Pelham | Page 5

it as an
honour that they are made by their acquaintance?--who renounce the
ease of living for themselves, for the trouble of living for persons who
care not a pin for their existence--who are wretched if they are not
dictated to by others--and who toil, groan, travail, through the whole
course of life, in order to forfeit their independence?
I arrived at Garrett Park just time enough to dress for dinner. As I was
descending the stairs after having performed that ceremony, I heard my
own name pronounced by a very soft, lisping voice, "Henry Pelham!
dear, what a pretty name. Is he handsome?"
"Rather distingue than handsome," was the unsatisfactory reply,
couched in a slow, pompous accent, which I immediately recognized to
belong to Lady Harriett Garrett.
"Can we make something of him?" resumed the first voice.
"Something!" said Lady Harriett, indignantly; "he will be Lord
Glenmorris! and he is son to Lady Frances Pelham."
"Ah," said the lisper, carelessly; "but can he write poetry, and play
proverbes?"
"No, Lady Harriett," said I, advancing; "but permit me, through you, to
assure Lady Nelthorpe that he can admire those who do."
"So you know me then?" said the lisper: "I see we shall be excellent
friends;" and disengaging herself from Lady Harriett, she took my arm,

and began discussing persons and things, poetry and china, French
plays and music, till I found myself beside her at dinner, and most
assiduously endeavouring to silence her by the superior engrossments
of a bechamelle de poisson.
I took the opportunity of the pause, to survey the little circle of which
Lady Harriett was the centre. In the first place, there was Mr. Davison,
a great political economist, a short, dark, corpulent gentleman, with a
quiet, serene, sleepy countenance, which put me exceedingly in mind of
my grandmother's arm-chair; beside him was a quick, sharp little
woman, all sparkle and bustle, glancing a small, grey, prying eye round
the table, with a most restless activity: this, as Lady Nelthorpe
afterwards informed me, was a Miss Trafford, an excellent person for a
Christmas in the country, whom every body was dying to have: she was
an admirable mimic, an admirable actress, and an admirable reciter;
made poetry and shoes, and told fortunes by the cards, which came
actually true.
There was also Mr. Wormwood, the noli-me-tangere of literary
lions--an author who sowed his conversation not with flowers but
thorns. Nobody could accuse him of the flattery generally imputed to
his species; through the course of a long and varied life, he had never
once been known to say a civil thing. He was too much disliked not to
be recherche; whatever is once notorious, even for being disagreeable,
is sure to be courted in England. Opposite to him sat the really clever,
and affectedly pedantic Lord Vincent, one of those persons who have
been "promising young men" all their lives; who are found till four
o'clock in the afternoon in a dressing-gown, with a quarto before them;
who go down into the country for six weeks every session, to cram an
impromptu reply; and who always have a work in the press which is
never to be published.
Lady Nelthorpe herself I had frequently seen. She had some reputation
for talent, was exceedingly affected, wrote poetry in albums, ridiculed
her husband, who was a fox hunter, and had a great penchant pour les
beaux arts et les beaux hommes.
There were four or five others of the unknown vulgar, younger brothers,

who were good shots and bad matches; elderly ladies, who lived in
Baker- street, and liked long whist; and young ones, who never took
wine, and said "Sir."
I must, however, among this number, except the beautiful Lady
Roseville, the most fascinating woman, perhaps, of the day. She was
evidently the great person there, and, indeed, among all people who
paid due deference to ton, was always sure to be so every where. I have
never seen but one person more beautiful. Her eyes were of the deepest
blue; her complexion of the most delicate carnation; her hair of the
richest auburn: nor could even Mr. Wormwood detect the smallest fault
in the rounded yet slender symmetry of her figure.
Although not above twenty-five, she was in that state in which alone a
woman ceases to be a dependant--widowhood. Lord Roseville, who had
been dead about two years, had not survived their marriage many
months; that period was, however, sufficiently long to allow him to
appreciate her excellence, and to testify his sense of it: the whole of his
unentailed property, which was very large, he bequeathed to her.
She was very fond of the society of literati, though without the pretence
of belonging to their order. But her manners constituted her chief
attraction: while they