During our ride up to town, Adrian and I discussed and argued upon Raymond’s conduct, and his falling off from the hopes of permanent excellence on his part, which he had before given us cause to entertain.  My friend and I had both been educated in one school, or rather I was his pupil in the opinion, that steady adherence to principle was the only road to honour; a ceaseless observance of the laws of general utility, the only conscientious aim of human ambition.  But though we both entertained these ideas, we differed in their application.  Resentment added also a sting to my censure; and I reprobated Raymond’s conduct in severe terms.  Adrian was more benign, more considerate.  He admitted that the principles that I laid down were the best; but he denied that they were the only ones.  Quoting the text, there are many mansions in my father’s house, he insisted that the modes of becoming good or great, varied as much as the dispositions of men, of whom it might be said, as of the leaves of the forest, there were no two alike.

We arrived in London at about eleven at night.  We conjectured, notwithstanding what we had heard, that we should find Raymond in St. Stephen’s:  thither we sped.  The chamber was full—­but there was no Protector; and there was an austere discontent manifest on the countenances of the leaders, and a whispering and busy tattle among the underlings, not less ominous.  We hastened to the palace of the Protectorate.  We found Raymond in his dining room with six others:  the bottle was being pushed about merrily, and had made considerable inroads on the understanding of one or two.  He who sat near Raymond was telling a story, which convulsed the rest with laughter.

Raymond sat among them, though while he entered into the spirit of the hour, his natural dignity never forsook him.  He was gay, playful, fascinating—­but never did he overstep the modesty of nature, or the respect due to himself, in his wildest sallies.  Yet I own, that considering the task which Raymond had taken on himself as Protector of England, and the cares to which it became him to attend, I was exceedingly provoked to observe the worthless fellows on whom his time was wasted, and the jovial if not drunken spirit which seemed on the point of robbing him of his better self.  I stood watching the scene, while Adrian flitted like a shadow in among them, and, by a word and look of sobriety, endeavoured to restore order in the assembly.  Raymond expressed himself delighted to see him, declaring that he should make one in the festivity of the night.

This action of Adrian provoked me.  I was indignant that he should sit at the same table with the companions of Raymond—­men of abandoned characters, or rather without any, the refuse of high-bred luxury, the disgrace of their country.  “Let me entreat Adrian,” I cried, “not to comply:  rather join with me in endeavouring to withdraw Lord Raymond from this scene, and restore him to other society.”