Whilst Esmond was under the domination of this passion, he remembers many a talk he had with his intimates, who used to rally Our Knight of the Rueful Countenance at his devotion, whereof he made no disguise, to Beatrix; and it was with replies such as the above he met his friends’ satire.  “Granted, I am a fool,” says he, “and no better than you; but you are no better than I. You have your folly you labor for; give me the charity of mine.  What flatteries do you, Mr. St. John, stoop to whisper in the ears of a queen’s favorite?  What nights of labor doth not the laziest man in the world endure, foregoing his bottle, and his boon companions, foregoing Lais, in whose lap he would like to be yawning, that he may prepare a speech full of lies, to cajole three hundred stupid country-gentlemen in the House of Commons, and get the hiccupping cheers of the October Club!  What days will you spend in your jolting chariot.” (Mr. Esmond often rode to Windsor, and especially, of later days, with the secretary.) “What hours will you pass on your gouty feet—­and how humbly will you kneel down to present a despatch—­you, the proudest man in the world, that has not knelt to God since you were a boy, and in that posture whisper, flatter, adore almost, a stupid woman, that’s often boozy with too much meat and drink, when Mr. Secretary goes for his audience!  If my pursuit is vanity, sure yours is too.”  And then the Secretary, would fly out in such a rich flow of eloquence, as this pen cannot pretend to recall; advocating his scheme of ambition, showing the great good he would do for his country when he was the undisputed chief of it; backing his opinion with a score of pat sentences from Greek and Roman authorities (of which kind of learning he made rather an ostentatious display), and scornfully vaunting the very arts and meannesses by which fools were to be made to follow him, opponents to be bribed or silenced, doubters converted, and enemies overawed.

“I am Diogenes,” says Esmond, laughing, “that is taken up for a ride in Alexander’s chariot.  I have no desire to vanquish Darius or to tame Bucephalus.  I do not want what you want, a great name or a high place:  to have them would bring me no pleasure.  But my moderation is taste, not virtue; and I know that what I do want is as vain as that which you long after.  Do not grudge me my vanity, if I allow yours; or rather, let us laugh at both indifferently, and at ourselves, and at each other.”

“If your charmer holds out,” says St. John, “at this rate she may keep you twenty years besieging her, and surrender by the time you are seventy, and she is old enough to be a grandmother.  I do not say the pursuit of a particular woman is not as pleasant a pastime as any other kind of hunting,” he added; “only, for my part, I find the game won’t run long enough.  They knock under too soon—­that’s the fault I find with ’em.”

“The game which you pursue is in the habit of being caught, and used to being pulled down,” says Mr. Esmond.