“Pooh, sir, he will never ride better.”

“And why the d—–­l will he not?”

“Bless you, colonel, he is a great deal too handsome for a cavalry officer!”

“True!” said Cornet Horsephiz.

“Very true,” said Lieutenant St. Squintem.

“We must cut him!” said the Colonel.

And Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was accordingly cut.

Out hero was a youth of susceptibility—­he quitted the ——­ regiment, and challenged the colonel.  The colonel was killed!

“What a terrible blackguard is Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy!” said the colonel’s relations.

“Very true!” said the world.

The parents were in despair!—­They were not rich; but our hero was an only son, and they sponged hard upon the crabbed old uncle! “he is very clever,” said they both, “and may do yet.”

So they borrowed some thousands from the uncle, and bought his beautiful nephew a seat in parliament.

Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was ambitious, and desirous of retrieving his character.  He fagged like a dragon—­conned pamphlets and reviews—­got Ricardo by heart—­and made notes on the English constitution.

He rose to speak.

“What a handsome fellow!” whispered one member.

“Ah, a coxcomb!” said another.

“Never do for a speaker!” said a third, very audibly.

And the gentlemen on the opposite benches sneered and heard!—­Impudence is only indigenous in Milesia, and an orator is not made in a day.  Discouraged by his reception, Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy grew a little embarrassed.

“Told you so!” said one of his neighbours.

“Fairly broke down!” said another.

“Too fond of his hair to have any thing in his head,” said a third, who was considered a wit.

“Hear, hear!” cried the gentlemen on the opposite benches,

Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy sat down—­he had not shone; but, in justice, he had not failed.  Many a first-rate speaker had began worse; and many a country member had been declared a phoenix of promise upon half his merit.

Not so, thought the heroes of corn-laws.

“Your Adonises never make orators!” said a crack speaker with a wry nose.

“Nor men of business either,” added the chairman of a committee, with a face like a kangaroo’s.

“Poor devil!” said the civilest of the set.  “He’s a deuced deal too handsome for a speaker!  By Jove, he is going to speak again—­this will never do; we must cough him down!”

And Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was accordingly coughed down.

Our hero was now seven or eight and twenty, handsomer than ever, and the adoration of the young ladies at Almack’s.

“We have nothing to leave you,” said the parents, who had long spent their fortune, and now lived on the credit of having once enjoyed it.—­“You are the handsomest man in London; you must marry an heiress.”

“I will,” said Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy.