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30 Great irresolution was displayed at the injunction, but having consulted the face of Mr. Raikes, one fellow, evidently half overcome by what was put upon him, with the steps of Adam into exile, descended to the gravel and laid his hand on the donkey’s head.

“Hold hard!” cried Old Tom. “Whisper in his ear. He’ll know your language.”

“May I have the felicity of assisting you to terra firma?” interposed Mr. Raikes, with the bow of deferential familiarity.

“Done that once too often,” returned Old Tom, jumping out. “There. What’s the fee?”

Mr. Raikes begged that all minor arrangements with the menials should be left to him.

“What’s the fee?” Old Tom repeated. “There’s a fee for everything in this world. If you ain’t lords or judges, you ought to be paid for dressing like ’em. Come, there’s a crown for you that ain’t afraid of a live donkey; and there’s a sixpenny bit for you that are—to keep up your courage; and when he’s dead you shall have his skin—to shave by.”

“Excellent! Most admirable!” shouted Mr. Raikes. “Franco, you heard? Fred?”

“First-rate!” was the unanimous response from the curricle: nor was Old Tom altogether displeased at the applause of his audience. The receiver of the sixpenny bit gratified his contempt by spinning it in the air, and remarking to his comrade, as it fell: “Do for the beggars.”

“Must be a lord!” interjected Old Tom. “Ain’t that their style?”

Mr. Raikes laughed mildly. “When I was in Town, sir, on my late fortunate expedition, I happened to be driving round St. Paul’s. Rather a crush. Some particular service going on. In my desire to study humanity in all its aspects, I preferred to acquiesce in the blockade of carriages and avoid manslaughter. My optics were attracted by several effulgent men that stood and made a blaze at the lofty doors of the cathedral. Nor mine alone. A dame with an umbrella—she likewise did regard the pageant show. ‘Sir,’ says she to me. I leaned over to her, affably—as usual. ‘Sir, can you be so good as to tell me the names of they noblemen there?’ Atrocious grammar is common among the people, but a gentleman passes it by: it being his duty to understand what is meant by the poor creatures. You laugh, sir! You agree with me. Consequently I looked about me for the representatives of the country’s pride. ‘What great lords are they?’ she repeats. I followed the level of her umbrella, and felt—astonishment was uppermost. Should I rebuke her? Should I enlighten her? Never, I said to myself: but one, a wretch, a brute, had not these scruples, ‘Them ’ere chaps, ma’am?’ says he. ‘Lords, ma’am? why, Lor’ bless you, they’re the Lord Mayor’s footmen!’ The illusion of her life was scattered! I mention the circumstance to show you, sir, that the mistake is perfectly possible. Of course, the old dame in question, if a woman of a great mind, will argue that supposing Lord Mayor’s footmen to be plumed like estridges—gorgeous as the sun at Midsummer, what must Lord Mayors be, and semperannual Lords, and so on to the pinnacle?—the footmen the basis of the aristocratic edifice. Then again she may say, Can nature excel that magnificent achievement I behold, and build upon it? She may decide that nature cannot. Hence democratic leanings in her soul! For me, I know and can manage them. Thomas! hand in my card. Mr. John Feversham Raikes.”

Mr. Raikes spoke peremptorily; but a wink and the glimpse of his comic face exhibited his manner of management.

“And tell my lady, Tom Cogglesby’s come,” added the owner of that name. “Be off.”

“M.P. let us hope we may shortly append,” pursued Jack. “Methinks ’tis a purer ambition to have a tail than a handle to one’s name. Sir John F. Raikes were well. John F. Raikes, M.P., is to the patriotic intelligence better. I have heard also—into mine ear it hath been whispered—that of yon tail a handle may be made.”

“If your gab was paid by the yard, you’d have a good many thousands a year,” Old Tom interrupted this monologue.

“You flatter me,” returned Jack, sincerely. “The physiologists have said that I possess an eloquent feature or so. Ciceronic lips.”

“How was it you got away from the menagerie—eh?” said Old Tom.

“By the assistance of the jolliest old bear in the word, I believe,” Mr. Raikes replied. “In life I ride on his broad back: he to posterity shall ride on mine.”

“Ha! that’ll do,” said Old Tom, for whom Mr. Raikes was too strong.

“May we come to an understanding before we part, sir?” continued the latter. “Your allusion to a certain endroit—surely I am not wrong? Indiscreet, perhaps, but the natural emotions of gratitude!—a word would much relieve me.”

“Go about your business,” cried Old Tom; and was at that moment informed that her ladyship would see him, and begged Mr. Raikes to make himself at home.

“Artful!” mused Mr. Raikes, as Old Tom walked away: “Artful! but I have thee by a clue, my royal Henry. Thy very secret soul I can dissect. Strange fits of generosity are thine, beneath a rough exterior; and for me, I’d swear thee client of the Messrs. Grist.”

Mentally delivering this, Mr. Raikes made his way towards a company he perceived on the lawn. His friend Harrington chanced to be closeted with Sir Franks: the Countess de Saldar was in her chamber: no one was present whom he knew but Miss Jocelyn, who welcomed him very cordially, and with one glance of her eyes set the mercurial youth thinking whether they ought to come to explanations before or after dinner; and of the advantages to be derived from a good matrimonial connexion, by a young member of our Parliament. He soon let Miss Jocelyn see that he had wit, affording her deep indications of a poetic soul; and he as much as told her, that, though merry by nature, he was quite capable of the melancholy fascinating to her sex, and might shortly be seen under that aspect. He got on remarkably well till Laxley joined them; and then, despite an excessive condescension on his part, the old Fallowfield sore was rubbed, and in a brisk