ariadne. Not to be prolix on this part of my life, I went night after night to balls and routs, for admission to which half the fine gentlemen in London would have given their ears. And I improved my time so well with Lady Margaret, who was her own mistress, and had five thousand pounds, – a devilish bad portion for some, but not to be laughed at by me, – that I began to think when the happy day should be fixed. Meanwhile, as Lady Margaret introduced me to some of her friends, and my lodgings were in a good situation, I had been honoured with some real invitations. The only two questions I ever was asked were (carelessly), “Was I the only son?” and on my veritable answer “Yes!” “What,” (this was more warmly put) – “what was my county?” – Luckily, my county was a wide one, – Yorkshire; and any of its inhabitants whom the fair interrogators might have questioned about me could only have answered, “I was not in their part of it.”

‘Well, Paul, I grew so bold by success, that the devil one day put into my head to go to a great dinner-party at the Duke of Dashwell’s. I went, dined, – nothing happened: I came away, and the next morning I read in the papers, –

‘“Mysterious affair, – person lately going about, – first houses – most fashionable parties – nobody knows – Duke of Dashwell’s yesterday. Duke not like to make disturbance – as – royalty present.”*

‘The journal dropped from my hands. At that moment, the girl of the house gave me a note from Lady Margaret, – alluded to the paragraph; – wondered who was “The Stranger;” – hoped to see me that night at Lord A—’s, to whose party I said I had been asked; – speak then more fully on those matters I had touched on! – In short, dear Paul, a tender epistle! All great men are fatalists: I am one now: fate made me a madman: in the very face of this ominous paragraph I mustered up courage, and went that night to Lord A—’s.